Berlinchester at the Czech Embassy

The Czech embassy looms out from the corner of Mohrenstrasse and Wilhelmstrasse, Berlin’s traditional government quarter, like a giant cold war spaceship, ready to suck up passers by and transport them back to the mid-70s. Which in a manner of speaking, it does. This concrete and glass behemoth is a great example of ‘Soviet Sci-Fi” [...]

The Czech embassy looms out from the corner of Mohrenstrasse and Wilhelmstrasse, Berlin’s traditional government quarter, like a giant cold war spaceship, ready to suck up passers by and transport them back to the mid-70s. Which in a manner of speaking, it does. This concrete and glass behemoth is a great example of ‘Soviet Sci-Fi” architecture- a term coined by Frederic Chaubin, editor of Citizen K, to describe 1960s and 70s Communist bloc buildings with a space-age aesthetic. These Sovio-futurist structures have been slowly vanishing from Berlin’s cityscape since the Wende, although the Czech embassy looks likely to be around for a while, not least due to its stunning interior.

The (then) Czechoslovakian embassy was built between 1974 and 1978 by architects Vera and Vladimir Machonin (who were also responsible for the Kotva department store in Prague). It initially stood alone in the wasteland adjacent to the Berlin wall, a massive 48×48-metre monolith, with only Hitler’s bunker for company. The area has subsequently been built up, but this doesn’t appear to have diminished the building’s stunning monumentality. The Brutalist design –no obvious entrance, lots of concrete and mirrored glass (a commie fave) – makes the embassy a less than inviting prospect. But if the exterior shouts “be afraid, be very afraid!” then the interior says something more along the lines of: “Harvey Wallbanger, anyone?” It’s a colourful stylistic journey back to the mid-1970s, which has remained for the most part unchanged since the embassy was opened. The dark entranceway, tucked under the recesses of the building, opens out onto to a wood-panelled lobby and various circular anterooms, decked out in eye-wateringly bright reds and yellows. Futuristic glass and metal lampshades hang from slatted orange and red ceilings. Rows of chairs upholstered in red and tan coloured leather are set out in each room, as if awaiting the return of some mutton-chopped, beflared diplomats. On the first floor, an enormous conference room with movable walls and huge angular windows provides views of the neighbouring GDR-era housing estate, once home to celebs such as Katharina Witt and the man who accidentally brought down the Berlin wall, politburo member Günter Schabowski. The embassy also houses a small cinema, decorated in a vivid combo of blues and oranges, a colour combination that few interior designers have dared undertake since then. In one room, a huge painting of the Baltic Sea hangs from the wall, a gift from the GDR to the landlocked CSSR (the GDR authorities seemed to have enjoyed giving people views of what they didn’t have – trip up the TV tower to have a look at the West, anyone?). The almost flawless mid-70s Ostbloc aesthetic which characterises the interior is only slightly let down by the presence of some large, hideous  reproductions etchings of Old Prague TM. Oh well, you can’t have it all!

Although it’s yet to be given an 8-page spread in Wallpaper magazine (which in time, it will), the embassy’s interior has a cult reputation. It’s occasionally used for fashion shoots and parties, and photographer Candida Höfer devoted an entire book to it. Whilst there has been some discussion about renovation, there are no immediate plans to make any changes to the interior, which should be preserved for all time, as a lesson to designers on how to get 70s revivals right. Were this London, the building would have been sold off and turned into a hip members club long ago, but in Berlin, where there is space aplenty and property is not at a premium, it thankfully remains in the hand of the Czechs.