Snapshots from the Construction of the Alexander Bridge on the Vistula River

In September 2011, a fragment of the original Kierbedź Bridge was recovered from the bottom of the Vistula River. The six metre steel grate was not burried especially deep - barely ten feet. But it was in water that was completely opaque, thereby presenting the divers with a difficult task. They nonetheless enjoyed better safety conditions than the workers who had built the bridge from 1859 to 1864. The caisson method used was relatively new at the time; it was effective, but also led to diseases that only came to be diagnosed much later. Overhasty transitions from caissons placed several metres deep, under great pressure, into shallower areas involved a dramatic drop in atmospheric pressure which led to decompression sickness in at least half of the 350 workers.¹ Twelve people died.

The objects recovered from the bottom of the river are all the more valuable because history, especially the Second World War, has taken its toll and very little authentic material testifying to Warsaw’s pre-war existence remains. It suffices to mention that the recovered fragment might have landed in the river in 1915, when the bridge was blown up by the Russians as they were escaping from the German army, or it might have been in 1944 when the Germans were fleeing the Red Army. The first permanent crossing across the Vistula became permanent in a somewhat indirect manner: the pillars supporting its six arches today serve to support the Śląsko-Dąbrowski Bridge. The characteristic latticework of the bridge, which was often photographed and even filmed before September 1944, has featured in some notable roles. The Warsaw bridge is ‘played’ by the Józef Piłsudski Bridge in Toruń, for instance, in Jerzy Passendorfer’s film, Zamach [Assassination] (1958).

Paradoxically, there was also pride in the bridge. Stanisław Kierbedź, a Polish engineer and a general in the Tsar’s army, oversaw the construction. His name was gradually erased from the bridge’s informal, day-to-day name and was then also removed from its official title, to be replaced with “Alexander” –in honour of Tsar Alexander I.

In Tygodnik Ilustrowany [Illustrated Weekly] no. 270 from 26 November 1864, the author rejoices that, “Praga is finally connected to Warsaw and, perhaps, whatever the future brings it will be no less splendid than what is in store for its older sister.” The author of the Weekly Chronicle, noting the rising prices of garden plots and buildings on the right bank, foresaw the rapid expansion of industry and trade in Prague and predicted benefits to “the true Warsaw,” above all reduced fear of scarcity, especially in the winter. The process of construction was to “benefit Rome, but it won’t harm Sicily either.” It is worth adding - what at the time passed unnoticed - that the bridge allowed for the rise of media infrastructure, easily connected from the other side of the river: on the underside of the bridge were laid gas lines (1867), phone lines (1882), pipes with water (1884), and electrical wires (1905).

At the time, the commentator also pointed out that the bridge, “being one of the most important works of its kind in Europe, came about practically by our own efforts alone.” There was pride in the fact that “we can undertake such works on our own and complete them; we can manage without help from overseas, which is always costly and truly thwarts progress.” Strangers “do not trust our people, generally seeing them as lazy and incapable.” This information is not entirely correct, not only because the investment (overall cost of approximately 2.7 million roubles) was an initiative of the Organization of Russian Rail Workers. Also working on the project was the French firm of Ernest Goüin et C-ie Batignolles as well as Schneider Creuzot. The commentator’s statement is, on the one hand, linked to a genuine belief in the involvement of Polish firms and a faith in local ability. On the other hand it is related to a desire to exclude the Russians.

Only at the very beginning of the note is it mentioned that the celebration and opening of the bridge occurred “in the presence of His Magnificence the Deputy of the Monarchy,” Fyodor, Count of Berg. The “Kurier Warszawski” [“Warsaw Courier”] from 22 November 1864 - the day of the opening - contains a program of the festivities indicating the precise positions of various groups: the board of directors, the workers, official delegations, but also the army. The latter had been responsible for the recent, brutal repression of the November Revolution. When the news broke about the opening of the new bridge – with the participation of the viceroy (who “would condescend to leave the palace at 1:00 in the afternoon”) and with a procession “at a trot” of divisions of the Russian army—the response was a public boycott.

The photos of the opening were taken by Maksymilian Fajans (1825-1890), a popular photographer and the owner of a photography studio. He most probably also took some of the photographs documenting the construction of the bridge for the atelier of Karol Beyer (1817–1877). Beyer was not only a recognized photographer but also an important figure in Warsaw public life at the time. However, he certainly could not have been the sole author of the photographs from his atelier, because he spent all of 1864 in exile in Novohopersk (in the Voronezh Governorate). He had been sent there because of his engagement in patriotic activities, including the illegal act of photographing five victims of the Tsarist police in 1861 (I discuss this in another piece in this issue, on the events of 1861). One could say that Beyer embodied the ideal of a “local specialist.” His studio photographed the construction of the bridge regularly from 1860 on - in other words from the very beginning up until the end. The photographer was open to technological innovation, which he actively sought out in exhibitions and international gatherings, and then tried out himself. He was constantly on the lookout for new subjects and forms of expression.

The idea of providing photographic documentation of industrial investments was just as new as the caisson method depicted on the photographs. In this context, modernization had two dimensions: the crossing itself which both bore witness to technological development and accelerated it; and the photographic record prepared using the newest techniques. This was modernity looking at itself in the mirror. In an issue of Kłosy from January 1868, a journalist wrote that, “Warsaw has long had its photography albums which include not only the more important buildings in the city, but also the more notable streets.” This confirms the need – essentially a modern one – of preservation, of recording an ever-changing reality.

Large format pictures were taken using a tripod, with long exposure times. This produced the effect of “flattening out” the surface of the water, blanketing the pillars of the bridge with a poetic mist, as Mikołaj Grospierre remarks. The photographer also apparently attempted to take photographs at night using an “electric spark,” perhaps magnesium. On the pictures you can see the bridge coming into being: the scaffolding , the emerging columns and arches, the crossing used at the time. At the same time the background emerges: Nowy Zjazd and its environs - where the viaduct was being built - but also the Praga district with its wooden buildings. In the distance, a flickering image of Warsaw’s left bank. On some pictures you can see the workers who paused as they were passing by, some even posing. But there is no atmosphere of work, construction. This is of course because of the technological capabilities available and the aforementioned need for long exposure times . The effect of this is an emphasis on monumentality and permanence, rather than the dynamism of a massive construction project. This rhythm has a spatial rather than a temporal character what is also the result of the scale, the enormity of the undertaking, visible in everything from the precise modelling of particular parts to the geometric regularity of components. One has the sense that the photographers were enjoying documenting the play of modern forms.

Albums were made from the available photographs. It is not known how many survived; thus far a few have been found. They contain roughly from ten to thirty pictures, most of them ending up in the hands of Polish and French designers and engineers associated with the project.²

The album itself is a serious form, maybe not a monumental one like the bridge, but one suitable for the gravity of its subject: leather-bound, embossed with gilded lettering. It need not be unique, but it is rare: there is a countable number of them. There is also a narrative, maybe not a dynamic one, but one that demonstrates mutability, though suggesting permanence at the same time. The photography of that time was not yet able to register a moment; it was focused on what was unchanging, which is why it makes a virtue of emphasizing what is permanent and, therefore, valuable. It strives to transcend time. On the one hand, this photography immortalizes people, things, and buildings; but on the other hand, it in some sense creates a montage, albeit a montage which merely amounted to placing various photographs in a sequence.

Like many phenomena from the first half of the 20^th century, the stage for the birth of modernity — this album is an ambivalent object. The blank pages of the ‘album’ (a name that came to Polish, via German, from the Latin in which album means ‘whiteness, white, a blank slate’) are filled with photographs. The use of these blank pages elevates the significance of the things photographed, just as that which is photographed ennobles the photographic medium. The covers of the album enclose a monumental inscription, but they also contain a narrative - albeit an unhurried one. The photograph wavers between accepting its status as a document and a souvenir, between being an image and an object.

Sincere thanks to Mikołaj Grospierre, who is currently working on the photography collection in the Warsaw Museum, for inspiration and comments on the article, and to the Warsaw Museum for providing us with the pictures and allowing us to use them. (catalogue no. AF 28453, 28454–71).