Eastern Europe," as a single entity, is breaking up. It was never really possible to refer to it that way, but it was done anyway as part of the verbal warfare between political and military power spheres. Now that the battle has moved down to the regional level, the term "Eastern Europe" makes little sense. That's the case, as well, in the world of photography and art where any stylistic kinship is evaporating in this part of the world, too. At the most, it's the lack of access to the materials and resources of the West that can lend a false impression of common features in, for instance, Polish, Czech, Baltic, Hungarian and Belarusian photography.

The warfare hasn't just been verbal but economic, as well. And it continues now while laissez-faire capitalism is allowed to stand its test in the rundown societies. Western investments, free trade and joint ventures are hoped to be pivots to a golden future that almost can't wait. Money is made off that -- by two-bit local mafiosi, as well as Western business-people. Like anything else in the "East", photographs can be bought cheaply in this part of Europe -- and have the added advantage of "offering us something new" which is something the art world has always appreciated. New names, an overlooked or suppressed niche, a glimpse of life in the former communist nations, the revolt of personal expression against social realism, etc. A Western audience has appreciated meeting all this in exhibitions, books and periodicals, as well as in personal contacts across the borders.

The problem is that the Western European and American art world has also appreciated Eastern Europe's photography in terms of hard currency and introduced business practices that would cost you both honor, glory and your license to practice in the West. The staggering profits of currency speculation can also be made, and are made, in the trading of photographs. Most of the time, a nifty little buck will also trickle down to the Czech or Baltic photographer -- at times it might suffice to sell a couple of pictures to make next year's rent, heat included, that is, if the Russians don't shut off the cheap oil. Yet, the price per picture is typically only 10-20% of what a Western photographer having self-respect and a gallery would ask for her work.

What's the problem then? In short, these Western business-people, publishers and curators, even with such advantageous price levels, apparently have no respect whatsoever for the Balts, Belarusians and others, however much they may hype them in the Western media. They make good money off them besides. There is no settling of accounts for the pictures with which they've been entrusted -- nor is the artwork returned. This is the case, for instance, with the New York gallery Walker, Ursitti & McGinniss which holds unique pieces by Minsk photographers. To be on the safe side, they do not respond to letters or faxes from the photographers -- and make sure they can't be reached over the phone.

In a similar manner, the Swiss magazine Graphis denies, to Belarusian photographers, having published their pictures -- even though you can look up and see the pictures reproduced in issue 274/1991, pp. 66-73. They can't get hold of our expensive magazine and check up on us, can they? And even if they could, what are they going to do about it?

In another case, from 1992, a Latvian middleman sold an entire exhibition to the American publisher Glen Serbin in Santa Barbara, California. But the seller, Aivars Akis, the former president of the old regime's official Latvian Photo Art Society, "forgot" to settle with the Latvian photographers involved. As Akis pointed out in a letter to the Americans in May of 1992, Serbin was offered the pictures "at a very low price," $4000 to be exact, which as a safe measure was requested transferred from the U.S. to a bank in Germany. Akis had previously handled the commission from a similar sale via Serbin, an auction in 1991, where the funds were asked transferred in the president's own name to an account in Australia.

Glen Serbin was not available for comment in 1993, when his secretary hears the call is in reference to the Baltic pictures ("the Russian photo show," as she calls it.*) This, even though an exhibition of the pictures (which also included photographers from other parts of the former Soviet Union) had been organized at the local Santa Barbara Museum of Art in 1992. In response to a 1993 inquiry, the museum replies that the pictures are "locally owned and available for exhibition" -- referring to Serbin Communications. Only in February, 1994, does Serbian respond to letters on the subject. Asked about the possibility of acquiring Baltic works through him, Serbin hesitantly states that he is "very cautious in dealing with any groups that claim they 'represent' or 'own' works." However, when asked about the mentioned events he refers to a letter from Mr. Akis "supporting his claim that the money was being used for activities in support of the Society." It cannot be assumed that Serbin was out to cheat anyone, but it wasn't until he was contacted from Latvia by Vilnis Auzins, in the fall of 1992, that he started showing an interest in how the money could reach the photographers concerned. Since $4000 had already been transferred to Akis in July, Serbin suggested to Auzins that they work things out among themselves in Latvia. Easier said than done. Aivars Akis, of course, is only one among many small-time crooks who have turned their privileges under the old regime into even greater privileges in the new society. Serbin is just one more person who has either been toying with, or lacked adequate respect for, the "Russian photographers" by not demanding from his middleman power of attorney from all the photographers involved.

As far as the Russians themselves are concerned, in the late 1980's many well-known photographers signed exclusive contracts with French gallery owner, Marie-Francoise George. Perfectly legitimate, but they didn't completely understand the extent of such agreements. This led to intense fighting and a lawsuit between the gallery concerned and the Musee de l'Elysee in Switzerland which, in good faith, had organized a large exhibition, 100 Photographers from the East, including these photographers.

There was also supposed to have been a special Estonian exhibition at this show -- at least that's what Stavros Moressopoulos from The Hellenic Center of Photography in Athens claimed. The pictures that Peeter Tooming in Tallinn received from Estonian photographers and sent to Athens were never exhibited in Switzerland though. Moressopoulos' explanation for that is, that the catalogue information was delayed: "although the photographs they were sent to Musee d' Ie Elyse [sic] on time, the requested information arrived here [in Athens, ed.] and sent to Lausanne with very big delay." Moressopoulos will have a harder time, though, explaining why the pictures after continued requests haven't been returned yet.

This was no unique experience to the Estonians: works in the Kunst in Vrijheid show in Fototext, Antwerp were never handled as agreed. The organizer Mr. Johan Swinnen, doesn't respond to letters claiming the works back. Instead, Mr. Swinnen suggests that the show go on tour to "some galleries in Holland and Spain." This includes work bought by a museum and demanded by the photographer.

It is not equally bad everywhere. Even though Prague, already in the eighties, was scoured by hungry collectors and dealers, particularly from Germany and the U.S., and even though already established Czech photographers have seen their pictures leave several times for big traveling exhibitions and book projects producing bounteous exhibition fees, admission and sales profits, as well as general fees -- without ever seeing a single German mark. However, many photographers have now organized their sales through the "Prague House of Photography" which handles Czech interests, in a comprehensive way, satisfactory to the photographers. Parallel with this, photographic circles in many of the countries are building up their independent profiles through periodicals that are becoming ever more professionalized and which, as a minimum, include summaries in English.

Actually, the Czechs are so content that those who have had unpleasant experiences prefer not to talk about them. One can't help but think that business is booming here, and they're afraid of scaring away customers by complaining or even exposing someone. If you have to blow the whistle on someone, you yourself must step forward, is how it goes in Prague. The Western journalistic practice of protecting your source when necessary is worthless and very nearly provokes shudders in the former communist regimes where it's impossible to see the difference between protecting the source and anonymous informing.

But moreover, many photographers claim that it's simply wrong to focus on the problems, now that things are going so well, as one teacher at the film and photography school FAMU puts it -- then repeating it with conviction in his voice and features, even though support for the arts and photography has been bombed back to a level that's even worse than the general level in the West, and even though it's primarily the photographer as lone studio and darkroom wolf who gets by. Despite this, insecurity is detectable in the voice and manner of the "self-made man" only when I ask him how he thinks his students' chances in the market will be when their turn comes around. But, next you hear, "if there's a problem, it certainly shouldn't be seen as an Eastern European problem." The Czechs, in Central Europe, are every bit as sick and tired of being perceived as an Eastern European dunce country as the introduction would suggest.

One can easily understand that. Everyone is his own keeper in "Eastern Europe." You might ask, whether it couldn't be a Western European task, yes, perhaps even a shared task, to prevent conmen of the worst kind from profiting off this situation.

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Translated from Danish into English by Glen Garner


* This rather inconsiderate phrasing is, however, in no way unique: in the current hanging of the permanent collection at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, Latvian photographer Philippe Halsman is identified as "Russian." Where Halsman is concerned, the photographer's widow donated his works to the Latvian Photo Artists' Society on behalf of Latvia. As I write this, it is unclear what truth there is to the rumors circulating in Riga about the fate of the pictures.