Slavic, Epic?

In the past two years that I've lived in the Czech Republic, there have been numerous times where I've had to step back and say, "Hmm, so that's how it works in the Czech Republic." I could give you a literal list of such situations that deal with the Czech lackadaisical approach to following laws (like that of the drinking age for example), or the time spent home from work or school due to the fact that one has merely a runny nose, or slight headache (most recently, I've heard from a friend that they stayed home for 5 weeks, due to a sickness that to me seemed no more serious than a hangnail), but I'd rather recount to you this past weekend. It was, for me, a perfect encapsulation of the quirky and often ironic situations that the Czech Republic seems to thrive on.

Alfons Mucha was once said to be able to make any woman look beautiful. And, to tell you the truth, I believe it. Mucha was born in a small Moravian village at the end of the Austrian-Hungarian's empirical rule over the Bohemian lands. He grew up in a culture that had been oppressed, and was on the verge of breaking their Germanic chains, hoping to attain a renaissance--so to speak--of Slavic culture, language, art and theatre. But, like all things Slavic, he had to leave the 'domov' (homeland) to be discovered; the destination in the late 19th century was Paris, of course.

While in Paris, Mucha began painting advertisements for theatre production houses. People in Paris were instantly taken back by Mucha's use of color to magnify light, giving all pictures an airy, elegant quality that might have only been seen in the palaces of Roman empires or Greek thinkers. He had made an almost ancient form of beauty (women and gold), accessible to the normal, working-class Parisian, and ultimately, the world. It was here that he began to make a name for himself on the world stage. His posters and advertisements were sent all over: America, Japan, China and Europe.

Mucha was probably painting these ladies to make money, but he had much greater plans for his talent. His mind had been tilled back in his Moravian homeland, a place of cultural wealth that was hoping to blossom. In 1906 (I believe), Mucha made a trip to Chicago and met an industrialist who was known as, "A friend to the Slav."(After reading Upton Sinclair's The Jungle, I'm not so sure a Chicago 'industrialist' and 'friend of Slavs' can be uttered with out cracking an absurd smile). Anyways, the man donated oodles of money (in the millions, of course) for Mucha to paint what would later become his masterpiece, 'Slovanksa Epopej'- a collection of 20 gargantuan canvases that recount the history of the Slavic people: from their capitulation to the steppe tribes (The Huns), to their role in the first world war. The collection took him almost 18 years to paint, and was really a continual work in progress--if you go today to the exposition, you will see unfinished parts of almost every single work. The paintings themselves are overwhelming in size, scope, detail and color. Eighteen years might seem like it is quite a long time, but when he was using egg-based paints and had to mix them all himself, draw the actual from, paint a base, mix colors and continue with minute detail, it is almost unbelievable that it didn't take him 100 years to complete: each painting is about 15 feet in width by 10 feet in height. You have to stand back about 5-10 feet just to be able to make out the focus and subject of each painting. The fact that Mucha had to paint up close to the canvas is probably the most shocking/impressive aspect of this art work. How could he keep all forms and people in relational size? The whole collection makes one person feel very small and insignificant, which is the appropriate reaction to a history of a whole people group. Many of the paintings, when thought of as a whole, tell a story of the Slavic people that is a mixture of truth and fabrication: The people of the Slav nations are actually a peace-loving group that only fight when provoked, and of course, are always on the good side of things.

The overt nationalism of the paintings is by today's age (discounting some AMUUURICA-loving places in Texas and the Appalachians) almost comically simplistic. In one of his crowning pieces of the 'Slovanske Epopej', Mucha ties all the themes together into one last orgy of love for the Slav. In the center of the painting is a young man with a lean muscular body holding two wreaths above his head, to symbolize victory. His face is soft and innocent. Around him in dancing colors of light, is the historical trajectory of the entire Slavic ethnicity: starting in the far right corner of the canvas with the tribes of a long-off past, finally culminating in the golden light in the middle, where women prepare bouquets of flowers that represent the first-fruits of the new Slavic pride that is to be released into the world. Finally, in one last dash of over-the-topness, Mucha painted God (or Jesus) with shinning light and rainbows behind the head of the central, Slavic man, proclaiming the saintly, moral, Godly quality of the nation itself. This seems eerily familiar to 'God Bless America’ doesn’t it?



Now, one would think that this collection of art would be housed, oh, I don't know, maybe in the capital of the Czech Republic in its own exhibition house, for the entire world to admire? I imagine that in most countries, their most sacred works of arts from their best artists would be placed in climate-controlled, neo-classical halls of magnificent size and whiteness. Of course, entry would be free, as something of this magnitude should be accessible for all. There would be men a women sitting on wooden benches, in navy-blue blazers and leather gloves watching each move of every visitor. But, that just isn't the case here.

The chateau in which the works are housed is a crumbling mess of concrete, mildew and broken windows. I'm sure that 70 years ago, this place was something to behold, but today, it looks like just every other 'carry over' from Communist neglect. There is spray paint on the ornate walls and fences that surround the court gardens; there is crumbling plaster that reveals the steel/iron rebar that support the structure; there are weeds growing in between the stone cobblestones that were laid in the 16th century; there are walls and windows that lead to nowhere, as they've been sealed off with a wall of ugly brick; and, the roof is a mixture of brown, maroon and red shingles that sag in the middle, where water has clearly done damage to the supporting trusses. It's a shabby mess. So, when I saw the sign (next to a rubber tire with a painted advertisement about tire change discounts from the garage next door) on the main entrance gate that Mucha's 'Masterpiece is open today' and an arrow pointing inside this dilapidated reminder of what 'once was', I was a little shocked.

The room in which the paintings are held is nice enough to forget about the 'bigger' picture of where we actual were. However, there were still some signs that not all was well with the location: the hall in which they were displayed was incredibly cold, which is the reason why the exhibition each winter must be packed up and loaned away to either Paris or Vienna; there were no English, French or German information packets or guide books; and, there were a total of about ten people there to take a gander. And, this is what got me reflecting on the completely ironic situation of having one of the most 'overwhelming' proclamations of Slavic power and influence, housed in one of the most appropriate examples of Slavic suffering and neglect. It all congealed to give me the feeling that maybe this was an appropriate, if not embarrasing, balance...