June 2016

I strongly believe that passion is essentially what makes us achieve our goals and what keeps us motivated to get up in the morning, go, explore, and learn. Passion for people, animals, work, nature, art – you name it. For me it has always been the passion for music that has pulled me through many things and, as unexpected as it might be, has taken me to various places around the world. This time it was my love for Mumford & Sons that led me all the way to Prague, and, apart from the 90 minutes spent jumping and screaming the lyrics to some of my favourite songs along with the band on the stage in front of me, I tried my best to make the most out of the 48 hours I had to get more familiar with this wonderful city.

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Prague has a very distinct and unique character. It has got a touch of Barcelona’s gothic darkness, a touch of Florence’s artistic playfulness, and a touch of Rome’s divine grandness. All topped with the feel of that sour crudeness that still to this day lingers in the air in many parts of the Eastern Europe and other places around the world that have once kneeled before Communism.

The history of this city can be quite easily read from its built environment since there is at least one significant mark left by each era and period that had once dictated the rules in this area. One of the most prominent figures in Prague’s history is certainly Charles IV. It was during the reign of this king that the construction works on the Charles Bridge and the Prague Castle began. The Charles Bridge along with the two towers on each end of it and the St.Vitrus Cathedral, which is a part of the castle’s enormous complex, represent the Gothic style, appearing exactly as one would expect – majestic during the day, menacing during the night, haunting at all times.

The eminent presence of the literal and figurative darkness that radiates from these and other Medieval structures in the city was clearly far from the taste of the Habsburg dynasty (as well as anyone associated with it) who came to power later in the 17^th century. The Baroque-style Wallenstein Palace, built for the Habsburg army’s commander Albrecht von Wallenstein, is a result of a collaboration between a number of Italian architects and artists. Its enclosed gardens and inner courtyards have been subdivided into numerous smaller islands using trees and other plants that create these stunning isolated parts which allow everyone to disappear from the noisy crowds and enjoy the serenity and quietness of this place. Each part within the garden provides a unique viewpoint which helps the visitor to understand the relation between his current location and the rest of the old town.

The entire complex of this palace consists of buildings that are true works of art. The play between light and shadows (one of the defining characteristics of Baroque style) can be observed throughout the estate as it involves not just the buildings, but also trees, sculptures, and other landscape objects, including even the water in the ponds which reflects the sunlight on every nearby surface. The garden pavilion seems impressive not just because of its scale, but also because of the way the building’s external skin has been used as a canvas to create delicate stucco ornaments and complex ceiling frescos.

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The other Baroque-period creation that I particularly wanted to visit was the Vrtba Garden. Originally designed as a part of the Vrtbovský Palace by Maxmilián Kaňka, this garden is unique because of the way it has been designed on the steep slope of the Petrin Hill. Three distinct terraces at different levels divide the Vrtba garden into various zones which can be seen as independent and complete each on their own while at the same time being responsive and relating to one another to create a uniform composition and a strict hierarchy.

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Both the palace and the garden have undergone various reconstruction phases and changes during the previous centuries, but they seem to have retained their essence. The layout of the garden may appear a little confusing at first, however, the sculptures within the garden seem to be the key to the story. On the lower terrace there is a pond with a statue of putto (a figure of a child widely depicted in paintings and sculptures in the ancient world as well as Renaissance and Baroque periods, symbolising an angel/spirit who lives between the two worlds of gods and people and is able to influence people’s minds and skills) riding an evil sea creature. The staircase leading to the upper terraces is completed with statues of various ancient gods that visually appear to be disappearing in the air when looking at them from below.

There might be another explanation, or maybe none at all, but this scene along with the continuously upward leading journey through the garden, which begins already at its entrance on the street level, start to somehow resemble the transition from the ordinary human world that is left behind the garden walls, through the seas, up to the Mount Olympus, ending on a platform that overlooks the entire universe. Or, in this case, Prague.

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I also have to mention the absolutely brilliant staircase to the upper level terrace. After climbing the external stairs with the statues of the gods along one side and then climbing another steep set of stairs, the visitor reaches a small door that appears to be leading inside the hill. However, on the other side there is a unique space which cannot be defined either as internal or external – it is something in-between. The only element inside this space is a narrow serpentine staircase which ends outside on the highest terrace. It is difficult to describe the vibe of this transitional space that in pictures appears so insignificant and dull compared to the rest of the highly detailed and spacious garden. But it certainly felt like I was finally in one of the adventure stories filled with dungeons and secret passages to forgotten rooms and dark cellars that I used to read so often as a child.

It is, of course, incredibly ironic that the city, who has once been the official seat of a Holy Roman Emperor, whose monarchs Charles IV and Rudolf II themselves have been the emperors of the Holy Roman Empire, whose skyline is dominated by church and cathedral towers, and whose most famous landmarks and tourist attractions have been dedicated to religious figures, today is possibly eligible to hold the title – Europe’s capital of Atheism. Perhaps that and people’s modern attitude towards life and culture is the reason why some of the (relatively) recent additions to Prague’s architectural family could perhaps be best described as bold and daring. I am not the biggest fan of Frank Gehry (never have been, never will be), but there is no doubt that ‘wow-effect’ when you see the Dancing House, a collaboration between Gehry and Vlado Milnuic, for the first time.

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Whether it is a ‘wow, this is amazing’ or a ‘wow, this really is horrible’ kind of surprise, that is left up to everyone to decide. The New Stage theatre building, completed in 1983, is possibly an equally controversial design. Although there is an almost dramatic contrast between the old National Theatre building (built at the end of the 19^th century) and this new addition, they somehow seem to fit very well next to each other. With the help of the wide open space between these two structures, used as a public square and exhibition space, it feels like the youngest one is being respectful and does not try to overshadow its older neighbour. The atmosphere in the public square is also very relaxed. Being enclosed by both theatre buildings, this space is sheltered from the street noise and there is something very calming about the presence of these two grand facades. If you sit long enough in the square, it almost starts to feel as if in this silence there is an ongoing conversation happening between the two buildings.

The one thing I truly despise is the typical tourism-oriented or tourist-made image of a place. Usually only specific buildings or parts of the city are highlighted, creating an impression of this perfect utopia which ignores, hides and denies the existence of any run-down parts of the city that might, in fact, be much more accurate reflections of the overall state of the place and the culture. By no means do such areas define Prague or Czech Republic, but the fairytale-like gardens and the carefully polished, intricate Medieval roofs in the old town are really just the participants of a theatrical play, staged for the picture-hungry tourist crowds who jump off the busses, fiercely pull out their cameras and disappear again quicker than they had appeared.

The outskirts of Prague reveal an entirely different sight – the place that is actually the reality for people who walk those streets daily. Upon the arrival in the city, I passed by many blocks consisting of six-storey (and higher) apartment buildings whose identical twins can be found in many European cities where such dwellings were widely built throughout the 20^th century. Although it certainly is one way of establishing a community, much depends on the regime under which these designs are created. The Communist apartment dwellings achieved only one thing – delivering a message that became a physical manifestation of the regime leadership’s strength and power, while the inhuman ‘cells’ inside these buildings were breeding unconfident, obedient societies that never dared to loudly question their worth or the regime’s legitimacy and fairness (I would know this all too well, having grown up in one of such buildings). The Communist era is long since gone in Czech Republic now, but these buildings still remain as its ghosts, keeping alive the atmosphere that even today makes you feel suffocated and repressed. I wish I had more time in Prague to explore these suburbs up close, however even from the central areas some parts of these districts dominate the city’s skyline far in the distance.

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Another element, that has long been present in the urban environment and certainly cannot be ignored also in Prague, is graffiti. The problem with graffiti is the very thin line that separates graffiti as a form of art from graffiti as an act of vandalism. Like I already said about the high-rise apartment buildings, much depends on the circumstances in which these designs are born. Coming from a place where it is extremely hard to find a single facade without even one graffiti, I have long since passed the state of feeling annoyance, anger or despair whenever I discover another passionately drawn scribble on an otherwise perfectly white wall. I have become more aware that maybe there is more than just bad parenting behind it. I am starting to believe that when a voice (I do not mean one person’s voice, I mean the voice of a country or a nation) is finally freed after being silenced and supressed for decades, it knows better than anyone else how valuable this freedom is and that it may not be everlasting. It wants to grab the opportunity while it is there and leave its permanent mark somewhere for everyone to finally see and hear whatever has been bothering this voice. Just look at the amount of these marks in countries and places that for most part of their existence have been independent and free, then compare it to the amount and the style of the graffiti in places that have struggled in the past and continue to stumble through the ruins of the old empires. You cannot blame the artists, they are only telling the truth.

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