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Prague - On a crisp Friday evening, David Černý is jumping hysterically, waving his arms, and yelling "GET ME OUT OF HERE!" at the imaginary doctors in front of him, as he recounts the morning that followed his motorcycle accident a few years ago.
We are at the smoky, underground Cafe Mlyn on Prague's Kampa island, and all around us are quiet customers who have occupied their tables for some time. This means our interview is conducted at the bar, lending itself to Černý's theatrics. The tall figure in all black, with a Kurt Cobain aura, alternates between sitting and swiveling on his barstool and standing up and making exaggerated movements while blocking the way for others who are going to or coming from their seats.
This also means strangers get to hear about his love of orgies, but more about that later.
Aside from his flamboyance and shock of wild black hair, Černý is best known for his controversial sculptures around the world. His pieces spark discussions among citizens and political leaders alike, from a Soviet tank he painted pink, to the statue of St. Wenceslas riding an upside-down, dead horse, to a giant paper-mache middle finger aimed at the Czech Communist Party.
Whatever the medium, Černý's work could never be described as playing it safe.
Černý's "Piss" statue hydrates the ground outside Cihelna (Photo from Černý's Web site).
"Having my work on public space is like playing on people's nerves," Černý says as he picks at the strings of an air guitar. "I enjoy provoking people who are small-minded." He defines himself as an "idea racist," later realizing he isn't a racist at all and deciding, "So I'm a fascist. I hate stupidity and close-mindedness."
But these narrow-minded people aren't his only muse.
Deadline as inspiration
"The best, best inspiration is a deadline," Černý says as he smiles, revealing the dimple on his right cheek. Around 95 percent of his work is requests from cities, curators, and other artists, worldwide.
Černý does not like galleries and prefers having his work scattered throughout Prague's great outdoors, like "Piss," his sculpture of two men peeing into a Czech Republic-shaped pond, located outside Cihelna restaurant on Kampa island.
Getting a lot of international attention is rare for modern Czech artists. The works of Černý, in contrast, have been displayed across Europe and the Americas since the late 1980s. He's participated in dozens of group exhibitions, from Europe without Walls in Machester, Great Britain to Beyond Belief in Chicago's Museum of Contemporary Arts.
The moving head "Metalmorphosis" can be viewed at any moment over the Internet via live feed (Photo from Černý's site).
His rise on the global art stage was aided by his artist residency in New York at Performance Studies International in 1994, after he graduated from Prague's Academy of Applied Arts. Černý stayed in New York until 1996 at the Whitney Museum for the Independent Study Program.
Bad boy goes West and East
The bad boy of the Czech outdoor sculpture scene has had installations worldwide.
His enormous creeping, climbing babies that are now on Prague's Zizkov TV Tower have been viewed by audiences in London, Ukraine, and throughout the U.S. "Metalmorphosis," a stainless steel sculpture of a face that swivels in different places, was unveiled in Charlotte, North Carolina in 2007. Černý also has works on display in the permanent collections of San Diego's Museum of Modern Arts, the Czech Embassy in Washington, D.C. and Museum Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin.
Though Černý is among the most respected artists in Europe, several of his projects get rejected before or even after the planning. One of them was to be a statue of a golden man masturbating on top of the National Theater in Prague.
In Belgium, officials prohibited the exhibition of "Shark," Černý's parody of Damien Hirst's works featuring dead animals floating in formaldehyde. (Černý's version featured a nearly-nude Saddam Hussein.)
Černý brings the same attitude towards risk and excitement he uses in his art to his free time. As a young child, his most treasured toys were model planes until he moved on to clay and other art mediums. Today he owns his own white, 4-seater plane, named "Eye," which has a series of different-sized eyes that he and his brother, also an artist, painted around its surface. On its nose the plane has a tongue hanging out of an open mouth.
"I hate (commerical) airplanes," Černý says with his mouth curled in disgust. "To be sitting there like a sheep… no." He started at 15 as a glider, but now he's been piloting for two years around Europe, whenever he travels on business or simply wants a vacation.
"It's fatal to pilot on a hangover," Černý says, with a twinkle in his eye making it apparent he'd experienced it before.
He claims, however to have lost the repulsive sensation known as the hangover this past spring. "I woke up and it was like nothing," Černý says, with his eyes bugged out as though still in shock from the pleasant surprise. "No hangover. Nothing. I haven't had a hangover again."
Černý is a self-proclaimed alcoholic. He enjoys drinking, but refuses to let his hard-partying ways decrease his artistic productivity. He is currently juggling about nine separate projects with different people.
This particular Friday to him is a "holiday," as he guzzles down about seven small beers in a three-hour span, slamming, not placing, the glass mug onto the bar after every drink.
Drinking and driving caused Černý to have a motorcycle accident back around 2001, he confessed.
Luckily, he explains, the alcohol in his system made the impact of his fall less severe on his body.
But the morning after his accident, he recalls standing up naked on his hospital bed, jumping up and down yelling at a commission of 12 doctors in front of him to let him out, which he fearlessly reenacts for everyone at the cafe. At the time, he was still suffering from his mortal enemy, a hangover.
Flying, riding motorcylces, and drinking are high on the list of what Černý considers as his "leisure." However, as his frequently nude statues make fairly clear, his life is really all about sex.
"My most memorable moment… sex for five," Černý declares after glancing around the room. "Not over five years. Five people." After playing with planes and then with clay, Černý "played with girls."
Černý recalls one of the few sculptures of women he's ever done. It was of his girlfriend after they had been together for ten years.
"It was very interrupted work," Černý laughs, whacking his hand on the bar and looking off into space, reminiscing about the sexual pleasure the naked sculpting may have provoked.
When our conversation shifts to his current romantic interactions, Černý remarks that "relationships right now are difficult." When I press him on about the plurality implied by the word "relationships," he laughs and deflects, "Okay, no. Relationplanes. Ships are just old. Planes. Or even jets!"
Throughout the night, Černý takes four phone calls.
He interrupts the third call to loudly ask in English how much longer the interview will take. He sticks his thumb up, bugs his eyes out, sending me a clear message: I better say a long period of time so that whoever is at the other end of the phone gives him space.
I play the game. "An hour," I shout for the benefit of his invisible interlocutor.
In Czech circles and even expatriate circles, I learn that Černý is nearly as famous for his sexual adventures as his art.
Perhaps he wanted to add me to his collection of relationplanes. Perhaps not.
"I've had sex on my plane," Černý says indifferently. "I got up to 200 feet, put it on autopilot, and had sex in my tiny little plane," he says as he lifts his leg onto the barstool and switches positions as though having difficulty screwing the air.
Sitting in this more ramshackle bar, downing drinks and humping the air, it's hard to imagine Černý being more at home anywhere else.
This story was originally published by the Prague Wanderer, a web-zine run by New York University students in Prague, Czech Republic.
Carolina Sanchez is a third-year student at New York University studying journalism and sociology. She is from The Colony, Texas. A version of this article was originally written for the Travel Writing class at New York University in Prague.
