On Carnival and Becoming part of something bigger"

“Masopust” is the traditional Czech version of Carnival. The name literally translates to “meat fast” (from maso meaning meat and pust meaning to let go), marking the final period of feasting before the 40-day fast of Lent leading up to Easter.

This year I encountered Masopust for the first time. Not once, but four times in two weeks.
Until recently, it lived somewhere at the edge of my awareness — a vague idea of a traditional gathering, something seasonal, perhaps religious, perhaps rural. I knew the word “carnival,” but not what it meant in practice, here, now.

Each time I arrived with little understanding of what I was stepping into. I saw masks, alcohol, exaggeration, and noise. I wasn’t certain where I stood — inside it, outside it, or somewhere in between. The hesitation was mine.
“Masopust” does not hide what it is. It is loud, excessive, playful, sometimes absurd. It stretches roles and reverses them.

It was on my final visit that everything shifted. I realized that my initial difficulty was not with the tradition itself — it was with my own distance from it. This time, I stayed for the entire day and followed the full procession from beginning to end in the winter cold. What changed was not the volume or the crowd, but my pace. Instead of sampling moments, I let the ritual unfold.

The masks no longer felt random. They felt prepared. Repeated. Carried by people who had invested time into them long before the parade began. There was a structure beneath the movement — gestures passed on, colors returning in rhythm. What I had first perceived as chaos revealed itself as choreography.

Then, on a wide field just outside Prague, I realized that “Masopust” isn’t about looking backward into something frozen in time; it’s about looking forward with hope. To perform these rituals — to crown a queen, to dance for fertility, to sweep the roads — is an act of radical positivity. It is a community deciding together that the future is worth preparing for.

At some point during the procession, I noticed something had shifted in me. I was no longer standing outside, analyzing. I was following. I felt almost protective of it — aware that from a distance the word “Masopust” might sound archaic, even crude, and yet what I was witnessing felt thoughtful and alive. Standing there among a thousand shutter clicks and even more smiles, I finally felt it: the magic of doing what our ancestors did centuries ago. It makes us part of something bigger. I wasn’t just photographing a parade; I was witnessing a bridge between generations.

I don’t claim to understand it fully now. But I understand that it cannot be reduced to caricature or excess. It is sustained by people who choose, year after year, to repeat something older than themselves. There is something grounding in that repetition — something that resists both cynicism and nostalgia.

This time, I photographed without hesitation. And for the first time, it felt like I was not trying to interpret the ritual from outside, but walking within it.