Artist of a New Era

"Biographical art novels, plays, films, TV series and talk shows can all be trawled in the search for an archetype of the artist, but it’s a rich field and the range of images is broad. The key to identifying a true artist is the recognition of certain fundamental signifiers (in addition, naturally, to quality output). Since a systematic list of such signs is not the subject of this text, I will limit myself to the ones bohemians most often seek to master. They include authentic appearance, alcoholism, oddity, unbelievable stories (related to the foregoing) and the ability to tell stories. Czech photographer, painter, designer and video artist Michal Pěchouček, born 1973, represents an ideal combination of all these qualities.
Every strand of Pěchouček’s body of work — be it the commercially successful graphics, or his space collages, stylized photo series or videos — is based on storytelling. Generally, his tales fall into the following categories:
1. His own real and unbelievable stories (including works inspired by his father’s amateur efforts at photography);
2. Stories that were related to Pěchouček by somebody else (one suspects that these pieces are the result of fruitless yet praiseworthy efforts to escape his own ambitious shadow, in which case, it is a version of the creative principle described in the previous point);
3. Stories about things, landscapes and environments (though free from figurative protagonists, they always refer to inspiration derived from the first type of story).
Pěchouček has never been a virtuoso of classical visual imagery, nor a pioneer in form. His best quality is his ability to capitalize on his own human difference in a natural manner that never collapses into trendy stylization. Girls who steal a tram; a private eye hiding in the shrubbery at Střelecký Ostrov; a child calling Santa on the phone; a freak in a restaurant; TV weathermen; a furious jockey; a boy whose friend falls from a high-rise. Such themes cannot fail to stand out amongst all the drug addicts in toilets, homosexuals in clubs, dead prostitutes and vaginas spread out across the wall. His ability to choose a theme at the same time novel and lively is what gives Michal’s work its great verve. His other great strength lies in extreme diligence, driven by his ambition, which no doubt drives him over those moments of awareness that all our activity is good for nothing. When curators don’t exactly drool over his work, Michal subsists on praise from his relatives, and his optimism is inspiration for those who doubt the meaning of their own work.

First Love

Michal Pěchouček

I grew up in Teplice. I lived there with my mother until I was twelve. I’ve never dated any girls from there nor have I ever fallen in love with anyone from Teplice. It all happened a few kilometers away, in a village called Bohosudov. That’s where I met my first girl. It was like a fairy tale. A farewell tale that destiny gave me as a souvenir to remind me of my native region.
Bohosudov is a rural mudhole that you might visit only for the seasonal chair lift that operates there. The departure platform is in the village. The lift runs just above ground for a while and then gradually, very gradually, begins to climb. It leaves the village and rises up through the forest until it reaches a hilltop, where it ends. Also at the top is a hotel of dubious reputation. Nevertheless, this journey from nowhere to nowhere attracts no small number of tourists to Bohosudov every season. And it’s a just a skip from Teplice.
I decided to go there one summer and walk along the mountain range to the hotel before taking the lift down. After a refreshing hike through the country, I gathered all my courage and entered the hotel bar. In a shy voice I ordered a wine and cola. At first I didn’t dare look around much because it was clear to me that I was in a house of sin. So I chose to look out of the window instead. It looked like rain outside. I thought I should probably finish my drink, pay up and go down the hill so that I wouldn’t get caught in the rain on the ride down. Although it didn’t look like a storm, it would still be unpleasant. Thinking this over, I had no idea that I was about to meet my first love. I settled the bill with the topless waitress and left.
It happened at the place where the lift skirts just above the ground. I sat chained to a green seat. We emerged from the forest and began approaching a mostly Vietnamese market. By this time the distance from my seat to the ground had decreased to about three meters… Suddenly, I spotted HER! The salesgirl. She stood at a stand heaped with goods wrapped in foil. I passed her, almost rubbing her face.
“Can I help you?” she said in a tender voice, as if she didn’t know I was on the lift and couldn’t get off. Her beauty and the inappropriate sentence struck me. From that moment, I couldn’t get her out of my mind. It would be foolish of me not to go back and find out what she had meant. Maybe she was blind or something. Or had she been speaking to me at all?
The following day, I set off to the mountain range again and entered the hotel. I ordered wine with no cola this time and I found the dirty place to be, in fact, quite cozy. Going down on the lift, I unchained my seat while still high up in the forest, determined to jump off while over the market place. I was ready to take the risk. Then I saw her again. She stood at the same stand as yesterday, which was covered with the same goods, even piled up on the roof so that people could see them from the lift. Again, she asked me if she could help me. She looked up, staring straight into my eyes. I felt dizzy and was afraid to jump.
“I’ll make a choice and I’ll be right back…” I promised and turned my head, looking after her. She jumped up, grabbed my leg, and pulled me out of the chair.
“That’s what they all say!” she said, and helped me get up from where I’d fallen, hard.
“I thought you were blind.”
“As you can see, I’m not. But you’re limping a bit.”
“…A bit cheeky, aren’t we.”
“Look,” she said, and squinted her eyes while placing her palm on my face. “You’re Michal Pěchouček, aren’t you?”
“Woah, hold on now!”
“…by the way, Olinka Hodinářová says hi. She keeps talking about you.” I was disarmed.
So that’s why her skin was a little darker! I knew immediately what was behind this. Love fever was on the rise. The whole world shrank into a kind of paradise where everybody knew one another from childhood. In that moment, I could only smile with half-regret.
“Surprising, isn’t it? I’m her best friend these days.”
I now expected her to introduce herself, but she didn’t. I thought of a name that would suit her and came up with Libuše, or Líba. Líba took my hand and drew me into her stand. There was nobody inside. We stood silent for a long time.
“What are you selling here anyway?” I tried to break the silence. She put one of the objects in my hand. It was some kind of knick-knack set. She started passing me more and more of them. They were all the same, different colors. I didn’t ask if they sold well. It started to rain.
“Finally! I had the feeling last night that it would start soon. We could really use a good downpour!”
“You don’t mind your stuff getting wet outside?” I stroked her hair.
“But that’s exactly what I’m prepared for. It’s all part of the plan. I display only quality products outside; the rain won’t harm them. They’re all made of tin and painted with this really good glaze. Plus all of it’s wrapped and tied up carefully. The things I was showing you here are just plaster junk. Look…”
She took one of the plaster knick-knacks, took a bite and spat the remains on the ground. She looked at me for a long time and I could read clearly in her black eyes — YOU DON’T HAVE TO BUY ANYTHING HERE! Then she looked away, watching the rain outside through a crack between the blankets.
“You’re really not worried about the things outside? What about the wind?” We were now lying naked on the ground, surrounded by junk. Outside, water dripped on the foil in loud tink-tinks. She never answered my question. I guessed she was ready for anything that might happen.
It rained a long time. For over a month. I stopped taking the lift and just took a bus to the market place and back home again. Our relationship ended on the first sunny day.

Translated by Vladan Šír.

Last Love

Michal Pěchouček

After I die, it takes a long search to locate my head. The rest of my body is stashed somewhere and the police hunt for it in vain. In the end, they are just happy to have the preserved skull with a face that’s easy to identify. Since all clues suggest that I died a violent death, the men of law will have my portrait hanging in their offices until the case is successfully untangled.
“Take a seat, miss,” says the detective pathologist. “What’s on your mind?”
“I saw the picture of the head on the notice board… and I believe that I may know the man.”
“A notice board, you say?” the man says, interrupting her. “We don’t have any notice boards around here, miss. You must be mistaken.”
“No, it’s not a mistake. See, someone stole my wallet and I went to report the theft to the station on Jablonecká Street and that’s where I saw it… They sent me here because they said you might have the head stored here somewhere.”
“The man in the photograph stole your wallet?” the detective asks.
“No, he didn’t. How should I explain…”
“I’ll call Jablonecká then. That’s the best I can do,” he says, picking up the receiver. The girl grabs his arm and pulls the receiver from his hand.
“Don’t call them! That’s not necessary. They told me not to come here. It was on my own initiative.”
“So, what’s the problem, miss?”
“I don’t know anything about the head. I just have to see it. Please!”
“That’s a no-go. This is not a freak show we’re running here. We’re prosecutors.” The cop and the girl sit in silence for a moment. Suddenly, the girl barks at the man: “If I was your friend, you’d show me the head, wouldn’t you? If we were having an affair, then it would suit you just fine. You wouldn’t be so official then. You’d just like to frighten me, wouldn’t you?” Long silence follows.
“Well, um, we do… have… a head here.” The man opens a drawer slowly. “Is this it?” He shows the girl a photograph. She starts crying. “Yeah, that’s it.”
“So you do know him?”
“That’s none of your business. I only asked if you’d show it to me.”
“I really can’t do that, miss. But… you know what. If you like it so much, you can keep this photograph. And stop that crying! And, ah … do you have any plans tonight?”
“The photograph’s worthless,” the girl sobs. “Anyway it’s a little blurred, a bit out of focus.”
“What? I took this picture myself! That’s a professional job! Take it or leave it, and now go. This is my final word. Shoo!”
The girl leaves the room in despair. Unless she breaks into the station at night, she will never see me again the way I am. Time is having its way with my face. Unless she collects enough courage soon, it’ll all be over.

Translated by Vladan Šír
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01.03.2001