Author: admin

It frequently surprises me that anything in churches has survived the centuries of war and religious change, but this tombstone dates to 1642 and is from Türi church (which I assume is St. Martin’s Church). It’s the tombstone of Herman Nieroth and his wife Gerdruth Brinck. His effigy shows him in full armour, showing what a brave fighter he must have been, whilst there’s no effort made to depict Gerdruth. I have no idea when the tombstone cracked, but it was probably placed down in a church and thousands of people would have traipsed over it.

Herman Nieroth (c. 1572 – 1642) was a Swedish military officer and administrator who played a significant role in 17th-century Estonia. He served in the Swedish army during the Livonian War, eventually attaining the rank of Colonel. From 1633 to 1642, he held the important position of Lord Marshal of Estonia, responsible for maintaining law and order and overseeing the nobility. He also acted as an advisor to King Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden and participated in diplomatic negotiations with Russia and other neighbouring powers. Nieroth acquired substantial landholdings in Estonia, reflecting his wealth and influence. His tomb, featuring an effigy in full armour, is located in St. Nicholas’ Church, Tallinn, serving as a lasting reminder of his service and status. Nieroth’s career exemplifies the Swedish influence in Estonia during this period and the prominent role military figures played in the administration of the province. As for Gerdruth, I couldn’t find anything about her other than she was married to Herman.

I like seeing these in museums, churches and galleries as I must confess to a certain affection for a weathered and worn out tombstone, something which has seen a few centuries slide by and how it represents so many forgotten stories.

This is the Passion Altarpiece dating to around 1515, attributed to the workshop of the Flemish painter Adriaen Isenbrandt, which was located in the Tallinn Dominican friary in the early sixteenth century and then in this building from the mid-sixteenth century. The altarpiece depicts the Passion of Christ, focusing on the events leading up to and including his crucifixion, so yet another cheery bit of imagery for church goers. It’s a poignant and dramatic scene filled with emotion and symbolism and telling the story of the crucifixion. Those three figures at the front who are praying, one in the left panel and two in the central panel, are overpaintings from a slightly later period and they’re of wealthy people who donated to the church.

The rear of the altarpiece. I’m hardly a medieval art historian, but this is evidently part of the Renaissance change from some rather rough artworks in churches to some authentic looking artistic efforts. This seems rather more evident to me with Jerusalem in the background, it’s quite a creative and well-drawn landscape. Anyway, enough of Julian’s artistic reviews….

This isn’t just another religious painting, but somewhat of a chilling reminder of our mortality, a medieval ‘memento mori’ that has echoed through the centuries. Fifteenth century Tallinn wasn’t quite the decadent place it is today, with plague, war and general illness leading to a much shorter life expectancy. The Dance of Death emerged as a popular artistic theme, a way to deal with the inevitability of death and the fragility of life whether it was for a peasant or the Pope. Artists depicted skeletons, the ultimate personification of death, leading people from all walks of life in a macabre dance.

Bernt Notke, a renowned Late Gothic artist from Lübeck, was one of the masters of this theme. The well-known Danse Macabre, painted for St. Mary’s Church in Lübeck in 1463, is sadly lost thanks to a British bombing raid during the Second World War. But this sizeable fragment of a very similar work by the same artist survives in Tallinn, although the original was thirty metres in length, and the artwork is still in St. Anthony’s Chapel where it has been since (other than for restoration, war and other distractions) at least 1600 and likely since the 1480s. This fragment, measuring about 7.5 metres long, is a procession of figures, each paired with a gleeful skeleton. It’s the only surviving medieval Danse Macabre painted on canvas and it’s only because they were careful with it during the Second World War that it has survived at all. The missing section of this one is likely down to poor storage over the decades and it got damp and was mostly destroyed. The remaining sections were restored in Moscow in the 1980s, two bits were joined and now it’s back here.

And it didn’t matter how religious you were as you were still going on this dance, so it’s a cheery little number….. These works were very popular in the fourteenth to sixteenth centuries, but seemed to die away a little (excuse the pun) after this as, to be honest, do people really needed to be reminded of death in quite such a way? Although, it’s certainly a good leveller, a reminder that whether rich or poor, death would still come.

Tying in relatively well time-wise with my last post (H is the church in which Bogislaus von Rosen was buried), this is Tallinn (known as Revalia or Revel in official use until Estonian independence 1918 when they settled for Tallinn as the authorities liked that the best) from the sea in the late sixteenth century. It looks a well fortified city, but then again that was fairly essential and it was attacked time after time with the Livonian Wars (1558-1583), the Polish-Swedish War (1600-1629) and the Russo-Swedish War (1656-1658) to name just a few. This engraving was done in the 1640s by Matthäus Merian the Elder (1593-1650) but based on imagery from the 1590s. Although many have had to be repaired on numerous occasions, a surprising number of these buildings are still standing given all the conflicts that have taken place in the region.

They didn’t have to move this very far for the museum as it’s the decorative screen and entrance doors of the memorial chapel of Bogislaus von Rosen (1572-1658), located on the northern side of this building when it was St. Nicholas’s Church. It dates from around 1655 and is an interesting Gothic style piece, designed by Franz Hoppenstätt.

I find these private chapels quite intriguing, they were effectively a status symbol so a family could show off their wealth, influence and piety all at the same time. God forbid that the common folk might go near these private chapels which were fitted out with all this bling. Bogislaus, a wealthy merchant, got this chapel finished in time though, he died in 1658 and was buried in his rather decadent chapel in early 1659. He had two wives during his lifetime and they’re also both buried here, along with their children, an arrangement which strikes me as challenging to work out in heaven. Most was lost in the Second World War bombing of the building, but at least this screen remains.

I’ve rather muddled up the order of our few days in Tallinn with these blog posts, but this was the first place that we visited with our shiny new Tallinn Cards. It’s a museum in a former church (St. Nicholas’s Church) and it also has a rather decadent viewing platform to add to the mix.

We lost Ross early on, he was very excited by the rather futuristic looking lift to the viewing platform, but Susanna wasn’t far behind.

My middle name is brave, but even I wasn’t climbing these and I thought I’d use the lift. Bev and Susanna climbed them and realised that they didn’t go anywhere, so they traipsed back down. I was pleased with my decision if I’m being honest.

Steve also discovered that they weren’t entirely functional stairs from a visitor’s point of view. Bev kept trying to ring all the bells, but they’d taken the clappers out (or whatever they’re called) because of people like Bev. I didn’t say anything of course.

We walked up and got the lift down, which is probably a sub-optimal way of going about these things.

The view was worth it….

This is the museum that we were heading to next, Kiek in de Kök.

They were better views than we had when we visited the TV tower a couple of days later when we surrounded by fog.

The corporate heart of Tallinn.

It’s not a big city for a capital, but this was a useful way of orientating ourselves a little. I decided at this point that it was far too hot and I read several reviews commenting on this issue about how warm it got in the summer months. I accept that we visited in October, but I’m quite sensitive to heat and much prefer snowstorms and cold winds. Susanna, who is always sympathetic, didn’t have the same problem, but given half a chance she’d be wearing furs in the Sahara as her ideal temperature.

More on this in a later post, but this is the Russian Orthodox Alexander Nevsky Cathedral and its demolition has been mooted, although I suspect highly unlikely.

We then got the lift back down, ready to explore the rest of the building. There’s something quite atmospheric about museums in former churches, I’ve been to a few and this transpired to be a particularly good one.

It looks like a lump of rock, but fortunately there was information by it to give a little more background about this arrangement. It’s what is left from the monument to Lutke van Oyten which stood at 4 Kaura Street before the Second World War. Then the top fell off, which feels slightly sub-optimal, but the museum has what is left. I mean, it’s not exactly the Rosetta Stone, but it’s something. Lutke van Oyten was born in Germany in the early sixteenth century and he became a member of the Brotherhood of Blackheads in 1528 and then a citizen of Tallinn in 1533. From 1554 until 1557 he became an Alderman of the Great Guild and he was a Town Councillor for Tallinn from 1557.

The Blackheads in Estonia weren’t dermatological blemishes, but rather a fascinating and influential brotherhood that played a significant role in the country’s history. The Brotherhood of Blackheads was a medieval association of unmarried merchants, ship owners, and foreigners that flourished in Livonia (present-day Estonia and Latvia) from the 14th century until 1940. Their intriguing and slightly humorous name is linked to their patron saint, St. Maurice, who was a North African Roman legionnaire. Often depicted in art with dark skin, St. Maurice became associated with the group, leading to the name ‘Blackheads’.

The Brotherhood was more than just a social club or group such as the BNI. They were a powerful force in the economic and social life of medieval Tallinn and Riga who held considerable wealth and influence, owning property, conducting trade, and even participating in local governance. Their headquarters, the magnificent House of the Blackheads in Tallinn, still stands as a testament to their prominence. We did want to visit the Museum of Blackheads in the city as it was free with the Tallinn Card, but it was shut and so we didn’t. Susanna was most disappointed, but Steve and I distracted her by going to the pub. We’re good like that.

The Blackheads were renowned for their vibrant social life, they hosted lavish feasts and celebrations, so it’s a bit like Hike Norfolk was. The Brotherhood’s influence waned with the rise of nation-states and changing economic conditions. The Soviet occupation of the Baltic states in 1940 forced the Blackheads to flee to Germany, where they continue to exist in Hamburg. So this bit of rock is a bit of their story, perhaps not the most important part, but enough for me to witter on in this blog post about.

This museum isn’t one that we would have likely considered paying for, but as it was included in the Tallinn Card it seemed worthwhile popping in. Located in a former submarine factory, it’s something of a blend of history and hands-on technology with a fair chunk of virtual reality. Now, we were already experts on this given the previous day’s experiences, so we were full of confidence. The reviews of the venue were also very positive, although it’s fair to say that we were really not sure what to expect at all.

Ross and Steve having a go at virtual reality teamwork. There were plenty of staff around to offer assistance in times of need, which was handy as I am often in times of need at places such as this.

Susanna having a lovely time in a balloon. There were something like twelve different concepts to try, some were more complex than others. This particular one was making a few people just a little dizzy and Steve and I couldn’t work out the carriage one at all. And if Steve, a car expert, can’t work it out then I had no hope. I took remarkably few photos here, although there are a couple of videos that I have when I finally wrap up these series of posts about Tallinn. And yes, to my two loyal blog readers, I know that this feels as though it is going on forever and I’m now about eight trips behind, but I’ll get there eventually.

As an experience, it was really quite exciting and showed what is possible with virtual reality in a museum type environment. Actually, there’s not much museum here really, but there’s a lot of potential in the whole educational element. I rather enjoyed the immersive experience of the whole arrangement and we tried several of the different activities, my favourites were the joint shooting of something underwater and the car one. Excuse my lack of precision here in terms of the details, I wasn’t quite sure if there was some educational logic behind them, but I was just trying to work out what I was doing. The first part of the experience, where you put on headsets and try and construct things with your hands, was a complete non-starter for me and I didn’t have a clue what I was doing. I suspect my friend Liam, a civil engineer, would have been able to understand the whole thing.

I’m all for expanding horizons and all that, so this was a fun experience and one that I will remember (not least as I can read it back on this riveting blog). Bev and Susanna, who threw themselves into the various bits of kit, were unharmed but exhausted at times, whereas Steve, Ross and I were more sedate. There was a bit of childlike wonder here and the beginning of perhaps not a revolution in museums, but certainly it’s going to be a new way of telling historic stories. We had to work our way around the children who were very much enjoying themselves and this is something that the museum will potentially have to work at, as I initially had the impression that it was aimed at children and it actually wasn’t at all, it had aspirations to appeal to all.

The KGB Prison Cells are located at Pagari 1 in Tallinn in a structure that was constructed in 1912 as an apartment building. It was briefly used by the Estonian Provincial Government in 1918 and then by the Estonian Ministry of War between 1920 and 1940. Following the Soviet occupation of Tallinn, the building was taken over by the NKVD (People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs), which later became the KGB and they built the cells in 1941. It was opened as a museum in 2017 to remind visitors what totalitarian regimes were like and the cells used up until the late 1950s were made accessible.

We got free admission with our Tallinn Cards, but to visit individually it would be €9 which felt very excessive to me given that it’s effectively one corridor with some cells.

Susanna reading everything. There are some museums and galleries in the world where she has got there first thing in the morning and then had to leave at the end of the day as they’re closing. We use Bev to try and keep her under some control as otherwise Susanna rarely seems overwhelmed by the number of exhibits or the amount that there is to read.

That’s the reverse of a staircase and was used as a very tight cell. I’m slightly sceptical just how many times that this might have been used.

This old plan of the floor shows where the above cell is located. The only area open to the public is the corridor on the right hand side and the six cells.

It’s noted that chairs such as this were used for the interrogation of prisoners, although I’m not sure that this particular one actually comes from this building. There is though an interesting document written in 1977, which has been translated into English, which is on display as is a guide for prisoners on how they should behave during interrogation and questioning. It’s a ‘Samizdat’ document, which is means self-published and relates to documents that were copied and handed around to dissidents and members of the resistance movement.

The cells wouldn’t have been pleasant and those who found there way here would have nearly always ended up in a larger prison or would have been executed.

A cupboard. The museum claims that cupboards such as these would have been used from the 1940s until the 1980s to temporarily isolate individual prisoners, although that wouldn’t have happened here for that length of time. I’m not sure that the museum has much detail about this particular structure, although they say that it does come from the property. The cells were mostly cleared out in the 1950s, so there’s been a lot of imagination required here.

As with all these things, they’re useful reminders of the repression that took place in Tallinn during the Soviet occupation between 1945 and the late 1980s. However, the prison cells stopped being used by the KGB in the 1950s and although the museum notes that were “the most notorious cells in Estonia”, they weren’t much used as they were turned into a space for archives in the late 1950s. A visit here isn’t likely to take more than around twenty minutes, but it’s worth popping in for holders of the Tallinn Card and I’m glad that these have been preserved for future generations. It is though difficult to leave a museum such as this with feeling a slightly heavy heart for the dark side of history that feels so nearby so often.

I’ve already written about Jaan Poska (1866-1920), one of the architects of Estonian independence, but there are numerous representations of him around Estonia. This one was unveiled in 2016 in Kadriorg Park to commemorate the 150th anniversary of his birth and was designed by the sculptor Elo Liiv. Anyway, I mention this as the designers wanted him to be at street level as one of the people instead of on top of a pedestal removed from the people.