Most locals at his neighborhood pub do not realize he's one of the few Czech artists represented in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, the Louvre in Paris or Victoria and Albert Museum in London, or that his minimalist glass vessels inspire awe in galleries worldwide. Still, František Vízner, who just celebrated his 70th birthday, likes to come here.

"Beer is a friendly medium," he says. "The noise, along with a few beers, provides a humanized background for my work."

With his own designated chair and beer mug, he comes here to witness the hops-induced "verbal storm by the masters of all trades," from carpenters to firemen. He only participates occasionally. "I am not entitled to an opinion," he says. "I don't know the lineup of all soccer teams and don't bet on sport results." Usually when the argument climaxes, he retreats into his own thoughts, contemplating an object perfect in shape and color.

He does not mind that there is nobody he can talk to about his work here. He has chosen to live and work in Vysočina, in the Bohemian–Moravian highlands, far enough from Prague to avoid its artistic mayhem and close enough to partake of city life when the small-town blues gets unbearable.

"I don't like it here, but it suits me," he says. "This way I can focus solely on work. Solitary life is liberating."

>b>Manual labor

In Glass Magazine, the art critic William Warmus wrote that Vízner's style defines classicism: "He has worked to create a series of vessels that are among the most perfect objects ever made by human hands."

Working alone without the aid of assistants or craftsmen, Vízner spends six hours a day in the studio, even though the manual labor gets harder with age. "I don't want anyone else to do the manufacturing for me," he says. "I don't care how long it takes. I am no longer in a hurry."

Each piece typically takes weeks to finish. He first makes a drawing and selects a block of solid glass, often weighting over 40 kilograms (88 pounds). He then shapes it with a grindstone, diamond tools and drilling technology, which leaves a flawless matte finish that allows light to softly penetrate. After a vessel is made, he rubs the glass for hours to remove even the tiniest imperfections.

One of Vízner's few regrets is that society has lost its appreciation for manual labor. "Handmade crafts are becoming a line item in the itineraries of travel agencies," he says sarcastically.

Some of his admirers claim that this apparent absurdity — carving precise vessels by hand in an age of advanced technology and erosion of detail — creates the precise moment from which beauty emerges.

Décor as a crime

Today more than ever, Vízner says, society needs a "beautiful petite object" to offset the "muck coming out of recent Czech architecture and art."

According to the master, today's consumer culture demands that art consist of cheap, decorative monstrosities called "art glass" sold for stunning prices in downtown Prague. And then there is postmodernism, a madhouse that completely diminished art's function to produce "trendy peculiarities which serve no purpose."

But, says Vízner, he sees beauty in the flawless shapes of anti-decorative, minimalist art that serves some purpose: vases, plates, bowls.

Not that many would actually store anything in his bowls: "Although they are not exactly for apples, they are still containers."

Vízner realizes that the new Czech elite is not generally made up of art lovers.

"They buy BMWs, not glass," he says.

Then, the average person cannot afford his pieces, some of which galleries sell for thousands of dollars. "Glassmaking is not a cheap trade," he says. The raw glass blocks he selects in Germany alone cost him 20,000 Kč ($911) each.

Living legend

Only a few galleries in the Czech Republic sell Vízner's work. "There is no Czech community of passionate art collectors or noble gallery owners," he says, but perhaps there should be. He admits to dreams of organizing a glass show in Prague and bringing all the medium's renowned Czech artists together to reinstate the country's reputation. "Czech glass should be a source of pride again."

As it is, Vízner sells most of his work in Barry Friedman's gallery in New York City. In June, the gallery is again hosting a show of work by Vízner and others, which he will be delighted to attend. After all, it was in the United States where he first won international acclaim in 1979 and he remains beloved in the art community there.

"Galleries want me to die already," he says. "Dead artists go way up in price."

An old joke, perhaps a bit like his working methods. But it may be Vízner's comfortable insistence on the familiar that has bestowed on his work a global reputation for excellence. After all, as Czech novelist Milan Kundera said in The Unbearable Lightness of Being, "To be modern is to be the ally of one's own gravediggers."