“When I was in the fourth grade, my father told me about the war.” – With Zdeněk Daniel on art that reflects a family story

Architect, painter, and designer Zdeněk Daniel explores themes in this interview that permeate his entire body of work. Whether reflecting on a dark family history, creating vibrant, color-drenched paintings, or working on architectural projects, his work consistently reflects a sense of social responsibility and a commitment to creating environments accessible to everyone without distinction. In the interview, he discusses the authenticity he has carried with him his whole life, which can be felt in everything he does. His involvement in the Slova 21 project, Stories of Survivors, which commemorates the Romani Holocaust, is an opportunity for a new form of expression and a path toward dialogue with the younger generation.

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How do you perceive the Stories of Survivors project?

I view it very positively because it is important to talk about these things. It serves as a message to the new generation. Today, there aren't many true witnesses left who experienced the Second World War. I have the story passed down to me from my father. It is important that this information is passed on. It is a completely different experience to read about it somewhere versus having someone tell it to you directly.

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You have an important role in the project, as you will be part of a Theatre of the Oppressed performance. What is this new form of expression like for you?

It is a challenge for me. I have a connection to the theater, as I have been collaborating with the theater in Jablonec for a long time. Not that I perform there, but I have held several exhibitions there as an artist, and whenever there was a theater ball, I would donate my paintings to the raffle—they were usually the main prize of the evening. I enjoy going to performances because the stories speak to me; I enjoy watching how, even after centuries, these things remain in people, how individual characters are visible. But at the same time, I am a bit nervous about it. When I talk to someone one-on-one, I don't mind. But when there are more people, like having to speak into a microphone in front of a hundred people, my voice gets a bit tight. I just get stage fright; I'm not used to it.

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Did you hesitate when you received the offer?

I was thrilled, so I was more than willing. I told myself that I have to work on myself, that it is a challenge, another opening of new horizons and new visions. And I think it is a good thing, and that it will work out somehow.

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The theater project will also be performed in elementary schools. Is this an important aspect of the whole thing for you?

Definitely. I think it is a very important point of contact with the younger generation. My activities also include teaching. I teach free-form painting and sometimes prepare students for architecture school. When I had an exhibition at the Museum of Romani Culture in Brno, we held workshops for high school students. The exhibition included educational components, and we also worked with the theme of the Romani Holocaust.

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You speak openly about your family's story. Could you share it with me, at least in brief?

I first learned about the story in the fourth grade. I was walking with my father around the dam in Jablonec; we used to go out together and talk, and my father told me about what happened during the Second World War. We are in our fifties now, but when we were little, the war still resonated with us a lot. We played soldiers—someone was a German, someone was a partisan—we built bunkers... It was still closer to that time; in the seventies, it was thirty years after the war. It all seemed so mysterious to me.

And then, in the fifth grade, my father took me to Germany. We had a Lada and we drove through East Germany, visiting concentration camps. We were in Ravensbrück. I was ten or eleven years old—that was forty years ago—and it was still very fresh in my parents' minds. My father was looking for the story and the grave of his mother, my grandmother, because he didn't know where she was buried.

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Was it common to talk about it so openly?

That wasn't exactly common in the Roma community. But my parents were very enlightened overall. We didn't have any taboos between us. My parents told me things straight. I know that in many Roma families, it was a taboo; people didn't talk about it. We used to visit aunts who had survived the concentration camps in a village near Brno. I saw those tattooed numbers on their arms. My grandmother was in Auschwitz, then in Ravensbrück. She didn't survive the escape during the liberation, just a few kilometers from the border. My uncles didn't survive Auschwitz.

So, I knew the story, and it was always alive in me in some way. I only ever talked about it within the family—within that circle of my mom, dad, and my wife. I didn't really vent it anywhere else. Dad spent his whole life dealing with it, with things you can't really deal with. I didn't go public with it, and neither did my father. It wasn't until later that we decided to do it.

That was during the period when I drew a cycle about the Holocaust. The cycle is called Black and White Shadows: Memento Mori. They are drawings in the form of pictograms that capture the process: a person riding in a train, in a cattle car, then the selection process, all the way to the final solution in the gas chambers.

After I drew this, I showed it to a friend—a well-known architect from Liberec. When he saw it and I told him the story, he said, "It gives me chills." And then he told me we should try to exhibit it somewhere. I knew it couldn't just be presented anywhere. Opening up in some café or gallery is such a specific thing. So, it took time for it to mature. It wasn't until later that I met Ms. Helena Sadílková from the Faculty of Arts, and we started working together on an exhibition in Prague. I had a retrospective exhibition at Kampus Hybernská in 2018, My Black and White Shadows, Memento Mori. That’s where it was all presented. In the meantime, my father was interviewed for the Memory of Nations project. That was the last flicker of his story being told.

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Was your father on board with the decision to present it publicly like that at the time?

Yes, definitely. It was important for him to share it.

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In one interview, you mentioned that your work is characterized by a certain use of color, in which you perceive a reflection of your Roma heritage. Artists sometimes struggle with the feeling that the audience focuses too much on their background and too little on the art itself. Is this a topic for you?

I’ve always been myself, and my parents gave me space in my creative work, too. To start broadly again, I could glue things with Kanagon at home, cut paper on the table, paint with temperas—I could do absolutely anything on that table in my room. My parents gave me freedom, which was unusual at the time. And I’ve always acted naturally; I’ve never pretended to be someone else. I know who I am, and people either accept me or they don't. It’s the same with being Roma. I try to act fairly. As my dad used to say, honesty gets you the furthest. And it’s the same in art. When you paint, it’s a real thing you’re doing from the heart. You can’t hide anything from people. Everything is truly visible there; you open yourself up. You put your inner self out there, and you can’t hide anything. Those who know how to read it, who perceive it, will get to know you as a person, too.

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When you talk about your parents, they seem like very enlightened people.

Oh, definitely. It’s a bit unconventional, but we were different. We’d drive our Zhiguli to visit relatives in Slovakia, for example; they had a caravan and a shooting gallery there. I’d spin cotton candy with them, and it was absolutely great.

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You are also part of the civic association D.R.A.K. Could you tell me something about that?

Certainly, that’s a significant chapter in my life. The acronym stands for Home, Family, Activities, and Communication (Domov, Rodina, Aktivity, Komunikace). And basically, D.R.A.K. has a slogan: Life in your own hands. When you help someone and give them a push, they can often help themselves further, within their own capabilities. This topic has appealed to me my whole life. The social sphere, that kind of feeling, empathy. When I started designing interiors, I worked on sheltered housing for the mentally disabled. It resonates with me; I have my own inner struggles, and this helps me tremendously.

I used to work on projects involving large sums of money. But I quickly realized that I didn't want to be a businessman working just for the sake of money. Even as a young man, I decided I wanted to put my soul into my work—whether as an architect or a painter—because that holds more value to me than just doing a job for a paycheck.

Empathy is key—you have to listen first, and only then can you help someone. You need to hear them out and understand the problems they are facing. This applies to design as well, ensuring things are barrier-free and accessible—what we call inclusion.

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It’s true that this probably isn't the most lucrative field of architecture...

Social services aren't a business to me; they are something entirely different. But they are incredibly important.

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Project Stories of survivors was supported by the Foundation Remembrance, Responsibility and Future (EVZ).

This text does not represent the opinion of the EVZ Foundation. The author is responsible for all claims contained in this text.

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