Like any great thinker and artist in history (who simply wasn’t rich, or a trust fund child in the first place - I’m looking at you Mr Shakespeare and Mr Burroughs) I was drawn to a particular place at a particular time. That place was Prague, the great Gothic city that many people think lies on the Danube but doesn't. (No people, you get to Hamburg if you get on a boat on this one, not Vienna and then the Caspian Sea or something.) Prague lies at the heart of the Czech Republic (or if if you prefer its cooler, artier name, Bohemia) and in it’s winding Gothic and baroque streets you walk in the footsteps of greats like Kafka, Dvorak, Capek, Cimrman and Gott. I would however advise you to only walk in the winding Gothic and baroque streets because if you go much further you might find yourself in the majestic Art Nouveau and Art Deco streets and then the okay late Victorian industrial streets and then the slightly grubby modernist and Bauhaus streets and eventually the quite frankly fucking horrible prefabricated socialist realist streets. But then, the cheek-by-jowl juxtaposition of architectural motifs is interesting isn't it? And unending beauty is a folly of the romantic age and the romantic age is even less cooler than the seventies right now.
Inspiration is everywhere here, from the cold, miserable indifference of the supermarket cashier to the tangible horror of the realisation that you only have a two thousand crown note on you when settling the bill for three beers and a fried cheese to the nearly-getting-run-over-on-a-zebra-crossing by some ‘debil’ not paying attention to his surroundings. Each ‘Prazaci’s life is a rich collage of icy comportment framed crisply with a nobly stoic and tenacious indifference to humanity (and personal space).
Come here, exercise your artistic will and and just remember, you’ll be unique here because there is unlikely to be some other delusional washed-up expat in a bar believing the beauty that surrounds will somehow ignite their inner muse.
Inspiration is everywhere here, from the cold, miserable indifference of the supermarket cashier to the tangible horror of the realisation that you only have a two thousand crown note on you when settling the bill for three beers and a fried cheese to the nearly-getting-run-over-on-a-zebra-crossing by some ‘debil’ not paying attention to his surroundings. Each ‘Prazaci’s life is a rich collage of icy comportment framed crisply with a nobly stoic and tenacious indifference to humanity (and personal space).
Come here, exercise your artistic will and and just remember, you’ll be unique here because there is unlikely to be some other delusional washed-up expat in a bar believing the beauty that surrounds will somehow ignite their inner muse.