Prague is famous for its Art Nouveau architecture, and many of the most important buildings from the turn of the century are excellent tributes to the style. In some famous examples, the Art Nouveau elements are combined with traditional historical styles to create florid dramatic architectural statements, for example, the famous Municipal House, in which new style serves to heighten the appearance of a design still deeply rooted in the late Renaissance and baroque (see Svacha 39). The similarities between the new style and some elements of the Gothic and the baroque made such combinations attractive to those promoting developments in the prevailing historical styles, projects designed to meet the demand for new buildings that would contribute to the rich architectural traditions of the city.
A transition away from Art Nouveau was realized in the work of Jan Kotera, who became Prague’s most famous Art Nouveau architect and, at the same time, shifted the emphasis from the natural lyricism most closely associated with the new style into something that more obviously anticipated future directions in modernism.
Against the “aesthetic of impression” he posed the demand for truthfulness. . . . Against excessive respect for tradition and mere combining of historical features he posed the demand for creativity, a characteristically modern argument, as the modernists did not recognize the return to tradition as a creative act. Finally, against the primary interest in the facade and its decoration, he articulated the need to start with the purpose of the building, with the space and its constructive expression. . . . In his analysis, Kotera described architects’ work as “creation of space,” then “construction of space” based on “the eternal natural theme of support and weight,” and, finally, he mentioned” decoration, adornment,” the function of which was to articulate and enhance “mass defined in clearly constructive terms.” (Svacha 48)
In Kotera’s work and in the work of his pupils (as Svacha points out) Art Nouveau architecture moved seamlessly from sensuous and ornamental tributes to nature (at least in the exterior appearance of buildings) to “a world of rationally abstracted tectonic forces, and the softly shaped silhouette was replaced with a solid, geometrically defined body.”
It is not my concern here to trace the history of Art Nouveau (since our main focus is on Mucha, to whom we shall return in a moment). But it’s interesting that this explosive, visionary, and widespread movement died off even more quickly than it had at first appeared. By 1905, the popularity of the style was largely over in Paris. The movement was kept alive by a few artists, at least until the outbreak of war in 1914, but that ended it. Given its significant popularity in all sorts of artistic fields, one might well wonder why Art Nouveau disappeared so quickly.
Because Art Nouveau was highly individualist, based above all on the artist, its practitioners could not solve the problem of machines and the mass production of common consumer objects. Hence, Art Nouveau style “never became a style for the masses, but remained an ‘artist’s’ style for the select few . . . . To a large extent it was a jewellery style, a deluxe furniture style, a style for connoisseurs of glassware and elegant textiles” (Madsen 234). Once the initial artistic excitement and feeling of liberation had passed, there emerged a sense that Art Nouveau artists had not really jettisoned the traditional notions of ornament but had simply created a new style of ornamentation—and a very expensive style at that.
This judgment is undoubted too severe, for Art Nouveau made important contributions to the development of some areas of modern art and architecture—particularly in its break with prevailing styles—and is historically an important transition point in the development of modern art:
Even though the Art Nouveau style in architecture and painting points the way to the twentieth century, this is not where it belongs. Nor does it belong to the nineteenth century. Art Nouveau is an independent transitional phenomenon, a separate style which had deep roots in the nineteenth century as far as theory of art, art history, and the history of style are concerned, but whose entire aim was to shake off its stylistic heritage and create something completely new. Just as certainly as it had its roots in Historicism, so Art Nouveau foreshadowed the Modern Movement. In many respect, it led the way into the twentieth century, clearing the ground and preparing for the artistic development we have all experienced. (Madsen 238)
It may be true also that Art Nouveau never really resolved the central dilemma of form and content in its art and hence was overtaken by the inevitable developments of artistic modernism, the trend towards increasing abstraction in art and purism in architecture. The following comment on the work of Gustav Klimt might well be applied to the entire movement:
Torn between content and form, he embraced the latter, only to find that it led him nowhere. Klimt was not able to make the great leap: to perceive form as content and thereby progress toward true abstraction. He was thus ultimately unable to solve the riddle of fin-de-siecle art, for the alternative path—content as form—would be explored not by him but by the Expressionists. The great paradox of Klimt’s career was that, while he failed to effectively link up with later modernism, he nonetheless anticipated its two principal trends: abstraction and Expressionism. (Kallir 11)
Jiri Mucha suggests also that the rapid decline of Art Nouveau had less to do with the artistic style itself than with the “idealistic sermons and theosophical messianism” that often accompanied it. As the politics of the early twentieth century became increasingly cruel and confused, people turned away quickly from what seemed to many a strange, naïve, and ornamental irrelevance.
MUCHA AND SLAV NATIONALISM: THE SLAV EPIC
As mentioned above, Mucha did not see himself as a follower of Art Nouveau, nor did he seem to take much interest in its theoretical principles. However, his art was certainly influenced by the spirit of the time, a force that fed his naturally passionate convictions about the vital spiritual purpose of art, a belief that led him to devote considerable energy attempting to promote reforms in the teaching of art in France and to publish books illustrating his design principles.
What sets Mucha apart from almost all other artists in the “movement,” however, is another passion which increasingly dominated his personal and working life—his commitment to Slavic culture. He was deeply convinced, no doubt on the basis of his own experience, that art should not concern itself with what was merely new but should develop itself out of old ethnic and national traditions: “The Ecole Estienne,” he wrote (in his reform proposals for Paris art schools) “is standing guard over a corpse . . . It is good to cultivate tradition in art, but at the same time . . . the tradition must be that of the art of your ancestors and one must wish to conserve life by helping forward its organic evolution (quoted Mucha 181). Given such a nationalistic view of art, Mucha had little time for the notion of an art which sought to transcend ethnic and national boundaries, “There is therefore no such thing as international art. Such art can always only be the victory of the stronger and the absorption of the weaker.”
In 1900, at the height of his fame as an internationally known artist, Mucha decided to prepare for his commission to create the Bosnia-Herzegovina pavilion for the World Exhibition in Paris by touring the Balkans. On this trip Mucha was inspired to commit himself and his art to his Slav heritage. The decision was accompanied by a sense of disillusionment with the style which had made him famous and rich (perhaps the disillusionment prompted the visionary insight). Upon returning to Paris he wrote to a friend about what had happened:
It was midnight, and there I was all alone in my studio in the rue du Val-de-Grace among my pictures, posters and panels. I became very excited. I saw my work adorning the salons of the highest society or flattering people of the great world with smiling and ennobled portraits. I saw the books full of legendary scenes, floral garlands and drawings glorifying the beauty and tenderness of women. This was what my time, my precious time, was being spent on, when my nation . . . was left to quench its thirst on ditch water. And in my spirit I saw myself sinfully misappropriating what belonged to my people. . . . I was midnight and, as I stood there looking at all these things, I swore a solemn promise that the remainder of my life would be filled exclusively with work for the nation. (quoted Sayer 19)
While this experience did not lead to an immediate change in Mucha’s artistic output or style, the newly acquired commitment to his countrymen led Mucha to spend a major part of the rest of his life concerned with Czech art, particularly because, in his eyes, it was being dangerously corrupted by foreign, especially German influence. So he hurled his energies into advancing the cause of art in his own country.
Here, however, he ran into a difficult obstacle—the Czech people themselves, who, while justly proud of the fact that one of their countrymen was the best known and most popular artist in Paris and an international celebrity, regarded him as someone who had, in effect, “sold out” by leaving the country and becoming famous elsewhere (another example of what seems to be a pronounced tradition in Czech culture generally, up to and including Milan Kundera). In addition, defenders of what was Czech in Czech culture were often, as Jiri Mucha points out, hopelessly parochial in what they required for art to qualify as some expression of their national character (e.g., peasants in costume, sentimental images of Czech history):
This was the great paradox of Czech nationalism. In its blindness and thinly-veiled chauvinism it branded every demonstration of personality as nonCzech, since from the frog’s-eye view of its own puddle such manifestations had certainly very little to do with Czech reality. (198)
When Mucha visited Prague (in 1902) he had to confront this attitude of his countrymen directly (and not for the last time). The fact that many of them considered him a Frenchman was a painful wound to someone with such faith in his Slavic identity and such a desire to put his work into the service of his country. Later, when Mucha was given the commission to design the decorations for the New Municipal Building in Prague, there was an outburst of public criticism at the choice, in spite of the fact that Mucha refused any payment for the work (other than his immediate expenses).
There is a certain irony here in the fact that an artist so committed to spiritual and nationalistic goals should have become internationally famous largely on the basis of his advertisements, posters, and decorative designs in the service of the market place. His inspiration may have been, as he constantly asserted, themes and designs from the folk lore of his Czech past, but that is not how all of his countrymen viewed his work. This tension, it seems clear, affected Mucha himself and made him sensitive to the charge that he was becoming far too commercial (as his comments quoted above appear to indicate). What compounds this irony, of course, is that the more Mucha dedicated his talent to his country, the more the quality of his art appeared to suffer, at least in the view of a number of commentators (more about that later).
Given Mucha’s commitment to the spiritual function of art and to the Slavic people, he found it relatively easy to move on away from Paris into other projects. Hence, his career was not adversely affected by the rapid loss of interest in Art Nouveau. His post-Paris career began with one of many visits to America (in 1904) in search of inspiration and (of course) more money—Mucha’s spending habits left him in constant need of fresh commissions, and America seemed a lucrative market.
