Fotografiar ventanas en Praga: una mirada íntima a la ciudad

Charles Bridge: Prague’s most photographed icon

Arriving in Prague with a camera is an act of excessive optimism if your intention is to photograph the city as if no one had ever done it before. Photographing windows in Prague, however, was not part of my plan when I first crossed Charles Bridge.

You arrive convinced that you’re going to devour the city, photographically speaking.

At first, the first thing that impresses you is that cobbled bridge, where you can almost feel the vibration of old carriages rushing across it (yes, alright… with a bit of imagination, because depending on the day you can barely see a single square inch free between one tourist and another: in that sense, February was merciful to me).

The reality, however, is less idyllic: that bridge has been photographed to exhaustion. Photographing it today is like trying to improve the Coca-Cola recipe. You can do it, but you probably didn’t need to.

Still, there I was.

With my camera.

Dry cold.

Intense cold.

Snow.

And that silence that only exists when snow falls on top of more snow and muffles the world (even when it’s in full chaos).

The problem of arriving late

Before you even set foot in Prague, you already know it. Charles Bridge at sunset, the Astronomical Clock Tower, the Powder Tower, its narrow streets…

You get the uncomfortable feeling that you’ve arrived too late.

Too late.

Like three or four centuries too late.

Then, there are the tourists.

Thousands.

Me included, of course.

The historical fantasy fades the moment a tourist stretches out their phone, asking for a photo with the castle behind them.

Suddenly, you realize something uncomfortable (though you’ve been mulling it over for a long time): you didn’t come to discover Prague with your camera—you came to face all the images that already exist of it.

Every corner seems to have a better-photographed version in some book, exhibition, or Instagram profile. Everything has been framed, edited, and dramatized to exhaustion.

Then a question hits you in the head like a hammer: What are you even doing here with a camera?

It’s not about photographing a city. It’s about finding a place from which to see it without repeating what’s already been said.

That’s where the real problem begins.

Sudek and the Inspiration to Photograph Windows in Prague

Street photography hasn’t excited me the way it used to. Clean geometries, perfect backlighting, a human figure strategically placed… All correct, impeccable, and predictable. Over-photographed cities start to feel like mere sets. You don’t need to travel to Prague to take those kinds of photos.

Then I thought of Sudek.

Sudek photographed Prague for decades from the window of his studio.

Yes… those still lifes and plays of light were Prague too.

«I have a lot of faith in instinct. One should never dull it by trying to know everything. One shouldn’t ask too many questions, but rather do what one does correctly, never rush, and never torment oneself.»
Josef Sudek

Prague isn’t just monuments. It’s also a window. A table, a fogged-up pane, or a snow-covered tree seen from inside that same fogged-up window.

His series The Window of My Studio is not a collection of postcards. It’s fourteen years of looking at the same thing. The same window and the same city. Different light and atmosphere. Intimacy versus spectacle.

Photographing Windows in Prague: The Unexpected Revelation

Without realizing it, I started looking up and ended up photographing windows in Prague as if they were small, intimate stages in front of the monumental spectacle.

Windows in Malá Strana. Panes with reflections. Unintentional still lifes. Everyday objects conversing with the city beyond the glass. I couldn’t rearrange anything or intervene. Just observe and shoot.

I realized something uncomfortable: the most important photographs of my trip to Prague weren’t of Charles Bridge.

They were of some windows.

Anonymous, everyday windows, the kind no one puts in a tourist brochure.

Perhaps traveling today isn’t about finding the extraordinary.

Perhaps it’s about finding a place from which to look.

And in Prague, that place was behind a pane of glass.

Who would have thought it, when I believed I had long left behind that phase of photographing windows and doors.

In the end, it doesn’t matter whether you manage to be original photographing Prague or not. That’s not the point.

You have to travel to discover and be surprised.

Walking through Prague, feeling the cold on your face, listening to the cobblestones under your feet, and witnessing history continuing to be written century after century. And if along the way you happen to take a good, unexpected photo—one that even surprises you… well, that’s a bonus. But the experience alone justified the journey, whether you take photos or not.