The Art of Pissing People Off: Controversial Artist David Cerny Creates Scuptures Full of Defiance & Humor
David Cerný is by all accounts the most famous artist in the Czech Republic. A quick Google search confirms that diagnosis by revealing the byproduct of artistic success: article upon article attempting to pigeonhole him. The particulars of his three decades of artmaking has resulted in those reports consistently trying to categorizing his most “bizarre” and quantifying his most “controversial” works. Certainly, his output over the last three-decades has unwaveringly trod into weird (and painfully cool) ideas that have regularly stoked controversy. That kind of reporting is by nature reductive. It’s the artistic-industrial complex mining for headlines and soundbites from aesthetic visions that—as in the case of so many like Cerný—are often complex and subtle.
Cerný of course understands the game. It seems, however, he would much rather focus on creating than trying to illicit any particular response from the viewer.
“I don’t focking give a shit about them,” Cerný says of how viewers react to his work. “That’s their business. I’d care, of course, if someone interacted with my sculpture in a destructive way. But otherwise, as said above.”
This friction between artmaking and facile interpretation has been with Cerný since the beginning of his career with the stunt now known as “Pink Tank.”
One night in April 1991, Cerný was out carousing with friends in his hometown Prague. The Soviet Union was less than a year from dissolution but still held significant sway over politics and culture behind the Iron Curtain, including over what was then known
as Czechoslovakia. That April night took Cerný and his friends to (what’s today known as) Kinsky Square near the western banks of the Vltava River, and specifically to the Monument to Soviet Tank Crews.
The authorities there mostly hate me. The feeling is quite reciprocal.”
The monument was a disused tank aloft an enormous pedestal. It commemorated May 9, 1945, when Soviet tanks entered Prague and liberated the Eastern European city from the strangle of Nazi control. For young Czechs like Cerný, the monument was a constant reminder of the Soviet rule that had replaced, instead of displaced, the Nazis.
That night, Cerný and his crew climbed the monument and painted the tank pink. The stunt brought swift condemnation from the Soviets, whose power was diminishing but still felt across the Eastern Bloc. Cerný was imprisoned and the tank swiftly repainted green. Newly-elected members of the country’s Parliament supported Cerný and fought for his release, demonstrating that support by once again turning the tank pink.
It’s like, sometimes you might wake up after perfect sex and you have that idea in your mind with a flash. And then, sometimes you’re trying to solve a problem for weeks. For me, the best inspiration is usually a looming deadline.”
“Pink Tank” was heralded as an act of political subterfuge that placed Cerný irrevocably in the spotlight. His stay in jail and the public support that welled up instantly established him as an enfant terrible with a penchant for the incendiary.
“At the time, the whole thing was a bit overblown,” says Cerný, ‘Pink Tank’ was action rather than anything like the kind of sculptural work that I do today. You have to understand the consequences of the situation in terms of the geopolitical situation of the time. The Russians were occupying and ruining my country for decades.”
Artmaking was not necessarily on Cerný’s mind when he was young. He was around art, certainly. After all, his father was a graphic designer and his mother was an art restorer at the National Gallery of Prague.
For years, however, any number of daydreams occupied his visions of the future: writing, being a captain, diver, formula one driver, astronaut, fighter pilot. But not artist.
“Out of those dreams, only pilot and diver have come true so far,” he says.
Electronics were a major fascination throughout high school and Cerný intended to continue on that path and focus his studies at university on computers. Just a year before graduating, he began to notice and accept that this field left him generally unsatisfied.
Cerný switched to design and thrived in a more creative setting. The next year he switched once more, this time to sculpture at the Academy of Applied Art in Prague. He says, “I got tired of designing chairs. I had a lot of things developing in my art and it felt like a necessity to give in to that and explore.”
Around the time of “Pink Tank”, Cerný’s career began to take shape. He was awarded a residency grant from the Swiss government to sculpt in Boswil, Switzerland. Next was a few years in New York City for a PSI Residency followed by the Whitney Museum Independent Study Program. Then he re-relocated back to Europe. Solo and group shows have taken his art all over the world.
Prague, however, receives the brunt of his focus. Whatever art scene the city has—Cerný claims there really is none to speak of—is dominated by his vision.
“The authorities there mostly hate me. The feeling is quite reciprocal,” he says.
Antiauthoritarianism is a persistent refrain throughout his oeuvre. His sculpture is circumspect toward the powerful. Historically, the media has been used to glorify leaders and the state. From Michelangelo’s “David” to the Monument to Soviet Tank Crews, statues legitimize and make authority visible.
Vandalizing statues has existed for millennia as a choice method for criticizing governments and showing the overthrow of the old guard. Ancient Egyptians even believed that taking the nose from a statue made the corresponding spirit unable to breathe, and that chipping off the ears made it deaf to prayers.
Cerný similarly uses sculpture to question the viewer’s sense of what is sacrosanct. He is outspoken in interviews with his displeasure over the resurgence of fascism around the globe, and his struggle with that has been a consistent refrain of his artwork.
“Unfortunately,” he says, “I’m not a rock star. And if I was, I would probably write protest songs. So instead I’m using my medium. For me, each work has a message. So, generally speaking, in some cases I have probably included quite hardcore political statements in the art. And I probably will continue that.”
Humor and the surrealistic play major roles in bringing about a catharsis that humanizes the message. “I think the humor—or, maybe, sarcasm—amplifies the message. Hopefully.”
“Brownnosers” encapsulates this approach. His 2003, seventeen-foot-tall sculpture is a permanent installation in the back garden at Futura, a free contemporary art space in Prague. After a trip through underground tunnels, visitors find themselves at a large white wall.
Two torsos extend from the wall and are supported by colossal legs. A ladder is positioned between each set of legs and leads up to a hole in the center of the statue’s posterior. Visitors are meant to stick their head in the hole to watch video of two politicians grossly feeding each other whilst Queen’s “We are the Champions” plays.
UNFORTUNATELY, I’m not a rock star. And if I was, I would probably write protest songs. So instead I’m using my medium. For me, each work has a message.”
This sense of play and penchant for the interactive is pervasive throughout his work. “Piss,” from 2004, is another example. Located outside the Kafka Museum, “Piss” features two nude bronze figures standing in a pool of water shaped like the borders of the Czech Republic. The nudes face each other and hold their respective members that shoot out streams of water into the pool and write out quotes from politicians. (The figures themselves are motorized to realistically imitate urination.)
Viewers can get in on the fun, if they like, by texting a number posted nearby. The figures will spell out the missive and automatically return to their political civic duties. Whatever the content, new pieces by Cerný rarely fail to garner controversy, igniting as much support and acclaim as they do calls for removal.
The incipient ideas for these pieces, and the process to realize them, are as idiosyncratic as the artist himself.
Cerný says, “The process for each sculpture absolutely varies, even from one piece to the next. It’s like, sometimes you might wake up after perfect sex and you have that idea in your mind with a flash. And then, sometimes you’re trying to solve a problem for weeks. For me, the best inspiration is usually a looming deadline.”
New projects and expanding his art practice have enveloped much of his time recently. A project is awaiting installation in Qatar while a large work is in process for Los Angeles. His new architecture venture, Black’n Arch, has two or three “crazy building projects” in store for Prague.
“Most of the building projects are confidential at this point,” he says, “but there’s quite a lot going on. But I’m definitely oscillating between the architecture and the sculpture and other stuff. Honestly, I might be bored if I couldn’t keep coming back to sculpture.”
One project waits in the distant future that Cerný hopes will one day come calling: a public sculpture in New York City. He remembers his years of living in Manhattan fondly. Despite his heartfelt connection to the boroughs, that quintessential metropolis has failed to proffer a request for his work in its public sphere.
“I’m still waiting for an offer from my beloved NYC,” Cerný says. “I think it’d have to be large—a big, kinetic piece about Big Apple energy!”*
