We arrive in Prague. We check into our hotel which is within spitting distance of the west tower of the Charles Bridge. We break for lunch and free time until 4:30, then we walk to Vlado’s office.
The route there winds through the inner streets of Prague, from the river in. Once we arrive, the first thing I notice is that the surroundings are very modest. In the entrance hallway to his building, graffiti is scrawled across the showbill-covered walls. It smells dank, of moldy standing water and urine. We go upstairs and enter his office.
Meticulously constructed cardboard models cover desks, shelves, tables. There are two computers in the entire office. There is a poster of the different established routes to the summit of Mount Everest, and a makeshift bed made from a crate and a mattress. It is not uncomfortable. Vlado appears.
Vlado is a steely-eyed man in his late forties–early fifties with a chiseled face, hardened from his communist past. He smiles slightly, gracefully, and is extremely welcoming. He gets to talking. He speaks excellent English, with the sort of charming naivete and playful sense of humor characteristic of a non-native English speaker. He is very matter-of-fact in his speech, and occasionally makes remarks about socialism and its “ugliness.” I can’t help but think it’s personal. He makes sudden exits fromt he room to retrieve models or pictures, and returns zealously to show us his projects. He displays a humble sense of pride. He knows he worked with Frank Gehry and created one of the most recognizable and symbolic edifices in eastern Europe (the Dancing Building), but it seems communism has taught him better than to recognize his incredible achievements. This is not to say he is not thankful. He has a great sense of spirituality, and talks about a guiding hand that has thrust the circumstances together so that he could contribute to the Dancing Building.
“I don’t like minimalism,” he says plainly. “Architecture is supposed to reflect life, and I can’t express the complexities of life with minimalism.” I glance over at Tate to see his reaction. Tate says nothing, I suppose out of respect. He talks about a project he is working on in China. He admires Chinese architecture and abhors anything tall (i.e. skyscrapers). He speaks of a cultural clash there where Western styles are detracting from the beautiful architectural history and landscape of China. He speaks the gospel of truth, and he is preaching to a choir.
We leave Vlado’s and stop at a small cafe for dinner. On the walk home, I find myself walking with Tate. He turns to me after a long silence and asks, “Did you enjoy Vlado?”
“Yes, very much so,” seems to be all I can manage. Another pause.
“He really has a big heart.”
I agree.
I then ask, “What did you think of what he had to say about minimalism?”
Tate thinks for a moment. You can tell when the gears are turning in his head. His answer is concise and clear.
“I think there is a great deal of complexity in minimalism.”
“That’s pretty much how I feel about it,” I reply.
Then I had a real conversation with him. Not one of those forced, silence-laden, slightly awkward talks where I am constantly wondering what he is thinking as had always been the case before, but a real, natural one-on-one. I ask him about how he got started with Vienna, and we talked at length about it. He is interrupted once or twice by some of the girls, but always goes back to what we were talking about. We connected honestly.
Everyday we are fighting battles. With ourselves, with others, with friends and aggressors. This is a battle that will be fought in the fields of culture and humanity. Our ammunition will be knowledge, stories, and the confidence in knowing that there is a better way of doing things, and that we are it.
The route there winds through the inner streets of Prague, from the river in. Once we arrive, the first thing I notice is that the surroundings are very modest. In the entrance hallway to his building, graffiti is scrawled across the showbill-covered walls. It smells dank, of moldy standing water and urine. We go upstairs and enter his office.
Meticulously constructed cardboard models cover desks, shelves, tables. There are two computers in the entire office. There is a poster of the different established routes to the summit of Mount Everest, and a makeshift bed made from a crate and a mattress. It is not uncomfortable. Vlado appears.
Vlado is a steely-eyed man in his late forties–early fifties with a chiseled face, hardened from his communist past. He smiles slightly, gracefully, and is extremely welcoming. He gets to talking. He speaks excellent English, with the sort of charming naivete and playful sense of humor characteristic of a non-native English speaker. He is very matter-of-fact in his speech, and occasionally makes remarks about socialism and its “ugliness.” I can’t help but think it’s personal. He makes sudden exits fromt he room to retrieve models or pictures, and returns zealously to show us his projects. He displays a humble sense of pride. He knows he worked with Frank Gehry and created one of the most recognizable and symbolic edifices in eastern Europe (the Dancing Building), but it seems communism has taught him better than to recognize his incredible achievements. This is not to say he is not thankful. He has a great sense of spirituality, and talks about a guiding hand that has thrust the circumstances together so that he could contribute to the Dancing Building.
“I don’t like minimalism,” he says plainly. “Architecture is supposed to reflect life, and I can’t express the complexities of life with minimalism.” I glance over at Tate to see his reaction. Tate says nothing, I suppose out of respect. He talks about a project he is working on in China. He admires Chinese architecture and abhors anything tall (i.e. skyscrapers). He speaks of a cultural clash there where Western styles are detracting from the beautiful architectural history and landscape of China. He speaks the gospel of truth, and he is preaching to a choir.
We leave Vlado’s and stop at a small cafe for dinner. On the walk home, I find myself walking with Tate. He turns to me after a long silence and asks, “Did you enjoy Vlado?”
“Yes, very much so,” seems to be all I can manage. Another pause.
“He really has a big heart.”
I agree.
I then ask, “What did you think of what he had to say about minimalism?”
Tate thinks for a moment. You can tell when the gears are turning in his head. His answer is concise and clear.
“I think there is a great deal of complexity in minimalism.”
“That’s pretty much how I feel about it,” I reply.
Then I had a real conversation with him. Not one of those forced, silence-laden, slightly awkward talks where I am constantly wondering what he is thinking as had always been the case before, but a real, natural one-on-one. I ask him about how he got started with Vienna, and we talked at length about it. He is interrupted once or twice by some of the girls, but always goes back to what we were talking about. We connected honestly.
Everyday we are fighting battles. With ourselves, with others, with friends and aggressors. This is a battle that will be fought in the fields of culture and humanity. Our ammunition will be knowledge, stories, and the confidence in knowing that there is a better way of doing things, and that we are it.
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