Eliška Konečná’s ‘Thirst’ at Polansky Gallery in Prague invites us to step outside the confines of linear time, offering a sense of timelessness that resonates with the trajectory of art history.
Her practice resists categorization, embracing a form of universalism through the classical yet symbolic nature of her narratives. At the heart of her work lies a personal mythology—an evolving world of allegorical figures, each imbued with their own distinct traits, grappling with moral dilemmas. Konečná's approach is deeply intuitive, allowing aesthetic expression to take precedence, evoking a return to sensuality that feels both contemporary and timeless.
The exhibition at Polansky Gallery is a continuation of Konečná’s previous project, *A Dry Place to Fall*, first presented at Eastcontemporary Gallery in Milan. Over the years, Konečná has worked extensively with textiles, but this body of work represents a significant shift, incorporating more figurative drawing and a bold, generous use of color. Here, her sewn drawings interact with layers of paint, each medium forming its own narrative—a dynamic interplay of abstraction and figuration, where one becomes the palimpsest of the other.
In ‘The Great Sleep’ and ‘The Great Bath’, the side panels of the triptych, a breastfeeding woman stands as the central figure. She offers her milk to a fragile, abandoned baby bird—a futile gesture of life in the face of inevitability. Surrounding her are passive onlookers: some sleep, others simply watch. These scenes present a poignant contrast—the woman’s deep despair juxtaposed with the indifference or schadenfreude of the bystanders. As viewers, we become voyeurs to this act of maternal hopelessness, kept at a distance, observing without intervention or empathy.
At the center of the triptych lies ‘The Great Feast’, a circular composition where ambiguity reigns. The characters form an intertwined assembly, but it is unclear whether they are nourishing one another or withholding sustenance. In the foreground, one figure chokes—on food, perhaps, or on the emotional weight of the scene—but again, we stand before him as passive observers, removed from his suffering. Konečná’s characters, much like ancient gods, are flawed and driven by primal urges, unable to escape the human condition. They embody both desire and punishment, their bodies serving as vessels for both their cravings and their consequences.
Emotion in Konečná’s work is not overt; it lingers beneath the surface, inseparable from the sensuality that defines her art. Her figures are often trapped in situations of impossibility, yet their anguish is tempered by resignation. There is no dramatic catharsis here—only a quiet, stoic acceptance. Even as these bodies suffer the limitations of mortality, they transcend through a kind of neutrality, a stillness that borders on the eternal.
