Precnik’s Ljubljana: A City Built for Its People

Precnik was a workaholic. He worked from home, at a large table an architect of his time would use. He worked all the time. And when he slept, he wanted his time in bed to be short—so he shortened his bed, to get as little sleep as possible.

He was single, with a housekeeper to handle the non-architectural. He refused to take a wife. Visitors were made to wait in an unheated room at the entrance. Only the hardy waited long enough to be seen by the maestro.

All his time he gave to public works; and for all that work, the people gave him a state funeral when he passed.

The morning after I arrived in Ljubljana, I went down to the river to see his works there. I was taken aback. The Dragon’s Bridge, the Triple Bridge, the Cobbler’s Bridge—they were all pretty, but small. Delicate.

And the Central Market, with its columns and square windows, gave character to a place where nature had long ago laid the foundations for beauty.

I’d gone expecting bridges the size of the ponts that straddle the Seine in Paris. But I realised, by the end of my stroll across the river—inhaling the bean that cheers, wafting from just-opened riverside cafés—that Precnik’s vision for his hometown was not greatness and grandeur. He aimed to create uplifting environs for fellow citizens.

It was a cloudy morning when I walked to his house; a gentle chill had gripped it that morning. In Precnik’s living quarters, there was no object—large or small—that hadn’t received the creative treatment. It was a big house, but another man of his fame and stature would have lived in a larger place. But the frugality around stilled that thought—work was the thing for Precnik. Not comfort, definitely not luxury.

The Trnovski Pristan Embankment is a few minutes’ walk from his house. A Precnik-designed promenade runs along it, punctuated by long, deep, low benches that are delightful to sit on. A boy sat on one, reading under the shade of the weeping willows that line the bank. A mixed-race couple sat on another, their little dog indignantly barking at out-of-reach fish in the water. Only occasionally, singles or couples strolled along the walkway behind the benches, crunching twig and gravel—the only sound other than that of the tourist boat that went idly by now and then.

There’s another promenade of Precnik’s in Tivoli Park. Not a grand affair, again, but thoughtfully and lovingly done.

And the flight of stairs at the end of the street from the National Library, which comes down to the river. And the Library itself—with windows that evoke open books, and a façade that simulates a veil protecting knowledge.

The dragons on Dragon Bridge. The market. The promenades. The alterations in old and modern buildings.

So much in Ljubljana is Precnik’s.

Everything scaled to suit the city. Every creation, a quiet gift to its people.