SPACE.com: How did you become interested
in the former Soviet/Russian space program? Have you always had an interest in
the topic?
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Adam Bartos: In late 1993, Sotheby’s
had an extraordinary collection of objects and memorabilia on display in New
York for their first Russian space history auction. Not being a space buff, I
had gone mostly for the novelty of seeing these things in such an incongruous
setting. Once there, I was fascinated with the material – the hand-built
character of it impressed me, and the charts, notebooks, uniforms, trophies, and
hardware all shared a powerful aesthetic attraction. After some time, I noticed
a commotion being made around a gregarious Russian nearby. This was the first
man to walk in space, Alexei Leonov. I went over to have him sign my catalogue
and asked him (since he spoke English) if he thought it sad that this great
patrimony was on the block in New York. Sweeping his arm around, he answered,
"we have tons of this stuff." That planted the germ of an idea. Most of my work
has involved design and some aspect of twentieth century utopianism (my previous
book was on the UN Headquarters in New York). The Russian space program fit into
this scheme as the last myth of a Soviet utopia.
Your images of Baikonur capture a place
frozen in time, as if the 1980s and 1990s never happened, were you surprised by
this when you first arrived?
The first morning in Baikonur, after a
sleepless night due to a plane delay, I found myself running alongside the Soyuz
in the middle of the Kazakh desert. I was virtually alone with the rocket and
its locomotive, trying to avoid falling into gopher’s holes as I ran ahead to
photograph it being pushed to the pad. The strongback erector on which it rested
and the rocket itself were painted and outlined in many beautiful colors – it
was as if a model had been made more than life size. This was all very
surprising. The cosmodrome is an enormous palimpsest. Vestiges of the entire
program can be found there, and some of the facilities are quite up to date
looking, though naturally I chose to focus on what appealed to me as an
artist.
Despite the Russian Space Agency's
economic problems, the program is still a great source of pride. Did you get
that feeling?
I was very impressed by what I saw. The
lack of resources makes the accomplishments that much more striking. I did get a
sense of the pride people take in their work, and their interest in posterity is
evident. Every company has a museum and sometimes school children visit these.
Many times in the U.S., when I’ve told people what my book is about, they
immediately say something disparaging – expressing surprise that the program
still exists, or making a quip about tin cans and so on, which is sad, and
misinformed.
Often when presented with furniture and
architectural designs from a bygone era it's easy to view these elements in a
kitschy or ironic, even dismissive, light. You avoid this trap and imbue the
non-human subjects - whether it's a couch or a telephone in Baikonur - with a
certain nobility. Was that intentional? Or is that how you view
history?
The customary irony and skepticism that
the abundant totalitarian kitsch evokes may be justified. On the other hand, the
sentiment behind it is not necessarily a fitting object of scorn. I wanted to
create an atmosphere with the pictures that had a fluid approach to time, almost
as if I was travelling through it and recording certain milestones – even if it
might be a tea service or a telephone. I think these objects tell a story, and
the fact that they are preserved faithfully helps to imbue them with a certain
nobility. Also, Korolov’s telephone in Baikonur is not exactly the phone next
door.
What impressed you most about the
current state of the Russian space program?
I was most impressed that the facilities and
companies allowed me to photograph them at all. I’m not sure that any U.S. companies
would welcome a Russian national with a camera. Also, it was interesting
to note how different from one another these places can be, in prosperity,
and corporate culture. Some are much more bureaucratic and "Soviet" than
others are. Often I was asked to photograph the company hierarchy. I was happy
to do this except that it would eat into the time I had to do my own work, and
they could be very strict about when it was time to go, which was anguishing.
Otherwise, the Russian space program remains an awesome entity, though very much
contracted from its heyday.
Many of the engineers you photographed
worked in great secrecy at the height of the Cold War, did you get a sense of
frustration that they toiled away in obscurity or that their work was dictated
by political and not scientific needs?
I’m a photographer and I spent more time
taking pictures than having conversations, especially given the language
barrier. I suppose it would be an individual matter. I was often aware, however,
of an energy and excitement, still palpable, concerning the work that was done
and the period associated with the early days of the program. Just about
everyone who agreed to be photographed was strikingly energetic for their age
and this in a country where the average life expectancy is now 58.
Do you have any plans to photograph
NASA's Kennedy Space Center or Johnson Space Center? Despite the frequent space
shuttle missions and the ongoing International Space Station venture, there's
definitely a Kennedy-esque "new frontier" feeling to these
places.
If I had a good guide to these places I
would certainly be interested in seeing them.
Do you think the public's interest in
space exploration, both in Russia and the U.S. has waned?
I think that in the absence of the Space
Race and identifiable heroes, it has. People have other worries. It’s
interesting to reflect on the excitement that John Glenn’s shuttle trip
caused.
At present, the asking price for a trip
to space in a Soyuz capsule is about $20 million, would you go if you could
afford it?
The idea of being cooped up in a capsule
for a long period of time doesn’t appeal to me. Also, having stood very close to
a Soyuz lifting off, I don’t underestimate how frightening it must be to ride on
one. I wouldn’t mind going to another launch at Baikonur,
however.
