In this project i explore the cultural disappearance of Czech railway pubs, once lively, accessible social spaces where different layers of society met. As these establishments fade under the pressure of gentrification and modernization, the project approaches them as social relics: through photography, objects, gestures, and staged reenactments, it poses the question of what is lost when public rituals cease to exist. The aim is not only to document, but also to question the significance of these places – both for national identity and for personal memory.
In this project, I deal with the issue and the fact of the rather quiet but significant disappearance of railway station pubs, the so-called nádražky, from public space. For decades, these pubs (but also Czech pubs in general – the so-called čtyřky) were spaces where society met across classes, workers, poets, intellectuals, and officials. Today, the social body is fragmented; spaces once shared are now sorted by income, generation, and taste.
A nádražka is not just a canteen at a train station; it is part of our cultural (or national?) identity and everyday rituals. Czech beer is widely regarded as a national treasure, and beer culture has recently been recognized by UNESCO as part of the world’s intangible cultural heritage. The pub functioned as a kind of public living room, where neighborhood and community ties were strengthened over an affordable glass of beer.
Today, however, these establishments are disappearing under the pressure of modernization and gentrification. Smoky, characterful pubs full of soul are being replaced by sterile fast-food franchises or modern restaurants – often more expensive and completely detached from the local spirit.
A good example is the Dejvická nádražka in Prague. It is not a monument or a protected site – just an ordinary, smoky pub hidden inside a train station building. A year ago, it was supposed to be closed and replaced by a modern restaurant. But the locals didn’t like that, so they collected over three thousand signatures to save it. And they succeeded. Not because it was beautiful or exceptional, but because it meant something to many locals. It is a place where people meet regularly, where the atmosphere feels genuine and rooted.
It reminded me of the fate of Klinika – a former squat in Prague’s Žižkov district, which turned into a non-commercial cultural center. People went there during the day for language courses and workshops (there were even activities for children), and in the evening, concerts and discussions took place. When Klinika was evicted, it wasn’t just a building that disappeared – a part of the social infrastructure vanished. A place where things could happen freely, without brands or entry fees. This very feeling – the slow disappearance of spaces where people can simply be together – is what I sense when the nádražky vanish, one after another. Of course, I am aware of the difference between a community cultural center and a pub, but in the end, they actually fulfill a very similar role.
Another example can be the case from Plzeň. At the main train station in Plzeň, the local railway pub was completely removed during the reconstruction (about two years ago). Its wooden benches, which literally resembled benches from First Republic-era train carriages, and its cozy interior were replaced by a KFC. The architects were praised for the sensitive renovation of the building (for example, all businesses in the station must use black-and-white versions of their logos so as not to disturb the historical character of the architecture), most of the disturbing advertisements disappeared, but even so, the decision about the KFC did not work out very well.
This irony reflects a deeper feeling of loss: what really disappears when a nádražka ceases to exist? Not just a place to have a beer, but a piece of culture and everyday life.
Czech pubs (hostince, krčmy, taverns) have a tradition going back to the early Middle Ages. The roots of today’s pubs can be traced to the socalled mázhausy, entrance rooms in houses that had permission to brew beer. It was in these spaces that, according to historical records, neighbors gathered over their favorite jug (máz) of beer.
With the development of towns, pubs began to appear at emerging crossroads, where they provided shelter to travelers and also served as places to sleep.
Between the 12th and 16th centuries, Czech beer culture experienced its greatest expansion, often called the “golden age of brewing.” During this time, many town breweries were founded, and the quality of Czech beer was high. At the same time, it became a common practice for local pubs to be connected to nearby breweries and to serve fresh beer.
The nineteenth century brought further changes: with the development of the railway, railway pubs were born, for example, the famous railway restaurants in Smíchov, Braník, and Dejvice.
The twentieth century brought dramatic transformations. After 1948, breweries were nationalized by the communist regime, and many smaller breweries disappeared. Forty years of communism practically destroyed the culture of Czech beer, the variety of beer styles disappeared, and mostly 10°, 11°, and 12° lagers remained.
After the Velvet Revolution in 1989, however, pubs and restaurants began to recover. The quality of services and the selection of beers improved. Better establishments renovated their interiors and menus, and small breweries (minipivovary) became popular. In 2025, there are approximately 500 breweries in the Czech Republic. This development represented a kind of renaissance of Czech beer culture – removing the uniformity of the socialist era and bringing back diversity in beer styles and pub experiences.
In 2023, Czech beer culture was officially inscribed on the Representative List of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity by UNESCO.
My photographic work is circling around topics like Czechness, Cultural and national identity. In one of my projects i documented Czech ballroom dancers (Plesáci) and the communities that sustain Sokol gymnastic societies, volunteer firefighters or scout troops. I have photographed protesting farmers in the streets of Prague, decaying bunkers which are part of the defense line from WW2 or the “melancholy” of Czechs on holiday. All of these series are linked by a fascination with everyday groups (objects).
Growing up in Plzeň influence me quite a bit. I went to high school there,visiting pubs as a teenager and read the authors and artists of the Czech underground. I devoured Bohumil Hrabal, Ivan Martin Jirous alongside more canonical writers like Jáchym Topol or artists like Milan Knížák, Jan Štembera and Jan Mlčoch.
The project on vanishing railway pubs continues my exploration of Czechness. Like the ballroom dancers, bunkers, etc. Nádražky form small communities with their own rituals and humour. They might seem marginal, yet they reveal how national identity is lived in everyday encounters.
Because railway pubs are vanishing from public space, I wanted to find a way to preserve the aspects that making them meaningful: the gestures, the rituals, and the everyday objects. These pubs are not just places to drink; they are a living archive of our everyday life. With that in mind, I approached this project less as documentary work and more as an act of preservation.
I staged a series of black-and-white photographs in my home. Without working directly in pubs, I reconstructed some of their gestures, a hand poised for a dart throw, the lean of a body aiming at an invisible board, waiting at the bar for another pint, or pausing for a turn in a game of mariáš (cards). By moving these gestures into my private space, I turned myself into some anthropologist from the future; I was reconstructing a “rituals” that risk being forgotten.
In next part of the project I isolate objects from the pub and treat them as artifacts. On a white background, I photographed a shot of alcohol, a beer glass, or a packet of salted peanuts. In their original context, these items were ordinary, almost invisible; in my approach, they become artifacts, as if displayed in a museum case. I wanted to ask: what remains when a pub is gone? Can the ritual of communal drinking, waiting, and talking survive in home environment. In these still lifes, with their clean lighting and clinical backgrounds i wanted create the tension between nostalgia and evidence.
While working, I kept asking myself whether a ritual based on physical presence can be preserved outside its natural environment. There is a certain paradox in trying to document collective drinking in solitude, without the noise of the pub or the smell of beer. Yet I felt that preserving these gestures and objects was important. To preserve them, even through staged photographs and selected items, is an attempt to care for shared memory and to resist a future in which these social spaces will exist less and less.
