Blindingly white and uncompromisingly geometrical, Vila Müller perches on the slope of Prague's Ořechovka like a spectacular anachronism. Compared to the surrounding family dwellings that have over time faded to comforting shades of gray and beige, the villa appears stark, even ugly. Oddly positioned, uneven-sized, yellow-framed windows are the only elements that break up the smooth monotony of the facade.

But don't be fooled by the exterior.

Inside, a surprising spectrum of colors — blood-red radiators, an indigo-blue ceiling, salmon-colored linoleum and green marble paneling — quickly obliterates any impression of austerity. The multilevel rooms, high-ceilinged open spaces and private nooks combine to create a cozy, very livable environment.

Which is precisely what Adolf Loos, the Viennese architect who created the building in the late 1920s, was trying to achieve. When commissioned to design the villa for the three-person family of František Müller, the director of a large building company in Plzeň, Loos took an almost psychological approach. He questioned the family about the most intimate details of their daily routine to create spaces specifically suited to their lifestyle.

Today the villa is part of the Prague City Museum, but the atmosphere is still downright homey, thanks to a 47 million Kč ($1.9 million) reconstruction. This May marked the five-year anniversary of the restoration, and historians and architects who worked on the project met at the villa to celebrate their achievement. "The restoration was a huge success that yielded many pleasant surprises," recalls Karel Ksandr, deputy general manager of the National Technical Museum, who advised on the project.

One of those surprises was the wide array of colors that Loos used on the interior walls. Having famously characterized the use of ostentatious ornament as a crime, Loos refrained from hiding even the most functional elements — hence the conspicuous red radiators in every room. Instead, he focused on rich color schemes and using the highest quality materials available. Thus the green veins in marble and the grain of mahogany became ornaments in themselves. The result is functional but not functionalist, a building that transcended any architectural style and cemented Loos' position as one of the most influential European modernist architects.

An idiosyncratic style

Loos' greatest legacy is Raumplan, the concept of organizing interior space into interconnected multilevel rooms, with the space and height of each room suited to its function. Perhaps the most famous example of this is the lemon wood–paneled room that Loos built for Mrs. Müller. Here an L-shaped higher level, intended for small social gatherings, overlooks a smaller lower level, which functioned as a private space for relaxation.

Although celebrated by laypersons and architects alike, Raumplan never really caught on in a big way. Ksandr speculates this could be due to the challenging nature of the layout — most people simply aren't willing to navigate stairs all day long when moving from room to room.

"But in many other ways," Ksandr says, "Loos still continues to influence architects today." He gives the example of a recently constructed house in the Podolí neighborhood where the architect designed windows of various shapes and sizes, depending on the function of individual rooms.

Václav Girsa, an architect and professor at the Czech Technical University in Prague who also worked on the reconstruction, agrees but says that some aspects of Loos' style have yet to be fully appreciated. "I'm not sure if his work was properly understood by the general public," he says. "For instance, some people refer to him as a functionalist architect. But this is incorrect. Loos' style was so idiosyncratic that it's almost unclassifiable."

When it came to interior décor, Girsa points out, Loos's approach was in many ways contrary to the functionalist ideal: He often used antique furniture, which he mixed freely with contemporary pieces, some of which he designed himself. In the case of Vila Müller, Loos placed Chippendale chairs, all but one of which were replicas, around a modern circular table with a granite and mahogany surface. Purists would have cringed, but Loos' mélange of disparate styles creates an effect that is harmonious without seeming forced.

An aesthetic experience

With all the original furniture in place, it's easy to forget that the villa is now a museum. Strolling through the interiors, a visitor might be tempted to mix himself a cocktail, grab a book and sit back in one of the Loos-designed armchairs in the green marble-clad living room overlooking Střešovická street.

"Most people are completely enthralled once they step inside," says Jana Švarcová, an assistant at the villa's research and documentation center. "Even if they have seen photos of the interiors, the experience of actually standing inside the rooms is entirely different."

This doesn't surprise Ksandr, who says that architecture can have a profound effect on a person's psyche. "Architects can influence society in many ways," he says. An architect is often a visionary, after all. This was especially true of Loos, who was, among other things, a social commentator, critiquing the stuffy Viennese society of his times and putting forth his own ideas about how modern city dwellers should live.

"A person likes everything that serves to increase comfort and hates all that tries to ... unhinge him," Loos wrote in 1910. "And that's why he likes his house and hates art."