The story
Step off the bustling Vodičkova Street and enter the Lucerna Passage. As you move from the daylight into this grand Art Nouveau gallery, you might feel as though you have stepped back into the early twentieth century. The marble floors, the ornate storefronts, and the soft glow of the lanterns speak of a Prague that was once the crowning jewel of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.
But keep walking toward the central atrium, and look up. Suspended from the green-glass dome is one of the most provocative sights in the city. It is a massive sculpture of Saint Wenceslas, the patron saint of the Czech lands, armor-clad and stoic.
But he isn't riding his horse toward a glorious battle. Instead, the horse is dead, hanging upside down by its hooves from the ceiling, its head dangling lifelessly with its tongue lolling out of its mouth. The Saint sits calmly, almost obliviously, upon the horse’s upturned belly.
This is the work of David Černý, the "enfant terrible" of the Czech art world. To understand why this piece is so jarring, you only need to walk a few hundred yards back to Wenceslas Square. There, you’ll find the original inspiration: Josef Václav Myslbek’s nineteenth-century bronze monument.
On the square, Wenceslas is the epitome of national pride, a heroic figure on a powerful steed that symbolizes the strength and resilience of the Czech people. Černý’s version, installed here in 1999, is a sly and biting parody. By inverting the most sacred symbol of Czech statehood, Černý forces us to confront uncomfortable questions.
Does the dead horse represent the end of traditional patriotism? Is it a commentary on the political leadership of the post-communist era, leading the nation nowhere on a beast that can no longer run? The location itself adds another layer of meaning.
The Lucerna Palace was built by the grandfather of Václav Havel, the dissident playwright who became the first president of the Czech Republic after the Velvet Revolution. By placing this "dead horse" in a building so closely tied to the Havel family, Černý creates a bridge between the heroic past and a more cynical, modern reality. Take a moment to circle the sculpture.
Notice the contrast between the Saint’s noble posture and the grotesque limpness of the animal beneath him. There is a dark, dry humor here that is quintessentially Prague. In fact, Černý reportedly agreed with the palace’s owner that the sculpture would hang here until the Czech lands are once again ruled by a monarchy.
Given the political climate, Saint Wenceslas and his upside-down companion likely won't be going anywhere soon. Enjoy this masterpiece of irony; it is a perfect introduction to the rebellious spirit that defines modern Prague.