As Henri Lefebvre once said, “Space is a social product.” Soviet Brutalist architecture stands as a concrete inscription of this very power structure.

In an era that envisioned the future, these massive, raw-textured, and structurally exposed buildings not only responded to the demands of industrial functionality and efficiency, but also—through their scale and form—revealed how the state visualized and asserted its power through space. This architectural language, prevalent in the Soviet Union from the mid-20th century to the 1980s, was far more than a matter of stylistic choice; it was a material embodiment of ideology. Monumental volumes symbolized the permanence of the state, while collectivism and futurism were orchestrated spatially into a choreography of order and belief—shaping the city into a grand stage directed by the state itself. Across the winter steppe, a cold breath of functionalism lingers.

The large residential block located across the Smolenka River is considered one of the longest apartment buildings in St. Petersburg.

1. Introduction

In 1917, the October Revolution overthrew the old regime, and the Bolshevik government forged a grand vision of the future. The drive toward socialist modernization infused architecture with political momentum. In 1920, Vkhutemas—often referred to as “the Russian Bauhaus”—was established in Moscow, giving rise to a generation of avant-garde architects and artists. The intense interplay of Constructivism, Functionalism, and Futurism laid the ideological and aesthetic foundation of Soviet architecture. In this context, space was no longer seen as a mere shelter, but as an extension of consciousness.

Russian State Scientific Center for Robotics and Technical Cybernetics

At the same time, Western Europe was brewing a stylistic revolution of its own. Architectural critic Reyner Banham, drawing inspiration from Le Corbusier’s term béton brut (raw concrete), coined the concept of “New Brutalism,” advocating for the honest expression of materials and structure. Though the term has French origins, the style took root in the soil of post-war British reconstruction. In the Soviet Union, however, it was infused with a far heavier dose of state will.

Chuvashskiy Gosudarstvennyy Teatr Opery I Baleta

During the same period, Khrushchev condemned the ostentation of Stalinist architecture and issued a directive to “eliminate decorativeism,” marking a decisive shift in Soviet architecture toward industrialization and functionality. Under the planned economy, a nationwide system for prefabricated concrete components was rapidly established. Standardized, modular, and high-density housing projects sprang up across the country. The apparent “austerity” of form was, in fact, a strategic approach to resource allocation—an efficient spatial encoding of state will. For many at the time, it also provided a practical solution to the housing crisis.

Houses on Chicken Legs

2.Brutalist Travel Notes

First Stop | St. Petersburg: Spires Beneath the Illusion of Technology

Russian National Research Center for Robotics and Cybernetics (1973–1986)

Russian National Research Center for Robotics and Cybernetics (RTC)—a building locals half-jokingly refer to as the “Tower of Sauron”—was designed by Boris Artyushin and Stanislav Savin. Conceived in the tense depths of the Cold War, it was built to advance research in cybernetics and robotics. The structure stands not only as a witness to the technological rivalry of the era but also as a classic example of Soviet-era architecture.

The first time I saw this building, it was through a screen. Its silhouette—part spire, part outpost—pierced the pale winter sky. Out of curiosity and fascination, I chose it as my first destination in St. Petersburg. A glance at the map showed it was located on the outskirts of the city. Thankfully, St. Petersburg’s metro is relatively convenient. After exiting the station, it was about a 20-minute walk.

That was the last day of 2024. Being in the high latitudes of the Northern Hemisphere, even at noon the sunlight remained thin and indifferent, like light left behind in an old photograph. Perhaps it didn’t quite match the image I had envisioned. For the first time, I felt that a building bathed in sunlight could seem somehow out of place. Even standing in front of it, I had the strange sensation of reading the past through a screen.

Winter days are remarkably short, and before long, the sun had already set. Back at the hotel, I began planning the next day’s itinerary. At the same time, I glanced at the weather forecast—there was a 60% chance of snow. That gave me pause.

The next morning, I got up and went straight to the window to check the weather. Sure enough, heavy snow was falling in thick, feather-like flakes. I decided to return to the RTC, curious to see how the building might transform under a different sky.

These were my first attempt at film photography, using Kodak Portra 400. Owing to my inexperience, the results were less than ideal. — Author’s note.

As a person from the south, this was my first time witnessing such a scene. Snow-covered St. Petersburg suddenly felt like a step back into the past. The building seemed to stand within a vision of the future—its massive scale and rough materials resembling ghostly knights emerging straight from a science fiction tale. Past and future converged in the space of a single snowfall.  

Second Stop | St. Petersburg: A Utopia Standing on “Chicken Legs”

Houses on Chicken Legs (1987–1993)

Along the Novosmolenskaya Embankment in St. Petersburg, a cluster of apartment buildings stands in an unusual and striking manner. Known as the “Houses on Chicken Legs,” they are among the most iconic examples of late Soviet Brutalism. Designed by architect Vitaliy Sokhin of the Leningrad Scientific Research and Design Institute, these structures elevate their residential blocks on massive concrete pylons, giving the impression that the buildings are standing on “chicken legs”—hence the nickname.

Built using a monolithic reinforced concrete system, the buildings reflect the late Soviet era’s bold experimentation with construction technologies. Their facades feature complex geometric forms, emphasizing a raw expression of mass and structure—true to the Brutalist aesthetic of material honesty and structural clarity. This design was not only a response to functional needs but also an architectural embodiment of Soviet ideals: futurism, collectivism, and technological optimism.

A local once told me that these experimental buildings were designed, in part, to withstand potential flooding from the nearby Gulf of Finland. Ironically, no major floods occurred after construction—but during strong winds, the buildings are said to sway slightly, which might be even more unsettling.

The inspiration for the “chicken legs” design may also trace back to Baba Yaga’s Hut, the legendary dwelling of the witch Baba Yaga in Russian folklore—a mysterious house perched atop giant bird legs, symbolizing the supernatural and the blurring of boundaries. This cultural reference, reinterpreted through the language of modern architecture, lends the buildings not only functionality but also a layered symbolic presence.

In the urban fabric, the space beneath these elevated structures forms open public areas that seem intended to serve as places for social interaction and communal activity—an example of how public space can be repurposed and reimagined. This spatial arrangement echoes Henri Lefebvre’s theory of the production of space: that space is not only a product of power, but also a reflection of social relations continuously reshaped through everyday practice.

(That said, it was winter at the time, and with the freezing temperatures, few people lingered outdoors for long.)

The repeated use of large-scale concrete components and modular panels creates expansive horizontal spans and vertically stacked volumes. This material language not only underscores the power of industrialized construction, but also amplifies the monumentality of the architecture itself. The spatial sequences, rich with a sense of ceremony, serve to materialize both the ideals of socialism and the collective memory it seeks to preserve.

Third Stop | Cheboksary: Concrete Echoes on the Banks of the Volga

Chuvash State Opera and Ballet Theatre (1985)

Cheboksary, the capital of the Chuvash Republic, is a small city steeped in the ancient civilizations of the Volga River basin. It was also the most distinctive destination on this journey. From the moment I boarded the plane, it felt as though I were entering another world. As the cabin door opened, the dry winter air rushed in, carrying with it the scent of pine resin and the fermented trace of birch bark. There was none of the bustle of a major city—few travelers, no crowds, only a quiet that felt both distant and intimate.

The Chuvash State Opera and Ballet Theatre is another notable example of late Soviet Brutalist architecture. Designed by architects Ruben Avetisovich Begunts and Vladimir Andreevich Teneta, the building was completed in 1985. It blends elements of Brutalism with Socialist Modernism, embodying the Soviet era’s dual pursuit of functionality and symbolism in cultural institutions.

(I had originally planned to go inside—after all, I had come this far. But none of the staff spoke English, and with no way to communicate, I had to give up the idea.)

Final Stop | Irkutsk: A Repetitive Finale

Zagurskiy Irkutsk State Musical Theater.

Departing from St. Petersburg and heading east across Siberia, I arrived at the final stop—Irkutsk. I hadn’t originally planned to visit this city; I ended up in front of the concert hall purely by accident, having mistaken the name of a building on the map. The structure reminded me of another theater I had seen in Western Siberia, in Omsk.

When I later reviewed my photos, something felt off—I thought perhaps the building had been renovated. It was only then that I realized: this wasn’t déjà vu, but rather the result of standardized Soviet architecture.

That feeling of déjà vu is, in fact, one of the very essences of Brutalism: repetition, modularity, and uniformity. These buildings don’t seem designed for a specific place, but rather serve a unified narrative for the entire nation. Like an army, they line the streets of different cities, telling the same story—embodying the unity and solemnity of the socialist state.

By the late 1970s, Brutalism was gradually abandoned. Once a vessel for utopian ideals, it later revealed a colder side in the face of reality. The concrete façades, neglected and weathered, became mottled and worn, their exposed structures turning into symbols of urban decay. With the rise of postmodernism and neoliberalism, architecture grew commercialized and ornamental, while Brutalism came to be seen as a relic of authoritarianism and failure.

Today, these buildings stand like a cold epic, crystallizing national ideals, material expression, and collective memory in concrete.

Standing before them, one can still feel their contradictory power—symbols of order yet vessels of oppression; heavy yet mesmerizing.

3. Epilogue

Throughout this journey, I often wandered alone through deserted streets, looking up and listening to these buildings, engaging in a dialogue across time with history. They were once the crystallization of Soviet craftsmanship, wisdom, and strength, embodying a hopeful vision of the future for an era. Now, weathered and worn, whenever sunlight or twilight paints the exposed concrete, the mottled shadows seem to whisper stories of bygone hardships and bustling life.