With his suspended landscapes, hushed atmospheres, and a light that seems to hold time still, Ivan Svatoš offers a deeply intimate, lyrical, and dreamlike vision of Prague. His painting does not merely depict the city; it preserves its emotional memory. Quiet alleys, churches, bridges, hidden viewpoints, and secluded perspectives become places of the soul, where personal experience and collective memory merge into a single poetic vision. In his works, Prague appears far removed from its most familiar and touristic images. Instead, it becomes a city to be contemplated and loved in its most secret details and in its most discreet hours, at dawn and at dusk. In this interview, Svatoš reflects on his artistic path, his graphic training, his dialogue with the tradition of city veduta painting, and his profound bond with the Prague that continues to be, for him, an inexhaustible source of inspiration, beauty, and memory.
How did your studies and artistic training influence your painting language?
I studied at the Václav Hollar School of Art, which specializes in graphic techniques, and I must say it was a wonderful period. I had already started painting urban landscapes and had already defined my pictorial style, but I wanted to deepen my knowledge of printmaking and graphic techniques. I was fortunate to have excellent teachers, and I learned the full range of intaglio techniques: copper engraving, etching, aquatint, and mezzotint. Calligraphy was also an extraordinarily demanding exercise, but at the same time fascinating and enjoyable. We often drew outdoors, in the streets of Malá Strana, at Jánský vršek. Even today, I remember that period with great pleasure.
What does Prague represent to you as a subject and source of inspiration?
I was born in Prague, at the foot of the ancient fortress of Vyšehrad. My childhood was made up of frequent walks with my parents through the winding lanes of Malá Strana and the Old Town. I listened eagerly to ancient legends and could never tire of admiring, from Prague’s towers, that sea of roofs, chimneys, and dormers. All of this deeply influenced my style and my artistic poetics. Prague became the main subject of my paintings. The city’s genius loci is incomparable: it is an extraordinarily vivid and plastic landscape, shaped over centuries by the Vltava, where nature, architecture, and human labor have created a magnificent synthesis. The city is guarded by two hills, once home to the Bohemian kings: to the north, Prague Castle; to the south, Vyšehrad. I am happy to live here and paint my city, and in this way to repay Prague, at least in part, for what I owe it through my paintings.
Your works portray an intimate and poetic Prague. How does this vision come about?
I am convinced that an artist’s intentions should not be different from the artist’s own nature. In Prague I seek out the places that have accompanied me since childhood, the ones that move me and inspire me to paint a particular motif. Throughout my life I have searched for beauty around me, in nature, cities, art, and music. And I must admit that one of my greatest literary loves is poetry: Jaroslav Seifert, Vítězslav Nezval, Karel Hynek Mácha. In the end, all of this blends together and takes shape in my paintings. Those who want to understand this process better are invited to join our intimate walks through Prague within my paintings. We visit my favorite, often hidden places in Old Prague, places that have deeply influenced me. This walk is called a photowalk, and I organize it together with my son Jan.
Your canvases often feature delicate, enveloping, almost suspended light. How do you create it? And what draws you to atmospheres such as fog, dawn, or dusk?
The light in my paintings is the result of an artistic choice, but often also of a particular emotional state. In my work there is a perspective that is not only graphic, but also chromatic, built on warm and cool tones, and then on a luminous dimension that runs through the entire composition. I love the contrasts of light. At dawn and at sunset we are in a moment that belongs neither to day nor to night: this is when blue light reaches its greatest intensity. And these extremes suit Prague remarkably well. They are moments full of anticipation and mystery. The same is true of fog in the city, of the mysterious and gradual disappearance of objects and streets into the white darkness.
How important are personal and collective memory in the way you conceive the city?
Collective memory is the awareness of the city in which we live. It is a fundamental element of a person’s identity: a necessary reminder of local history, culture, and traditions. It can take many forms, from written sources to architecture to the protection of heritage. I would like people to be more aware of how precious it is that Prague has come down to us in all its beauty. That is not something to take for granted. It is the legacy of our ancestors, not only of rulers and builders, but also of many ordinary citizens who were not indifferent to the shape of their city. Thanks to their interest, their civic responsibility, and their courage to speak out when the city’s unique character was threatened, we can today enjoy Prague in its extraordinary form. I believe that we share that same responsibility. Caring for the city does not mean only protecting its monuments, but also thinking sensitively about its future and not remaining indifferent to the directions in which Prague will continue to develop. Incidentally, together with my son Jan, a film director and photographer, I work on the project Atlas paměti, which tells the story of long-lost places in Prague, places that have long outlived the needs of the modern age but still deserve our full attention.
What is your artistic relationship with the painters of the Sursum group?
This artistic association lasted about three years, from 1910 to 1912. Its members were Symbolist painters who sought to give their subjects spiritual depth. It was an art with considerable conceptual weight. Among the members were, for example, the painter Jan Konůpek and Josef Váchal, with his woodcuts. But the artist who impressed me most was Jan Zrzavý. It is interesting that he and I share favorite landscapes: Brittany, Venice, and the Vysočina region, where I now live and work in a country house. And then, of course, Prague. In the final years of his life, Jan Zrzavý lived at Nové zámecké schody and every evening attended services with the Capuchins in Nový Svět, in Hradčany.
Your works invite contemplation. Is that an aesthetic choice, a philosophical one, or both?
I love silence and stillness, not only when I paint, but also in the choice of subjects for my paintings. I usually go looking for my motifs early in the morning, when the city is still calm and I am alone with my subject. I then have time for long, silent dialogues with the city and can intensely feel that precious moment. I transfer that atmosphere into my paintings, and I am glad that people appreciate it. They often tell me that they simply sit at home and, instead of watching television, gaze dreamily at my Castle Stairs or at Nový Svět. So it is probably a natural process, but not a planned one.
Which places in Prague are closest to you from the point of view of your artistic sensibility?
My favorite church is undoubtedly St. Nicholas Church. If I had to choose a symbol instead of a signature, it would be the silhouette of that church in Malá Strana. I also love the so-called Italian Quarter, Vlašská Street, and Jánský vršek. Then there is Kampa Island with Čertovka and its watermills: there you find the most beautiful views of the river and the towers of the Old Town. I also love the area around Týn Church and Ungelt, with Týnská Street. A special place in my heart is the picturesque and magically silent Nový Svět, with Loreto and the church of Our Lady of the Angels at the Capuchins. And I almost forgot Vyšehrad!
What do you hope to communicate to those who look at your paintings?
It brings me great joy to meet visitors to Prague, who often tell me that they find in my paintings a tangible memory of their journey through the city. They want to take home not only the appearance of familiar places, but above all their atmosphere. I often meet them personally at our family gallery on Jungmann Street, which has become a place of memories and stories about the city, in the company of my paintings and books. Similarly, I often hear from our compatriots living abroad that my paintings offer them a way to preserve a sense of closeness to home and to ease, at least in part, the longing for their native land. That makes me very happy.
I would also like to remind people that the old Prague we love will not be here forever. The work of veduta painters is often associated with nostalgia, melancholy, and romanticism. But these qualities do not always go hand in hand with progress and modernity. That tension is an eternal theme. When something is called picturesque, it often also means that it is somewhat worn, pushed aside, and placed at the margins of attention. Even the veduta painters of Rudolf II’s era captured transience: they did not paint only magnificent Renaissance palaces, but were also fascinated by crumbling huts and piles of rubble in the suburbs of Prague.
