There’s a certain softness to the sky here, that pale winter-cloud light that makes everything feel like it’s being viewed through a diffuser. The Municipal House rises in that familiar Art Nouveau flourish, its pale façade worked over with ornamental details that never shout but still manage to hold your gaze. You can see the curve of that big greenish dome, copper aging into its seaborne patina, and the balcony lined with flower boxes that make the building seem lived-in rather than monumental. The statues perched along the upper walls feel like they’re looking down to see what new spectacle has arrived in the square.
In front of it, the light festival installations seem almost alien, but in a gentle, oddly playful way. Tall transparent circles standing on spindly black bases, like soap bubbles that someone coaxed into staying still. Their surfaces catch whatever color the light and movement around them can offer. When people pass, the panels flash a moment of neon green or violet, then fade back to a soft shimmer you can’t quite predict. It’s fun to watch how everyone instinctively steps closer, tilts their head, tries to see themselves inside the iridescence. Kids wave their arms to make the color move. Couples lean in together, trying to capture a reflection selfie, failing, laughing, trying again.
The scene is a small reminder of how Prague likes to merge the old and the present without fuss. This square has seen coronations, protests, marches, music, and now these shimmering glassy rings that don’t pretend to be anything more than what they are. The building behind them carries the weight of historical drama and national identity, while the circles are just here to let the light play. The two together create a kind of pleasing visual conversation: permanence and shimmer, stone and reflection, history and the fleeting beauty of whatever is happening today. It feels complete in a way that doesn’t need explaining.
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