how to go to Prague

Jan Hus Memorial, Staroměstské náměstí (Old Town Square), Prague

Not part of the UNESCO tour

Prague is a mystical fairy-land that is a little too successful in covering up its muddy past with a gleaming veneer of tourist-friendly and heavily-edited history.  It’s really easy to go there, have a marvelous time, and have absolutely no sense of its difficult past (or present).  (For instance, while admiring the lovely window details of the Castle, you might want to know why the term defenestration is connected with the site.)   Prague is heavy on charm and light on reality.  S’pose that’s why something like visitors outnumber residents at a ratio of four to one each year.  But that’s why MoT‘s Eastern European Bureau (EEB) feels unsatisfied with Prague.  This is, afterall, the city of Jan Svankmajer, Franz Kafka, and the Golem; of treacherous political action and religious persecution.  Why does a visit here feel like a stroll through a marionette show?

For those of you who like your history clean and easy, this is a great place–just don’t wander off the beaten tourist trails, and stay away from the outer rings of housing that still smack of Communist-era efficiency as well as the inner rings of fine houses that are abandoned and/or routinely struck by vandals.  Stay in the center, and don’t miss:

near the Old Town Square

1. Just walking around

Prague is a great, beautiful, centuries-old European town that is made for walking.  There’s the Old Town on the east side of the Vltava River and the Castle on the west; you can waste a lot of time well by just wandering back and forth and poking around in the squares and little streets and enjoying how one century rubs up against another. You have to eat goulash and dumplings, just do it, even if it’s mid-July, you have to do it.  At least once or twice, splurge and eat on one of the great squares, but keep in mind that cafe owners are savvy and we’ve seen (on the Old Town Square in particular), up to three different menu prices in one restaurant: one price for being outside on the square, another for being at a window seat inside, and a third price for being deep in the building.  So, if you don’t want to splurge on the scenery, you may as well go around the corner and pay, like, $2 for your cream asparagus soup instead of $12 (yes, you also have to eat creamed soups in July).

The Raising of the Dead (The Golden Gate, St. Vitus)

2. Gothic Prague & thereabouts

St. Vitus is a brooding mass visible from many points around the city.  The Bohemians had a weird way about them when they would build a church: you’ll see here (and down in the Old Town Square at the Church of Mother of God before Týn) that lesser buildings crowd around and obscure the front of the church; there is no piazza or square immediately in front of it.  Also, the character of Gothic is different across Europe, and here it is a kind of desperate, striving architecture, with claw-like spires on roofs that seem to scratch the sky. The Cathedral is pretty remarkable, but even better than the interior is the Golden Gate on the exterior, with a brilliant multi-part mosaic that shows Prague’s trade connections with the east–a little shot of Byzantium here in Eastern Europe.  Deeper layers of history are evident nearby: if you venture behind the jolly facade of St. George you will find a stark and striking Romanesque church lurking in silence, mostly overlooked by tourists swarming in the area.

Powder Tower

In addition to the obvious Gothic of the Cathedral side, with all of its interesting surrounding buildings (some cool defensive structures remain, check them out), several of the main bridges and points of entry to the medieval city have amazing towers associated with them.  The fifteenth-century Powder Tower is on the site of one of the original city gates; its dour facade is animated with crazy mouldings, all of very dark (or stained?) stone, and again the aggressively severe roof forms.

Finally, the Jewish history in Prague is deep and sad; its remains are rich.  If you can beat the busses (and you should try; it’s worth getting up before your hotel lays out breakfast and just this once foregoing the the morning spread of cold-cuts and aspic . . . yum!) go see the Jewish cemetery and the Old Synagogue, which is remarkable in many ways. But after about 10 AM, this place is packed and no fun at all.

St. Barbara

If you are really into the Gothic thing, figure out a way to get to the nearby town of Kutná Hora.  It’s historically a very wealthy silver mining town, about 60-90 minutes away, depending on your mode of travel and degree of courage to deal with people speaking Czech at you.  There you will find a marvelous, broad five-aisled church dedicated to St. Barbara.  Curvy-pointy tent-like roofs cover a brilliant vaulted ceiling with ribs in the patterns of flower petals.  As pretty as that is, there’s a nearby chapel that is just as freaky as St. Barbara is pretty: the crypt of the cemetery chapel houses the Sedlec Ossuary, where the bones of tens of thousands of people have been arranged in artistic patterns–swags, coats of arms, lamp stands, it is a sight to behold (get a taste by following the Svankmajer link above).

Obecní dům

3. Prague Nouveau

Here’s one place that Prague really shines.  The Art Nouveau movement swept across Europe in the two or three decades leading up to World War 1; it’s best where the cities (Art Nouveau is an urban movement) was associated with strong politics.  In Prague, avant garde designers fused the new forms and approaches to design that were emanating from France and Belgium with their gusto for the Czech Nationalist Revival, and developed a style of architecture that is in part based on Baroque heritage of the Habsburgs and the rich stores of Bohemian traditions.   Go see the great buildings like the funky Viola building (Narodni No. 7; make sure to read the windows at the top) and the spanky Hotel Europa (on Wenceslas Square–Prague’s go at Beaux-Arts urban planning).  Great as these are, the real monument is the Obecní dům, or Municipal House.  (And when you go there, go to the cafe on the left, which is wonderful, with old-school waiters in tuxedos pushing around carts of cakes.  Order something with poppy seeds, and also an eiskaffe, and thank us later.)  In addition to being a fantastic building all on its own, its ornament is thrilling, especially the frescoes by hometown hero Alfons Mucha.  You know Mucha, and in addition to seeing his proud nationalistic images here, and in the stained glass window he completed at the cathedral, you can visit his museum, which is one of the best single-artist museums we’ve seen.

Cubist apartment block, 1913 (Neklanova 30, Vysehrad)

4. Twentieth-Century Prague

After WW1 Prague continued with the Art Nouveau designers’ dream of being modern, but gave up on the folk traditions and elegant ornament.  Sadly, the effort to be inherently anti-historical has become a leitmotif in Prague to this day.  One of the most unique kinds of architecture in Prague is the short-lived Cubist movement.  After that, architecture tells the tale of a series of unfortunate events: German occupation, US Air Force bombings, the arrival of the Red Army and Communist takeover, Prague Spring and Soviet tanks, finally the Velvet Revolution of 1989.  Along the way, Praguers tended to expunge the record–maybe most dramatically by blowing up the giant stone sculpture of Stalin.  What remains from the tough twentieth century is a whole mess of Communist era architecture, from the uninspiring metro system, to dismal apartment buildings and intimidating office towers.  You can also visit the Museum of Communism, which has a startlingly winning attitude about this chapter in the country’s history; it is heavy on dark humor with a dash of snark.

Fred & Ginger

More recently, the leadership in Prague has wanted to impress upon the world that really, we’re just as up to date as you (although we want to lure you to spend your tourist korunas on our whitewashed history), with envelope-pushing architecture.  There’s this new octopus thing that’s been pretty contentious, but who knows: by the time you go, it might start oozing out of the ground.  Definitely worth the trip out to its neighborhood is the Frank Gehry building nicknamed after a famous dancing couple.  MoT‘s EEBs went out there, all set to hate on it, but you know what: it actually kind of works in the colorful Baroqueish neighborhood right on the riverfront.

So that’s what you do in Prague, if you go, although MoT‘s EEEs hope you go there in concert with, and not at the expense of, Prague’s more mature, interesting, darker sister, Budapest.  Especially if you can take them both in with their elegant mother, Vienna, who doesn’t look her age at all.  But really: Budapest.  Go there.

just some place to have coffee and cake . . . in BUDAPEST

the “lesser arts” at the Met

It’s a well-known fact that looking at (or preferably, living with) fruits of the Arts and Crafts and Art Nouveau movements makes one a better person.  If either or both of these movements is/are new to you, please see other clever and insightful blog entries, like this one, or this one or this one or this one or this really good one (but definitely not this one) to find out more.  The Metropolitan Museum of Art has a lovely, if small, collection of British designers who represent the mid-century roots of pure Arts and Crafts (founded in the idealism of William Morris) and its later Nouveau blossoming (which came to terms with industry and capitalism in a way that would have made Morris pout).  We leave the debate between the idealists and realists to MoT‘s Department of Aesthetic Theory and report on our quick romp through this small happy place at the Met.

the triumvirate

We saw this view (to the left) at a distance and it pulled us in like a tractor beam.  The whole time we were focused on the large piece next to the funky little chair and stammering WebbWebbWebbit’sgottobeaWebb.  Sure enough, it is, and even though our camera skills were not quite up to par (shaky hands, all that Philip Webbness in front of us) (some people would get nervous taking a picture of Nick Rhodes; we freak out in front of a Philip Webb cabinet) (well, full disclosure: we’d be pretty shaky in either situation), you can see it better here.  And you should, so you can get a better view of the Burne-Jones painting on it too (although our color is better).  But in our picture, it’s sitting there next to a Pugin chair (not THE Pugin, but rather THE Pugin’s son, Edward, but still.); details here.  We still wince a little bit to see the products of this movement set up in a museum, in the exact setting they were not supposed to be a part of (and indeed were designed in opposition to); the same could be said for the wonderful ceramics at the top of the page (American relatives of the things featured here), which sort of wince and grimace in their colorless cases, on glass shelves, blasted by sunlight.

Knox, "Thrym" Design (ca. 1905)

Under somewhat better conditions, we find this terra cotta number by Archibald Knox.  Oh Archibald Knox: where were you when we were selecting topics for our dissertation, and blinded by American architects and their fabulous domes?  Better late than never: we are happy to have found you later in life.  To the left, this jardiniere (French for “plant pot”) was designed by Knox and made by Carter & Co. for Liberty & Co. just after the turn of the century.  It’s a marvelously simple form, and although we are skeptical that having the handles so low in a piece that’s supposed to carry a big plant would really work, we forgive you Archie, because that big Celtic Nouveau knot is wonderful, and the glaze on this pot so rich and varied–just look at those highlights to the left of the knot.  We don’t believe we’ve ever seen anything in nature that could be potted here and survive the comparison. (Hot for Knox?  Check out these people who have also got it bad.)

Knox, Claret Jug (1901)

And if we weren’t dazzled already, then there is this claret jug (left), that Knox designed for Liberty (Met info here).  We don’t drink claret, and have already forgotten what Wikipedia told us about the little green stones (chrysoprase) that adorn the vessel.  But we will make it our birthstone and vow to down claret by the gallon if it meant we could do it with this stunner in our house.

Lo and behold, so close to the Knox pieces, is a reminder of our first real Arts and Crafts love, C.F.A. (Charles Francis Awesomely) Voysey, represented at the Met by this little swath of velveteen below (details here).  So pretty, so fine.  There’s something about the soft hues, the sneaky bird, the tulip (our favorite flower: how did you know, CFA?), in that drumbeat repeat and stiff geometry that remains engaging.  (But that’s it?  why so little love for Voysey, Met?  Where’s this nutty cast iron fireplace?  And the dozens of other things you ought to have for us?)

velveteen Voysey (1890s)

Also under-represented is Christopher Dresser, who at least is shown through one of his excellent toast racks (below).  It’s almost Bauhausian in its industrial straightforwardness, but then has those little bulbous connections, the playful rivetty elements at the bottom, and the overall exuberance of a jaunty crown that reminds us no, no: Walter Gropius had nothing to do with this (indeed, Herr Sourpuss was born two years after Dresser knocked out this little beauty).  For more on the toast rack, read this from the Met, but we have our doubts about their write up: letter rack?  No way, this is totally for toast.  And we are not toast people.  But, again, we’ll indulge, and wash it down with claret, if we can take it home.

Toast of the town: Dresser

And there’s more.  There are silver belt buckles with sea creature/dolphin kings:

Anna Wagner, Austria (1904)

And this chair designed by French people we don’t know, but who have very fancy names that you can learn here (names as fancy as this awesome chair).

Henri-Jules-Ferdinand Bellery-Desfontaines, SERIOUSLY (1905)

And Lalique pendant of kissing PEACOCKS, for crying out loud, enamelled gold with opal, pearl and diamonds (if our picture doesn’t have you in tears yet, try this one, and if that doesn’t do it, check your pulse).

Lalique (French for "mmmwah!") (1901)

And oh yes, one more piece by Knox, a silver and champlevé piece (below) that we still can’t decide if it is better used to eat our soup or adorn our hair.  We do know that champlevé is a very, very old-school method of enamelling closely associated with Celtic traditions and we like to see that in our friend Knox; it’s truer to the intellectual foundation of Arts and Crafts than some of his other things, and its philosophical foundations too.

Which reminds us of something that was said by one of Knox’s biographers and is now repeated by every lazy curator who throws together an Arts  & Crafts show: What Charles Rennie Mackintosh was to furniture, Archibald Knox was to metalwork and jewelry.  Now, we understand the sentiment since Mack is such a big freaking deal in most circles, but since we see him as designer of prissy Ikea prototypes, we’ll just say that Knox rocks our world, and leave it at that.

This exhibition, a tiny piece of the Met, includes some wonderful things that warm our heart, but their display leaves MoT‘s Curatorial Critic cold.  When will curators learn that they need to build little domestically-scaled rooms for the proper display of these wonderful objects?  They were designed, fabricated and sold for home use and enjoyment.  Their treatment as those artifacts that Morris called the “Greater Arts” just isn’t right.  Just as a sculpture removed from a Buddhist temple should not be displayed in the same was as a Renaissance portrait, the “Lesser Arts” require a different setting: one more domestic than clinical, more contextual than object-oriented.  For the sake of the goods and the people who love them, change it.  Or, send them home with us.  We’d be happy to put them on display in the domestic wing of MoT HQ in an appropriate setting and at the proper scale for consumption–ours and the “public’s,” we promise.

Knox three times