![]()
to 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 138px; TEXT-ALIGN: center” alt=”” src=”http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kcTb8DnPVW4/ScFE8MdDNsI/AAAAAAAACyU/CRzdlQkMIqQ/s320/miro+pozar.jpg” border=”0″ />
top:2px;padding-right:5px;font-family:times;”>Miro Pozar is a Czech sculptor whose work has appeared throughout Europe and North America. His face and torso are as chiseled as the sandstone sculptures he makes from rock culled from nearby quarries. Miro studies the stone in its rugged raw state and he sees what is not there, but could be – crafting the breast of a woman or the weary face of an old man in the veins of the stone. From time to time, the stone cries out for something different – to be made into more abstract art – and Miro creates from the past the future – making sculptures that appear both medieval and modern in their simplicity.
![]()
to 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center” alt=”” src=”http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kcTb8DnPVW4/ScFE7zetVjI/AAAAAAAACyM/NkjtiM_913M/s320/divas+statue.jpg” border=”0″ />When my husband WG & I stumbled into Miro’s gallery in the charming Bohemian village of Cesky Krumlov, he stood like a Czech god with the sun shining only on him as tourists and customers circled in the shadows. As we studied the sculptures, something about Miro’s work niggled and wiggled in the recesses of our minds, reminding us of another artist whose work we had fallen for while visiting Toronto nearly 10 years prior for my 25th birthday. For years we had regretted not purchasing that piece that haunted us. From time to time WG would comment, “Remember that artist in Toronto?” and I would nod claiming this piece was “the one that got away – our great travel-shopping regret.”
![]()
to 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center” alt=”” src=”http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kcTb8DnPVW4/ScFE8imnNHI/AAAAAAAACyk/lOBKcQ4uL8o/s320/miro+pozar+3.jpg” border=”0″ />
Crowds stumbled in and out of the gallery and when the tourists thinned, Miro sat on the step next to us and started talking, sharing his life story as we shared ours. He told how before the fall of communism he’d been granted a visa to live in the USA and Canada. He spoke of the cold Toronto winters of where his work had been exhibited and WG’s eyes caught mine as we read one another’s mind – “Could Miro Pozar be the artist that got away? Whose work we’d coveted for so many years?”
![]()
to 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center” alt=”” src=”http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_kcTb8DnPVW4/ScFE8od-0mI/AAAAAAAACys/kUWsAlvlOV0/s320/miro+pozar+4.jpg” border=”0″ />We’ll never know. Much like reading a book and remembering the main character’s name, but not the author’s, WG & I had over the years forgotten the name of that Toronto-based-artist while the art lived on in our memories. Whether Miro was the mystery artist might have been serendipitous, but it was oddly a moot point in the purchase decision, for upon seeing his chiseled work it was a foregone conclusion that we’d return home to Holland with something from his atelier. We wouldn’t pass a second chance with “coup de foudre” – he wouldn’t be another artist whose work we’d regret letting “get away”.
Miro, upon seeing our joy at his work, offered us a discount for paying in Euros instead of the local currency and smiled as he said, “You are young. The young, they never buy art. It is always the old who buy art. They, of course, can better afford it, but I make art for the young, for the future, not for the past.” He attached the bust we’d chosen to a rolling cart, giving us a stand upon which to display it as a gift with the purchase. As we chatted, he offered to roll the statue to our car which it turned out was parked opposite his atelier and warehouse.
![]()
to 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center” alt=”” src=”http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kcTb8DnPVW4/ScFE8LqhBiI/AAAAAAAACyc/a0z6N20OhKE/s320/miro+pozar+2.jpg” border=”0″ />Taking us into his workshop, we studied stones and he pointed out
“See this one… It is a child.” Another was bow of a ship, a third a shoulder dropped seductively and a woman’s chin bowing to her lover. Standing in his storeroom surrounded by statues that weren’t yet, I saw the world as he sees it and I felt his hope and his inspiration. Miro Pozar’s imagination came to life and among the rubble of stones laid out for future projects I saw the wings of an eagle – soaring higher and higher above this little Bohemian town, Cesky Krumlov.
![]()
to 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center” alt=”” src=”http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_kcTb8DnPVW4/ScFFCscJusI/AAAAAAAACy0/dhHa8DaOP90/s320/miros+store+house.jpg” border=”0″ />
As we drove away, WG released his grip on the steering wheel and reached over to rub my neck,
“Do you feel we bought a piece of history?” he asked and with a nod and graze of his leg, I smiled
“Perhaps even a piece of our own history” as I thought of that trip to Toronto years prior when we were young and didn’t buy art.
![]()
to 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center” alt=”” src=”http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_kcTb8DnPVW4/ScFFDG0x9rI/AAAAAAAACy8/_ol6sVayPcs/s320/The+Antiques+Diva+and+Miro+Pozar.jpg” border=”0″ />Photo: Miro Pozar – Sculptor – and The Antiques Diva™ along with the statue we purchased
