I’ve organized several group exhibitions in my life, and each one is always something special. From the early planning stages, I think carefully about which works and artistic approaches will fit the concept, my art, and the space. I prefer to work with colleagues whom I value and who I know will collaborate well.
Of course, organizing a group exhibition is more complex than a solo show. The concept needs to work for everyone, and the design of invitation cards and posters should ideally reflect each artist's style. Price lists must be adjusted, and the opening event has to be organized together. This process works best when everyone involved is reliable and uncomplicated. There’s no room for divas. In fact, many of my best collaborators are Capricorns, like me—often well-organized and willing to do their share of the work.
One of the advantages of group exhibitions is that we can share the tasks, such as transporting the artwork to the gallery and setting up. It’s during the installation that some of the most interesting moments happen. We engage in meaningful conversations about our work and our colleagues' art.
How do we relate the works to each other? Some combinations arise naturally, while others require testing and detailed discussion. The artworks interact and play off each other, creating new or expanded possibilities for interpretation. We dive deep into each other’s creative worlds. The small talk is over; it’s time to get serious: "How did you approach this?" "What’s your exact process?" "What interests you in this theme?" It’s important to plan time for these exchanges—time to set up, time to step back and view, and time to check sightlines. The appreciation among colleagues is different from that of visitors; it comes from a deeper level of understanding, from one artist to another.
I’m still under the influence of the recent group exhibition in Burghausen with Eva Čapková and Gotthart Kuppel. Gotthart, an artist from a different generation, brings an incredibly varied background: a judo athlete at the 1964 Tokyo Olympics, a doctor, high-wire performer, theater actor, director, visual artist, and now filmmaker. He uses found objects to create works that are sometimes morbid but always humorous. We've exhibited together in Sarajevo, Vienna, Bratislava, Prague, Bremen, and now Burghausen. I own one of his bottle sculptures, reminiscent of a voodoo doll, and he has a linoleum print of mine. His kind words about my ability to arrange and present my work—along with the associations he shared about my painting Luba—left me feeling very appreciated as a fellow artist.
Eva, on the other hand, brings a completely different view of the world and of art. As an art historian and painter, she has deeply studied a Czech artist who developed magnetic painting and graphics in the 1960s. He wasn’t allowed to work as an artist under the communist regime, so he found his materials and inspiration in the factory where he was employed. Eva wrote a biography about him and eventually, after some hesitation, took up his techniques and developed them further. Her results are both unusual and painterly, embracing the play of controlled chance.
Each artist finds themselves in their own universe, and it’s wonderfully enriching to immerse oneself in these different worlds.
And it is just as wonderful to leave the supervision to one colleague for a few hours while you visit the longest castle in the world with the other colleague. There are plenty of visitors, which is, of course, another important aspect of group exhibitions.
Later, we dismantle the exhibition together. While one of us wraps the last pieces in bubble wrap, another pulls nails out of the walls and fills the holes.
The next day, I receive a message from Eva: “I’m organizing the next exhibition for us in 2026 in a castle in the Czech Republic.” I’m excited to continue this journey.
