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Sunday Salon
with Greg Fallis

Miroslav Tichý

Miroslav Tichý was a 22 years old when the Soviet Union annexed Czechoslovakia in 1948. Tichý, student of drawing and painting at the Academy of Art in Prague was very vocal in his opposition to the new regime. He was eventually detained and spent the next eight years in various jails, detention centers and psychiatric institutions.

After his release Tichý returned to his hometown of Kyjov. He returned to his practice of art, but his psychological deterioration, combined with bouts of alcoholism, made it impossible for him to keep a job. Although he made a few drawings and paintings, he apparently wasn’t able to maintain much enthusiasm for it. Tichý spent his days wandering around the small town apparently at random, watching the local women. He soon developed a reputation as something of a Peeping Tom.

There’s no doubt there is an element of voyeurism in Tichý’s work, though it’s not clear if his voyeurism had a sexual component. He took great pleasure in looking at people — mostly women, and usually without their knowledge. The women he spied on weren’t necessarily young or pretty or scantily clad; they just had to be female. At some point in the late 1960s or early 1970s Tichý, like so many other such voyeurs, turned to photography.

What’s surprising is how he did it.



Tichý may have been something of a degenerate, but he brought a certain creative genius to his degeneracy. Since he was much too poor to buy camera equipment, Miroslav Tichý crafted cameras from the materials at hand. His cameras were a collection of wooden spools, cardboard mailing tubes, cigar boxes, tin cans and lenses crafted from the eyeglasses of children. Some of his lenses were even extendable — homemade zoom lenses.

Because his homemade cameras had no viewfinders, Tichý was forced to guess about the composition of the photograph. However, since his photography was driven as much (or more) by his fetish as by artistic concerns, he wasn’t terribly concerned about aesthetics. His criteria for a successful photograph was fairly broad. Traditional elements of composition are more flexible in the world of the fetish.

Tichý’s methods of photography were those of a stereotypical voyeur. He wandered the town with his camera tucked under his long coat or a sweater. He would quickly shoot the photograph, then tuck the camera away again. He was known to conceal himself in bushes or behind objects in order to get his photographs. He photographed people everywhere — at the beach, at the market, walking on the streets, sitting on their stoops.

He was as perversely obsessive about the number of frames he shot as he was about his subjects. Tichý would never exceed more than one hundred photographs a day. If/when he reached that number, he stopped shooting. Because his cameras were home-made, they didn’t abide by the usual 35mm standards. A roll of 36 exposures might provide him with perhaps fifty shots.


The photographs produced by these makeshift cameras are obviously primitive and unrefined. The focus is rarely sharp, the exposure is often incorrect, the subject of the photograph may not even be entirely in the frame. The images are grainy, strangely cropped, torn, sometimes pasted on cardboard or cardstock, often decorated with ink or pencil. But once he’d processed the film, printed the image, and decorated it, he seemed to lose interest. Tichý took little care of the images once they were printed. The fetish seemed to be fulfilled at that point.

The images themselves are infused with a weird sort of dreaminess. The subjects of the photos are often engaged in the mundane activities, but because they were usually photographed unaware, the motions and movements are completely unstudied and natural. Because of that, these everyday situations and trivial moments are made remarkably lovely. There is something almost theatrical and poetic about a woman raising her hands and turning her head.


Tichý’s photography came to light by coincidence. Harry Buxbaum, one of the psychiatrists who had treated him in Prague, had also been born in Tichý’s hometown of Kyvoj. In 1981 Roman Buxbaum, the doctor’s nephew, went to Kyvoj to visit his grandmother. He noticed the old man lurking in the streets and alleyways, and learned from his grandmother of the link to his uncle. Eventually he met Tichý and began to chat with him. He became intrigued by Tichý’s home-made cameras and asked to see the photographs made by them.

It was clear Tichý never intended for these photographs to be seen by others or exhibited. In fact, it seems likely he had no intention of keeping them for himself. When Buxbaum went to look at the photographs, he found hundreds of them scattered haphazardly around the old man’s rodent-infested hut. Many were just lying on the floor; many of them were crumpled, torn, nibbled by mice, and covered with a decade or more of dust.

Buxbaum began to write articles about Tichý; he even organized an exhibit of his work. The strange old man’s photographs drew both critical praise and curiosity. His small, odd prints began to sell. Eventually Tichý’s work was exhibited in Brno, not far from his hometown. Several residents of Kyvoj came to the opening, hoping to see if they could recognize themselves in the photographs. Tichý did not attend.


Miroslav Tichý is very old now. He still lives in Kyvoj, though he no longer takes photographs. He seems uninterested in his newfound celebrity and ignores the money he has received from it. He has called the exhibitions of his work “a waste of time” and describes the world in general as “a double big shit.” While he isn’t exactly a hermit, he is generally solitary. Some of that is undoubtedly a product of his personality, but it is likely that his aversion to bathing or changing his clothes also plays a large part.

There is no doubt that Tichý is more than merely eccentric. Is he a pervert? By most Western standards, yes. Is he a genius? By most modern standards, yes. Is he an artist? In the sense that he creates art, yes. Does it matter whether or not he intends to create art? I don’t know. I’d like to think it does matter — but I really don’t know.

I do know this: I like the fact that Miroslav Tichý exists. I’m sure he would be happier if he was better adjusted — but I’m glad there are maladjusted people out there. I’m sure he would be healthier if he drank less and bathed more — but I’m glad there are people who ignore what is good for them. I’m sure he would be a more productive artist if he wasn’t quite so wrapped up in his fetish — but I’m glad there are people whose priorities are so wildly divergent from mine that I can’t understand them.

It’s very selfish of me, but there it is. I’m glad the world contains people like Miroslav Tichý.