I’m glad we left the Kunsthistorisches for the second day, as I had a plan for what I wanted to see the most: despite all odds, we managed to stick to it and to look closely at things we *really* wanted to look at, and were not forced out of a certain art FOMO.
My desperate eagerness to find Bruegel and Bosch might’ve looked funny from the outside—an odd middle-aged woman running through the rooms with fleshy baroque art (ugh), almost screaming “Where?” when finally she calmed down, terminating near “The Hunters in the Snow.”
We found our long-anticipated Northern Renaissance—awkward, lively, gross and moving at the same time, and it always gives you that feeling of weird familiarity: the people are mostly ugly, your knowledge about mediaeval Brabant (in case with Bosch) is obscure yet the warmth of everlasting life on them never disappears. That’s why it’s easy to feel wet snow on your wool garments when you are about to enter your town. Or to put a paper crown on a peasant girl on the day of her wedding. Or to stay in the crowd among others, grieving about Him carrying His Cross.
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