Petr Horák
- Anna Lilli Garai
- Jun 26
- 6 min read
Petr Horák works with sculpture through a hands-on, physical process. He trained as a stonemason and still uses that approach in his art. He shapes each piece by working directly with the material, repeating actions and taking time to reflect. For him, stone is a way to express ideas that grow slowly and clearly. His work is based on craft, but it comes from a personal drive, not from outside commissions. Over time, he moved from making figures to more abstract shapes, focusing on weight, balance, and movement. His ideas often come from daily life, nature, or film, and the final form usually appears during the making.
Q: What first drew you to stone—not as a material, but as something to be in dialogue with?
A: I think I'll have to start with a broader perspective.
Humans are the only creatures on our planet capable of verbal communication. We can use words to express our feelings, requests, information, advice, moods, and basically anything that can be described in words.
This is what sets us apart from the rest of the world, even though other creatures also communicate—just in a different way. Without words.
And then there is art, a human activity in which people search for themselves and express their thoughts and views of the world. Nonverbally. They express themselves through their work, without words.
If an individual strives and wants to express themselves in a way other than words, they search for the most suitable medium—an information channel through which to convey their thoughts. The possibilities are endless.
And for me, as a stonemason, stone offered itself as a material for communication and dialogue.
So I started chiseling away at the material and shaping my view of the world into something tangible.
You could say that I didn't want to stick solely to human speech and tried to communicate in a different way.
Q: You mention joy in resistance. What does it give you when the stone pushes back?
A: When I said that I like the resistance of the material, I meant that it is solid, consistent, hard, and therefore should not be rushed. I also like that working with stone takes time—it is not finished right away. It requires patience. The stone does not forgive any haste or impatience; it reveals mistakes. The rhythm and tempo, gradually removing material from the stone—there is a certain calm and contemplation in the repetition of the movement. Concentration and joy.
And what does it give me when the stone bounces?
Mainly, I feel contact. The strike has movement and sound. It is direct. I feel like I am part of the material that has been here for millions of years and now I am here with it. Sometimes it also proves to me that I am working with something real and reassures me that I am here.
Q: You started as a stonemason. Did that hands-on beginning shape how you think about form?
A: I don't think so. Thanks to the craft, I have learned how to use tools, recognize different materials and their quality, how to approach stone. I have learned how to grind, measure, lift and turn heavy pieces, etc., etc. Which is certainly not insignificant. This is a craft that is, of course, necessary to know, but creation only begins when these principles are broken and the imagination is unleashed.
Craft gives us the knowledge of how to do it, but creation begins with using all these laws to create, express, and communicate what we want to create.
I see another difference between craftsmanship and creation in the approach to the work itself.
A craftsman is usually commissioned by a client, a customer. Whereas a creator needs to work for themselves—out of some inner tension, out of their own need for expression. Out of necessity. The activity itself, the work, is what matters here.
My view of form changes with each new sculpture, experience, perception of the world, nature, and reflection on work.
Q: Film seems to hold a special place for you. What do sculpture and film share in your eyes?
A: Yes, I like film and cinema in general. Modern people have been familiar with film since childhood, with all the fairy tales and children's movies. But it was only later that I became interested in film as an artistic form of expression, which can convey important ideas and messages to us through all its means.
Film, as one of the youngest art forms, has already proven many times in its short history (this year marks 130 years since the first screening) how important a medium it is.
I don't prefer any particular genre or period. I have many favorite films and directors—too many to list here.
Film combines almost all artistic disciplines—color, sound, movement, storytelling, lighting—which only proves how complex a medium it is. I also really like the possibility of perfect detail in film.
I prefer to go to the cinema to watch films. I don't like watching films on TV, and I certainly don't like watching them on a computer. I don't like the pause button. Interrupting a film. The cinema allows you to see a film in its entirety, as the director intended. The darkness, the silence, and just the light from the screen and the anticipation.
When I watch a film, I am static—I just watch. And that's what I meant when I said that film shares something with sculpture: the third dimension. In film, it's movement, and in sculpture, it's plasticity.
The viewer in the cinema perceives the movement of individual shots even though they are just sitting there, and if you want to observe a sculpture, which is static, you have to move yourself to see it from all possible angles and sides.
I think that's also why a sculpture looks better in a film than in a two-dimensional image.
Q: How do you know when a sculpture is complete—when to stop removing?
A: This question comes to mind most often when I look at paintings. When does a painter know that he will not add another stroke of brush or paint? I think painting is more intuitive and spontaneous in its decisions.
In contrast, sculpture is a field where you carry the original idea—the concept—within you for days, weeks, sometimes even months. Then you have to keep it alive while you work and transfer it into a form in the material.
I usually see the shape of the sculpture I'm going to work on in advance.
Of course, not in every detail, but I have the basic shape in my mind.
I often start with a drawing, sometimes I make a small model to refine the shape, but it also happens that I start working directly on the material. It depends on the shape of the subject.
Sometimes, while I'm working, the stone itself tells me how to continue, so it guides me. But I don't stray too far from the original idea.
And when is a sculpture finished? I'd like to say that it's finished in the idea itself, or in the drawing, or in the model. But for me, a sculpture is finished when it's carved. That is, the shape is final, all the masses are one, and by removing the stone, only the idea remains.
The stone can also be polished after carving (which I also do), but that does not change the shape itself. It is equally important to choose a suitable pedestal that fits the sculpture well—or rather, that is part of the sculpture.
It can therefore be said that a sculpture is finished when the artist is satisfied with its integrity.
Q: Has your view on connection and “belonging” changed since your early pieces like “Tree of Life”?
A: Absolutely. The "Tree of Life" you mention is one of my first works, and it was a long time ago. I remember that time, and I recall the situations when I traveled to different parts of the country to see sculptures, visited exhibitions where I discovered new names and, above all, the work of artists, and devoured all the books on art that were available. It was a great start. It was the decisive moment when I realized that this was what I wanted to do.
Of course, my first works were influenced by figurative art, which covers most of art history. I tried to learn anatomy, even though I didn't have any academic training.
Over time, as I worked on sculptures almost every day, my interest in the figure faded. I became more interested in new forms, matter, something abstract.
It's not that I'm not interested in the human body—of course I like it and admire its perfection. But my work is not inspired by human anatomy, but rather by human life with all that it brings.
With each new work and experience, my work has changed. It's probably not up to me to judge what has changed and how, but I definitely know that what I'm doing now is different from before, and I myself am surprised by where my work is taking me. Sometimes I even wonder if I made it myself.
I would be quite interested to see what the "Tree of Life" would look like if I worked on it now. Maybe I'll try it. Thanks for the inspiration.
I love removing matter and creating something new. This activity fulfills and uplifts me. I am grateful that I can do it.
