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.

Wide Asleep (Day) I took these photographs with my eyes closed. By that, I don’t mean that I slid my lids over my pupils to prevent rays of light from transmitting the images before me. Rather, these photographs were taken through an imaginary filter that reveals what is there to be seen in addition to—or in spite of—the bare images themselves. Although I took these pictures during the day, their nocturnal elements suggest the sensation of simultaneously being awake and asleep. I am always not sure about the meaning of what I see; my subconscious may be trying to get the upper hand. Click here to see for yourself.
Half Awake (Night) These photographs are companions to those in the Wide Asleep (Day) series. They document my encounters with scenes that felt intense, dark, and strange, yet also oddly familiar. Perhaps they capture dreams that I have yet to experience. Or maybe they seem familiar because I have dreamed of them before. Click here to enter the night.
Urbania Unintended juxtapositions of seemingly unrelated things can sometimes invoke a new reality. An old light on a wall with tears of rust streaming away from it becomes an eye. 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.” Cityscapes viewed through the windows in which raindrops, smears, dirt and light reflections on the glass hide parts of the outside scenery like a magical curtain. Click here to see these and more.
Words Left Over 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.
The Bridges of Montgomery County The bridges of Montgomery County, Maryland, are not as traditionally photogenic as their more famous cousins in Madison County. But the longer I live near them, the more fascinated I am with them. While few of these bridges are rustic and poetically simple, most of them are functional and utilitarian (at times, eerily so). They often seem to me to be the symbols connecting—or trying to connect—two opposing worlds, nature and technology, day and night, consciousness and subconsciousness.... Click here to see them.