Jiří Příhoda: Crafting spaces that defy expectations and invite wonder

Jiří Příhoda is one of the most renowned contemporary Czech artists, pioneering an approach that merges cutting-edge technology and art historical tradition through installations and video pieces that all, in some way, delight in the possibilities of space.

Exploring the laws of perspective and geometric proportions, he has long pushed the boundaries of object and architecture, as demonstrated in a series of recent works at the 2024 Signal Festival in Prague.

A hallmark of Příhoda's is making work that's truly immersive, forcing you out of the role of the passive viewer to become an active participant. Capriccio, for instance, was a site-specific intervention in the huge expanse of the Sternberg Palace's stables hall for Signal. It was named after and inspired by a style of Renaissance landscape painting depicting surreal, unexpected architectural combinations—Rome's Pantheon, but in the woods, for instance.

Based between Prague and New Mexico, Příhoda refers to many of his new works as 'drafts' – pieces still in development as ongoing experiments. One such piece is Karbola, which sits in the garden of Sternberg Castle. It looks a little like a futuristic garden shed but refuses to bow to the requirements of traditional, functional architecture. Instead, it's thoroughly, deliberately impractical: gaps between the planks of wood mean that it offers nothing in the way of shelter from the rain, but it does create unique compositions that shift with the daylight as the sun's rays shine through the crevices. At night, the shed becomes a lantern thanks to Příhoda having reconfigured one of the park's lamps, placing it within to radiate a warm glow through the strange, almost bird-like structure.

Over a few hours, we chat about everything from UFOs to the fall of the Roman Empire, the role of perspective in the Industrial Revolution, the Pixies' Motorway to Roswell, and muse over the fact that "the revolutionary ideas often come from those who haven't lived through challenging political systems"... Příhoda is thoroughly lovely – quick to laugh, quicker to offer coffee, and seemingly knows (and has time for) pretty much everyone. Here's a snapshot of our conversation.

Have you always wanted to pursue art? What did your family think about it when you were young making installations in the woods?

I always wanted to be a Formula 1 driver or an astronaut, but that didn't work out, only because of my eyesight. I started as a landscape painter, and some people saw my drawings and paintings and thought I was talented. So, when I was 15, I moved from the small town where I grew up to Prague because I was accepted into the best visual arts high school there. It was amazing.

They gave us a comprehensive education in various forms of art, which allowed me to survive as an artist. I think that broad education is crucial. You need to be able to use that knowledge in a broader context – I was doing graphic design and book publishing, and I can also design architecture for shows. Nowadays, art schools seem less informative in that respect.

Are there any earlier works you'd consider to be your breakthrough?

I did this piece in 1996 called Float: It was made out of simple blue Styrofoam, but I found it very interesting – I just kind of carved it to look like the water's surface. When you walked in, you felt like you were underwater. I think that's my most significant piece. I received the Czech version of the Turner Prize, which helped me a lot. I had it in a show two years back, and even after all that time, it's still interesting to people – a guy who came from Hong Kong to see the installation and spent half a day asking me about it.

The 1990s must have been an interesting time here, so soon after the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1989 and then the dissolution of Czechoslovakia in 1993… what was it like working as an artist during that time?

It was difficult in those Communist times. It's funny how I ended up being an artist. The former system didn't care much about culture. Art was in a kind of grey zone; you had to keep it non-confrontational.

When I was 19, I started making large wooden sculptures in the forest, making art illegally and secretly. Later on, I had to stop because the secret police were after me. They'd noticed some things lying around and assumed people were doing drugs, which was a big issue in the former system.

A lot happened here in the 1990s, but we didn't have an art market, so galleries were forced to shut down due to a lack of buyers.

On a personal level, too, the '90s was when I met my wife, an American, in Los Angeles. I was lucky to connect with key figures at the time: I had a really interesting collector who'd been involved with the Lisson Gallery and White Cube; I met Jeff Koons… we started planning a show in Prague, but ultimately, everything fell apart due to funding issues.

You also started working with Brian Eno in the 1990s. How did that collaboration come about?

In 1997, he had this beautiful show, Music for White Cube, which was just some speakers in a room, and I was lucky enough to see it. My wife was a huge fan of his work and introduced me to his music.

Then, in 1998, Nová síň Gallery in Prague invited him to do a show, Music for Prague. I won the competition for younger Czech artists to submit proposals for a piece to collaborate on with him.

The idea was just to recreate the gallery space by subtly adjusting the walls so that there was a gap where the light shone through at the bottom, playing with the idea of the empty space. He spent ten days or so working there, composing music.

We did another show together last year at this beautiful Renaissance Galerie Rudolfinum called NAVE. I kind of reworked that concept of those narrowing walls reforming in the space this time, making it a bit more about light because I knew that he really likes to work with light and all that stuff.

Tell me about your recent explorations in AI.

It's an attempt to recreate a dream-like structure with the help of AI [Midjourney] to visualise massive structures, like pyramids, that disappear and reappear with the tides. The glitches AI produces are also interesting. They have a certain aesthetic that we'll probably appreciate more in the future. It's like early cinema—the imperfections give it a distinct aesthetic character.

What first led you to explore using found footage?

One of my big inspirations was Gordon Douglas, who got me into the idea of reconstructed movies. I started deconstructing some parts of a film, but focusing on the space: I did a version of Star Wars with a small vertical strip that meant you didn't see anything from the action, just the background—but with the full sound.

The [new work at Signal] is called UAPs (Unidentified Aerial Phenomena). I've been going through all the available materials I can find on TV and the internet. The government leaks from the Pentagon are especially intriguing because the footage is verified by the highest technology we have.

I believe in the possibility of life beyond Earth, but I become more sceptical the more I look at this footage because we don't realise how vast the universe is. There must be thousands of worlds that could support life, but the distances out there are enormous. It's a bit depressing to think that perhaps civilisations [on Earth] might not survive long enough to develop the resources needed to overcome the distance: today, we can fly to the moon, but look how we've already exploited our planet to the point of environmental disaster.

You mentioned how hard it is to sell your work since it's often so big and site-specific. Have you ever thought about just making something pretty that people would want to buy?

I can't do that. I feel like I'd be cheating myself… I love creating large-scale works that surround people—huge pieces that are hard to collect, but for me, they're important. I like making pieces that are larger than a person but smaller than a small house—around 15 metres.

I have to admit, I kind of understand art as a commodity, and it's okay—we all need money—but I hate corporatism in art. You always have a couple of big names that everyone's buying at Frieze or whatever. But I want to keep total freedom.

Your work over the years has taken on so many different themes and forms, but there's a definite thread running through it all – obviously, the focus on space, but perhaps an element of playfulness, too.

If you feel something in it, that's great because that's my intention – If there's an unconscious sense that these pieces belong together, that's wonderful.

I dislike art where each piece seems disconnected. I don't have a program or concept I need to fulfil; it's more about what interests me. I think each piece should hold a moment of surprise. You walk into a space, and you see something unexpected.

Sometimes, the pieces are abstract; other times, they have more literary content. For instance, I find those unidentified objects interesting because they somehow tap into our desires and hopes, substituting for our loss of a god. Maybe it's because I grew up in a rural village, but I think we all have this innate need to rely on and trust in a kind of belief in some way.