In art, our understanding of a subject is informed by the media through which the subject of a piece is rendered: We feel, rather than simply understand, eternal torment through Hieronymus Bosch’s oil-on-oak depictions of Hell; we recognize the banality of the fantastic through Kurt Vonnegut’s spare and direct prose; and we grasp the eclectic, complex nature of first-person narrative through Kate Bush’s dramatic vocals.

Yes, and in this way, we can also understand cities–the multifaceted, living pieces of functional art that they are. We can get a sense of a city by looking at what it’s made of, analyzing the strokes of asphalt, draped sheets of steel, and underlying armatures, all of which inform its spirit.

However, cities are possessed of dualities not found in all art–they are both media and subject. Like a painting about paint or a sculpture about clay, we can understand a city by appreciating that of which it is comprised, and understand its composite materials by appreciating the city as a whole. Of course, the best way to experience a city, to know both media and subject at once, is to reach out, to run your fingers along its contours and kiss its mortar lips.

Klaipėda: Bronze, Brick, and Sea

Klaipėda, Lithuania’s third-largest city, has been rendered with familiar materials–brick, cobblestone, wood, and iron. Like other Lithuanian cities, Klaipėda’s buildings lose a little more to age every day while the skeletons of new buildings stand on the skyline, patiently waiting for the concrete and wire tissue that will give them life. Klaipėda is unique, however, in that its spirit and meaning are largely influenced by water: the deep grey of the Danės and the crane-lined shore of the Curonian coast. These elements can be felt in every piece of Klaipėda, and they provide it with a texture not found in Kaunas or Vilnius.

Riga: Myth, Masks, and Mortar

Riga, Latvia’s capital, is a sprawling city–a massive canvas, an epic poem–that cannot be explicated within a single blog post. But, like an epic poem, pieces of it can be analyzed to inform the context and meaning of the entire piece. Thus, this section will focus on Riga’s old city and city center, both of which contain stunning examples of architecture designed in the style of Art Nouveau, or Jūgendstil. Nearly one third of the buildings in Riga’s center were constructed in the style of Art Nouveau, and many of them can be found on Alberta iela and Elizabetes iela.

Perhaps the most breathtaking examples of Jūgendstil architecture are those buildings designed by Mikhail Eisenstein. Like other architects working in Jūgendstil, Eisenstein incorporated atlantes, sphynges, nymphs, and masks into his designs. Somehow, though, the human forms in his buildings seem to carry the burden not only of the pillars and walls they support, but of the whole city. Eisenstein’s figures communicate the glory and tragedy of cities, trapped as they are in their buildings, and illustrate how we, too, may become trapped in the cities we design.

Note: A version of this post will appear in the April issue of Njuspeipis, the student newspaper of Kauno Technologijos Universitetas (KTU).

Through my experience as a student and a tutor, I have found there are many approaches to learning. There’s the slow, methodical approach; the skimming approach; the study group approach; and, of course, the panic-because-the-paper-is-due-tomorrow approach. Most of these have some degree of merit, though the ones that contain essential elements of learning such as time, effort, and patience seem to consistently produce better overall comprehension of new ideas. Still, it’s difficult to say that there is one “best” approach, since what works for one student may not work for another. However, I have discovered a technique—a magical phrase, actually—that can increase the learning potential of any approach:

“I don’t know.”

The phrase “I don’t know” is magic for this reason: it makes presumption disappear. To gain knowledge, you must first admit that you do not have knowledge. But presumption—the arrogant belief that you know something when you really don’t—is the very antithesis of such an admission. Presumption creates unfounded assumption where there should be only open-minded observation; it limits what can be learned in the same way that manacles limit movement.

Saying “I don’t know” frees you from presumption by forcing you to humble yourself and acknowledge that you do not yet possess knowledge of whatever it is you want to learn. It provides you a solid, and necessarily empty, foundation upon which to build understanding. When you say, “I don’t know,” you become a real student rather than an false expert. You are truly prepared to learn.

The phrase “I don’t know” is magic

for this reason: it makes

presumption disappear.

“I don’t know” has become my mantra while I study, work, and live in Lithuania—and it has served me well. Before I left the United States, I was told many things about Lithuania. I was told that it was essentially an underdeveloped country. I was told that Lithuanian people were rude. I was told that the country was dangerous, and I was a fool for going. All those things I was told have two interrelated things in common: none of them are true, and they were all told to me by people who have never been to Lithuania, people whose only knowledge of the country was based on presumption. But being well-versed in the power of “I don’t know,” I politely dismissed their advice. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t know how beautiful and quiet Kaunas is at midnight. I wouldn’t know the thrill of investigating the nooks and crannies of Vilnius. I wouldn’t be able to trade stories and share music with my Lithuanian coworkers. I wouldn’t have done, and I wouldn’t continue to do, a hundred different things that bring me closer to this country and its people every single day.

Of course, it isn’t always easy to say the magic words. They often feel heavy and awkward on the tongue because many of us learn, one way or another, that it is not okay not to know something, that not knowing is weakness. It’s not weakness, though. If anything, it is only the bravest seekers of knowledge who can utter the phrase loudly and without shame.

I’ve been here for two months now, and I can say without presumption that I do, in fact, know a few things about this country, even if they are only small things. Every day, I learn a little bit more, but that wouldn’t be possible, no matter what approach I took to learning, without the magic phrase. I knew when I came here that I didn’t know anything, and that has opened me to everything.