On cue, they began organizing the images in a separate archive. “We started thinking we could maybe take the kiosk photographs a step further and use them to tell a bigger story,” he says.

In generalized terms, these kiosks that were once so prevalent were the work of the Slovenian designer Sasa J. Machtig. It was he who created a poly-fiber reinforced module that could be used either as a single unit or combined and connected with others to create a larger whole.

Designed in 1966, but patented in 1967, Machtig’s brainchild was fittingly christened the K67. The next year, prototypes were exhibited to the public and this was followed by a mass roll-out soon after.

The versatility of these cabins, as well as their functionality and affordability, guaranteed their popularity. Highly portable, and able to fit the smallest of footprints, single modules measured approximately 1.2 meters by 1.2 meters and reached a height of 2.2 meters.

Becoming a standardized part of city life, over the next three decades approximately 9,500 were produced. Their success also saw imitations flourish: in the 1980s, Macedonia unveiled the KC190 cabin. Poland, meanwhile, had its own answer, the 1990s Kami.

Though they were primarily used as kiosks, ticket booths or snack cabins, the fall of the Iron Curtain saw these micro-units fill a variety of more unorthodox uses. Infamously, in Warsaw, there was one that housed a peep show. Another, in Wrocław, contained a miniature police station.

In many ways, these disparate functions reflected the times. As the region embraced a new era of wild, unrestrained capitalism, these Yugo kiosks – as they were nicknamed in Poland – seemed to mirror the raw consumerism and entrepreneurial spirit of this brave, new world. For budding traders, they were heaven-sent – a readymade store from which to sell anything and everything.

“When I ask people for their memories, they tell me they were a window to a different world,” says Navarro. “They stocked the most interesting magazines of the time, others sold rotisserie chicken or hot dogs, and others, toys, etc. Some remembered that, as kids, they would run to them as if they were ice cream vans.”

Their design was part of the allure. Manufactured in bright, primary colors, they radiated brightly from the often-monotone streetscapes.

Tracing his own fascination with the K67, Navarro admits it was love at first sight. “I first saw one during one of my earliest trips to Poland, back in the early 2000s,” he says. “I remember I ordered a zapiekanka [a pizza-like baguette] from one such cabin, and although I wasn’t too impressed by the zapiekanka I fell in love with the design of the cabin itself.”

However, already by this time the K67 was becoming obsolete. In their heyday, the cabins must have looked almost futuristic, like space age pods from the realms of science fiction, but as the region grew wealthier, they came to be viewed as gaudy, tacky relics from a bygone age. Their disappearance has made Zupagrafika’s book all the more important.

“Everything about their design made an impact on me,” says Navarro, “but it is also their historical context that should be called out. In the former Yugoslavia they were very visible in the 1970s and 80s, but in Poland they only really started to arrive in the 80s and 90s. This timing is very interesting as it was a period of huge social, economic and political change. These objects became entwined in the story of that time.”

Sobecka’s and Navarro’s images serve not just to capture the beauty of these cabins, but their character as well – sometimes literally. “We visited six or seven countries and have presented around 160 kiosks that we located,” says Navarro. “Sometimes we spoke to the owners to learn more of their story.”

What could have just been a striking arts project is humanized by the presence of these faces and personalities. “We found many people that took real pride in their cabins,” says Navarro. “They had customized theirs to make them totally unique, or adapted them to take into account the extreme temperatures that they would often have to work in.”

While largely eradicated from the urban map, the surviving cabins have made for a compelling study. “We came across several that have been abandoned,” says Navarro. “We found the police cabin, but it was being used as a storage space.” Others have fared better.

“We also saw many that remain active – for example, in Radomsko we found a line of them selling funeral wreaths outside a cemetery, while in Serbia we saw a couple being used as currency exchange points,” he adds.

Pleasingly, their reputation is in the process of being rehabilitated and the K67 has found a new generation of fans. “We discovered ones that have been reinvented as gallery spaces, coffee shops, or, in the eastern side of Germany, even as DJ booths,” Navarro continues. “It feels like they’ve gained momentum again.”

That much is apparent by the K67’s frequent cameo appearances at international design fairs, not to mention the growing number of blogs and Insta pages dedicated to them. None, though, have captured their glory with quite the same vigor as Sobecka and Navarro. “I hope that this book is seen as a tribute to a design that is timeless,” he says.

And timeless is what the K67 has proved to be. Through all the peaks and troughs it has faced, the K67 has endured. “We actually spoke to their designer, Sasa J. Machtig, via email,” says Navarro. “Nearly 50 years ago he was working on the second-generation K67 cabin. Now, he’s in his 90s, but he’s still working, this time on a third-generation model.” The K67, it would seem, won’t vanish without a fight.

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