Performance, Context, and the Underground: Reflections on the Prague Microfestival

Exploring the Evolution of Underground Art and Performance in Prague

by Tyko Say

The 16th annual Prague Microfestival (PMF), themed "Samizdat," took place on the last weekend of October 2024, following a three-week program of 'microlabs'—community-based workshops, performances, and film screenings—held in the basement of Kampus Hybernská in Prague, Czech Republic. OBJECT:PARADISE was invited back this year to design the scenography of the space and to conduct KROTCH Magazine workshops. Additionally, the festival featured the launch of "Existence is Resistance," an experimental documentary film & book co-produced by The Prague Microfestival & OBJECT:PARADISE. However, beyond O:P’s role in the program of this year’s PMF, I’d like to note some of my insights on the festival regarding the space itself and how scenography, itself, can become just as important as the performances themselves.

Our objective was to create an immersive, multi-media space that visitors were invited to get lost in, allowing the saturation of media to pull them into each corner. of the basement--and, eventually, to the performances & happenings in the main space. However, I quickly realized that the festival's success was not just about the curated happenings. The space itself—and the context in which the festival unfolded—was just as vital to the experience. In fact, it might be even more important than the events themselves.

While the happenings were carefully chosen, we couldn't curate the way people would experience them. A reading might resonate deeply with one person and leave another cold, and that's perfectly okay. Art isn’t an object; it's a subjective experience that happens within a specific moment in time and space. That shared moment—where everything comes together—is something we can influence, and that was our goal.

We wanted this immersive, multi-media environment to encourage the visitors to make the experience their own. To do this, we placed elements throughout the space that invited interaction and exploration. For instance, we set up a microphone in the hallway that transcribed (poorly) the voices it picked up, creating an abstract, living record of the festival. We kept the sounds and visuals running throughout the venue during performances, and we installed a camera at the entrance that labeled every visitor as a poet because, in that moment, they were.

What Does It Mean to Be 'Underground' Today?

There’s an ongoing debate around whether it’s even possible to do something 'new' in a world where it feels like everything has been done. While I can understand that viewpoint, I think the key misunderstanding lies in a fixation on the past. People often become preoccupied with previous cultural artifacts—texts, songs, actions—forgetting that context is what gives them meaning. And context is always changing.

Every action, every event, every language exchange is an opportunity for something new to emerge. It might be familiar in form, but it’s never exactly the same. That’s what’s so thrilling about underground movements today—each happening is unique because it exists only once, in one moment, in one context. And that’s something special. It’s also why the commercial world has embraced 'pop-up' experiences—they’re fleeting, never to be replicated, making them inherently valuable in a way that’s impossible to capture otherwise.

Challenging My Idea of Performance

The festival challenged my understanding of performance, especially through one memorable act: Leap Lembo’s piece during the Thursday evening MicroLabs. It involved 24 rolls of toilet paper and a microphone. Lembo began by slowly creating a hole through one roll with his finger. Once through, he held the roll above his head and began unrolling it, the small hole on every ply aligning perfectly with the microphone’s feed. What followed was a series of sounds as he blew air through the roll.

He handed the remaining toilet paper to the audience and encouraged them to do whatever they wanted. What followed was a spontaneous, chaotic, and beautiful moment: people hummed, chanted, and strung toilet paper around the room, connecting with each other and the moment in a visceral, unscripted way. It was messy, loud, and—at times—dark. It was sexual and unrefined, but it was in the moment, and that made it honest. If someone were to watch a recording of it or attempt to 're-enact' the performance, it would likely fall flat. That’s because the magic was in the live, fleeting moment—the unique context that made it feel raw and genuine.

Throughout the entire festival, there were moments that felt like 'happenings'—raw, real, and ephemeral—and moments that felt more like 'featured performances.' It’s the difference between something that takes place within the moment and something that’s carefully staged for an audience. For me, the most powerful moments were the ones that truly 'happened,' where performance and context converged, reminding us of the subjective and transient nature of art and experience.

Photos by Katka Rybárová, Tyko Say, and Louis Armand.

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