The Czech Republic’s second city does not attract many tourists. It has a
small city centre with a castle, several squares, labyrinthine streets and
the Mendel Museum – on the site of an Augustine monastery where Gregor
Mendel carried out experiments in cultivating and hybridising peas and bees,
leading to the foundation of the science of genetics.
I got the sense that locals preferred tourists to go to Prague, and that some
were wary of the effect of lots of overseas visitors. But it’s a curious
spot to visit for a weekend. And one of the most curious places to visit is
a place called Villa Tugendhat, one of the best examples – anywhere in the
world – of ‘functionalist’ architecture.
I trudge through the snow to Villa Tugendhat for my lesson in 'functionalism'
– my heart sinking somewhat. Let’s be totally frank, 'functionalism' is not
what most people want on their hols. I’ve booked a 1pm tour; 15 people are
allowed round in guided groups each hour. The villa doesn’t look like much
from outside: grey metal fence with a locked gate, concrete courtyard, plain
white walls with peeling paint and a curved section of opaque windows, all
of which cry “anonymity” and make me wonder how on earth this could be a
Unesco World Heritage Site.
A bossy middle-aged woman with blond hair, a navy blue jacket and a bright
pink scarf comes out. The previous group leaves and we buy our tickets and
follow her to a terrace at the back with terrific views down a hill across
the centre of Brno’s spires and snow covered roofs. From this angle all the
factories and estates are less visible. A bossy woman with a pink scarf
hands me information in English to me and in Japanese to a Japanese guy, and
then starts talking in Czech.
As she rabbits away, the Japanese fellow and I read our info sheets. Ludwig
Mies van der Rohe (1865-1969) was German. He built Villa Tugendhat for a
local family called Tugendhat in 1929-30. The “radicalism of the main
conception and of the technical and the formal” is praised, and the villa is
described as “the most significant European project” by this “legendary”
architect. You’re kidding aren’t you, I’m thinking, looking along the
terrace. It looks bland and predictably “futuristic” in a Clockwork Orange
kind of way.
Christ, what is it with this city: it’s just one let down after another.
We troop inside. And I take it all back. If there’s one must-see sight in Brno
it’s Villa Tugendhat. I’ve never been much of an interiors magazine type of
guy, but I’ve got to take my hat off to Ludwig. Even though it’s coming on
for a century old now, the interior looks like it could be in any of the
latest swish hotels in London or New York.
Using big bright windows, dark wood panels, cream linoleum floors, shiny
chrome support beams, skylights, a wide open-plan living room, dining room,
piano reception and library, an indoor side-garden, shiny onyx partitions,
glass coffee tables, a well-placed sculpture or two, leather arm chairs and
chaises longues – old Ludwig created a style that clearly still influences
everything that’s about today, yet still manages to be classier.
I read my information sheet: “It is for the first time that, in this type of
family villa, the traditional concept of the main ‘living room’ as a system
of mutually isolated rooms had been separated by the conception of a
continuous place.”
The Japanese architect-looking chap – dark-framed glasses, pale-pink hooded
top, black jacket - is taking loads of snaps. It turns out he’s a student
from Tokyo visiting famous architectural sites in Brno, Dusseldorf, Vienna,
Amsterdam and Prague to pick up ideas for his degree.
This strikes me as being a pretty intelligent, but bloody expensive, thing to
do; can’t recall being quite that dedicated when I was a student. “I’m
impressed by the materials,” he says, pointing at a stone floor slab in the
indoor garden that I would have thought was a rather normal piece of stone.
“Look at the textures. Quite unusual,” he says. And I realise he’s right. It
is an interesting stone slab. Though it’s strange to think I’m discussing
stone slabs with a Japanese architecture student in the outskirts of a place
in the middle of Central Europe.
“Oh yes, I like the stone,” he says again. I don’t think he’s got all that
much English. An attractive young woman from Linz in Austria overhears our
conversational efforts. She flutters her eyelids and starts asking me what I
think. Wow, these stone slabs might have something in them after all - maybe
this is why all these arty interior design-type chaps, with their black polo
necks and trendy glasses, are so into all this functionalism stuff. I just
love a bit of functionalism! For years, I’ve been really quite a big
functionalist (just don’t like to talk about it much).
I discuss how unusual the texture is, “quite unusual” even. She smiles and
seems heartened by my take on things. Running out of material, I ask her
what she likes about the villa. “Oh I think it’s outrageous. Just
outrageous!” she says, and I’m wondering if that’s “outrageous” in a good or
a bad sort of way.
Then she says: “I’m an architect. I just find it amazing what he managed to
realise here. There are things that he has done here people still struggle
to do today. If only I could do things like this. But I am not that long in
the business.” She’s lost me a bit, but she’s got lovely hazel eyes and
seems very nice indeed. We keep on chatting and then the lady with then pink
scarf calls us on as another group is coming. Katharina has to run off with
her brother and his girlfriend to drive back to Austria.
End of my lesson in “functionalism”.
How Low Can You Go? Round Europe for 1p Each Way (Plus Tax) by Tom
Chesshyre (£10.99, Hodder & Stoughton, or buy it from BooksFirst
for £9.89 including delivery).
