It’s an old saying, but I truly believe a picture is worth a thousand words — an artist’s work speaks for itself. As Robert Frost once said when asked to “explain” one of his poems, “Do you want me to say it worse?” If you agree, you may stop reading and view my portfolio.

For those of you who have dared to continue…

From an early age, I have been drawn to the works of Rene Magritte, Paul de Chirico, Paul Delvaux, and Max Ernst. As I was born and grew up in Prague, I also loved the art of the Czech Surrealists Jindřich Štyrský, Karel Teige, and Jindřich Heisler, among many others.

The word “surreal” is often defined as something “strange” or “bizarre” but despite that — or perhaps because of that — I have always felt a deep connection to Surrealism as a genre. What I found quite strange was the “art” presented to us as “real.”

I think my reaction resulted, at least in part, from my growing up in a country governed by a very bizarre system called Communism, during which I and my fellow citizens lacked basic freedoms and lived in newly created, cheerless urban landscapes. The established regime built these new structures on the cheap — with a one-size-fits-all philosophy and a very uniform, ugly, and quite lifeless design. These new constructions depressed me, and I was drawn instead to the old buildings from the 1920s and 1930s, with disappearing signs, in which people had cafés, little neighborhood businesses, and lived as they wanted.

I was able to look at those old buildings and imagine a life that I had no chance to experience. And that these old structures were dilapidated and deteriorating only added to their appeal. I have always rooted for the underdog, and I loved the arbitrariness and unexpected beauty of the multiple layers revealed under the falling stucco or peeling paint on these buildings. Perhaps I was also attracted to these structures because I knew that they might be gone tomorrow — torn down or repaired.

My fascination with this “visual archeology” of urban decay continued when I moved to the United States in 1992. It may stem from reasons different from those that compelled me in my Eastern European incarnation, and I am not sure that I even appreciate all of them. I know only that I grow quite downhearted when I drive through this country’s sprawling suburbs full of cookie-cutter developments and strip malls. To me, these places feel lifeless even when they are crowded. It is the old neighborhoods, full of randomness and traces of former lives, that invigorate me. In these places, I once again experience the familiar sense of something that seems — at least on the surface — strange and bizarre, but which becomes quite real and authentic when I dig a little deeper.

URBANIA Unintended juxtapositions of seemingly unrelated things can sometimes invoke a new, dreamlike reality. An enormous eighteen-wheeler parked in front of an abandoned bowling alley. An old light on a wall with tears of rust streaming away from it. Oversized fiberglass creation attached to a wall, urging customers to enter a business now long gone. The shadows and shapes left on a wall from objects that were once fastened there. A dirty wall displaying a painted man in a bright blue suit advertising “glamorous tailoring.” Click here to see these and more.
Words When a business heads south, one of the first things to go is the name of the establishment. Often, the removal of what previously was a dull sign with a generic lettering reveals a completely new sign or the imprint of the sign, decorated by holes, screws, scratches, old paint, and marvelous omnipresent rust. And a new word-object is born. Click here to see them.
Through the Glass The world one sees through the windows often is more intriguing and mysterious that what is behind the windows. Raindrops, smears, dirt, and light reflections on the glass hide parts of the outside scenery like a magical curtain and prompt us to use our fantasy to tune into what is really important. Click here to see if you feel that way.
Scapes As a relative newcomer to the United States, I can’t help making myself at home by occasionally taking pictures of its majestic landscapes. But I also love to discover the much smaller landscapes that lie (often unnoticed) under our feet. Kelp washed up on a beach looking like a spaceship that crash-landed. Sand dunes that are only a couple of inches high (or is it hundreds of feet?). A “still life” of grass and melting snow. Click here to see these and more.
This & That To see the pictures that don’t quite fit into the above categories, click here.