Figurative School by the Tap
You might think that names like Boris Jirků or Michal Jelínek belong exclusively to prestigious catalogs and urban galleries. And perhaps they do — but sometimes, they appear where no one expects them. A few words about a place where world-class art meets bean soup.
What You (Didn’t) Expect
If you were just passing through the village of Tuchom, you might easily miss this little pub. A countryside tavern with a takeaway window, a few benches under a tree, beer, pork chops, a child’s bike leaning against a wall. A familiar, comprehensible, comfortingly simple landscape. And sometimes, in that very simplicity, hides a surprise you wouldn’t expect at all.
Because this summer, between pizza and goulash, you can view works of art that you’d normally see under halogen spotlights in modern galleries. They’re not just trial pieces or decorative fillers. They are real. Figurative art in full force — bodies, expressions, stories. And all of it in silence, with no labels, no clamor of curatorial commentary. Just painting and person. And the scent of bean soup rising gently to your nose.
A friend brought me here, saying it would be a nice trip. Driving dozens of kilometers just for a pub? Sounds crazy — but yes, and I didn’t regret a single minute.
The Phenomenon of Village Pubs
Village pubs in the Czech Republic are a peculiar kind of cultural heritage. They haven’t undergone major architectural renovations, they don’t share the visual language of modern city bistros, nor do they boast tasting menus. And yet, they are unique. They carry something that’s disappearing elsewhere — a mix of hospitality, spontaneity, and layers of Cimrman-esque memory that can’t be programmed.
The pub in Tuchom is no exception. It’s the very essence. A place that doesn’t play for effect but stands on honesty. Where the staff smiles even when there’s a queue. Where they know what people like, and where even regulars with their usual orders sometimes say: “Surprise me.” A place where you don’t feel like a customer, but like a guest. And now imagine that next door, there’s a small gallery.
The exhibition isn’t there in spite of the setting. It grows out of it. And what’s most striking? No one finds it strange. No one pauses at the fact that one room holds plates and the next, paintings. Everything is in balance. Because here, art doesn’t have to hang high or far away to have weight.
Art with Pork Chops, Fries, and Kofola
Sometimes we think that art needs a special frame. Smooth white walls, unnatural silence, dimmed lighting, and of course, expert interpretation. And then you come here, order pork chops with fries, kids are laughing over lemonade, and you all step a few meters away. Into the next room. Where a completely different world begins.
The garden falls silent. Everyone is eating, thoughtfully, and thinking about the figurative compositions we just saw. Paintings that could easily be displayed in the center of Prague, Bratislava, or London. The room where the exhibition takes place isn’t sterile. It has a beamed wooden ceiling, natural light, and visible traces of time.
The paintings aren’t separated from this reality — they are part of it. And the viewer isn’t a critic, but a real participant. You walk past one, turn around, and stop in front of another. And in that moment, something magical happens. Something passes from the canvas to the person.
That closeness, civility, and naturalness suddenly give these paintings a different strength. These are stories of figures speaking to us — and here, they don’t pretend. They’re not crucified in those sleek exhibition spaces we so grandly call galleries.
Here, they speak differently. Because there is nothing extra. They are free. And everything essential is in plain sight. They’re not constrained by prestige or pomp. They speak calmly. Because they are given space. Here, art isn’t exhibited. Here, it’s welcomed.
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And maybe the most beautiful thing? Sometimes among the visitors, you’ll find one of the artists — designer and painter Michal Jelínek. I recently wrote about him here on the blog. He lives nearby, in the next village, where he has his studio. And when he has time over the weekend, he drops by, guides people, answers questions, and tells the stories behind the paintings. Other times, it’s the innkeeper Michal who lets you into the hall. Just ask.
When Art Hangs Too High
We’ve grown used to the idea that art must hang high and far from us — both literally and figuratively. That we look up at it, in silence, holding our breath, trying not to speak too much so as not to commit a faux pas through our lack of expertise. Paintings stand in silence, behind ropes or glass, veiled in institutional gravity. It’s become so normal we no longer find it odd.
But perhaps therein lies the problem. When art is hung too far from the body, from touch, from life — it starts to behave that way. It falls silent as inspiration. It closes off. It stops responding. And it stops telling stories.
Then you come here. The paintings are at eye level, in a room where people whisper, giggle, and yes, I’m thinking about my pizza getting cold outside. But no one scolds you for that. No one watches whether you’re looking long enough or from the right distance. You can just be. Just perceive. And suddenly, you feel the painting responding. Speaking to you — because it can. Because it’s not in a golden cage.
It’s not that galleries are bad. But perhaps we’ve assigned them too much power. Maybe we’ve forgotten that a painting is here for the person, not the person for the painting. And that even a master of the canvas can speak simply — when there’s someone to speak to.
Around 120 people from far and wide came to the vernissage. It lasted long into the night, over beer and grilled food — but mostly over conversations about art. Each week, around 80 people stop by. Just to spend time. To be.
A Taste for More
What does a visitor take away? Maybe inspiration. Maybe a selfie with a painting. Maybe the urge to go home, pick up brushes, or at least a pencil and some paper. But most of all: a sense of awakening, that world-class art can be part of everyday life. Over beer, over soup — where you’d least expect it. And for it to speak to you, it only needs a chance.
This exhibition doesn’t time how long you stand in front of a painting. It gives you time. And, as always in life, you can either take it or leave it. But because of that moment and everything it carries, you might leave with a taste for more.
I recommend anyone who can to come see — and taste. Whether the food or the art. The exhibition will run at least until the end of July, possibly until mid-August. You can visit during the opening hours of Hospoda U Sudu, located at:
📍 Hospoda U Sudu
Tuchom 6, 289 35 Košík
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Thanks to the Artists
Special thanks to the members of the Figurama collective whose works shape this exhibition:
Livia Kožúšková, Michal Jelínek, Boris Jirků, Karol Lakatoš, Ondřej Míšek, Martin Prachař, Martin Schwarz. Thank you for letting your paintings speak here.
And equal thanks to Michal, the innkeeper at U Sudu and the quiet guide of this event. He shows that when flavor meets soul, something more than a good lunch or exhibition emerges. It becomes a space. For meeting, for story, for beauty.
Finished. This is no longer just an essay — it’s a small story about a place where world-class painting nearly brushes the wooden ceiling and yet reaches deep into the human soul. And writing it left me hungry for something good.
