“Viennese whirl: a collection of ‘lost souls’ in postwar Austria” by Karen Leeder (TLS)

Postwar Austrian literature gave us Thomas Bernhard, too.

What might have been a tired formula – the run-down café transformed into a sanctuary for a band of likeable oddballs – is lit up by its cast, all in some way struggling with “a hairline rupture”, all seeming to watch life pass them by. And while the novel stands up for the dignity of the human amid the casual violence of progress, it contains something more existential at its heart. ©

Австрийские tutti quanti: P. S., Hundertwasser House, details (photos, En)

When people asked Hundertwasser, “Why do you wear different socks?”, he always answered, “Why do you wear the same socks?”

(Reminds me of Donnie Darko’s Frank with his “Why are you wearing that stupid man suit?”)

Австрийские tutti quanti: P. S., architectural details (photos, En)

Strictly speaking, there are no holidays for art; art pursues you everywhere, and that's just fine with the artist. ©

Австрийские tutti quanti: P. 15, Departure (photos, En)

And just like that, Vienna has become a great memory.

Австрийские tutti quanti: P. 14 (The Belvedere Palace—the Northern Renaissance; photos, En)

And, of course, the Northern Renaissance, all these unknown artists who made Biblical art eternal—alter pieces, triptychs and wooden crucifixes:

Австрийские tutti quanti: P. 13 (The Belvedere Palace—Klimt, Schiele etc; photos, En)

Klimt and the Secession are one of the reasons (the second one is the Northern Renaissance) why one must visit the upper Belvedere.

When the soul goes forth on travel, and is prest

Round and compassed in with clouds that flash and flee. ©

Австрийские tutti quanti: P. 12 (Café Mozart.; photos, En)

Viennese (non-serious) tutti quanti

But of course! While we were viewing the Belvedere collections (The Northern Renaissance and Klimt/Secession; will post about them later), the weather spiralled downward completely, and we found ourselves in the Belvedere park under the pouring rain. Ah well. Rain brings happiness, they said; given that we finally managed to roll into Café Mozart for lunch, it can be regarded as at least partially true.

Maria-Theresia Kaffee (for me)—check;

Franz Landtmann Kaffee (for L.)—check;

Sachertorte · Kirschenmousse · Maronicreme and Esterházy torte—check.

And so we were rewarded, and we completed our task of visiting a few staple places in culinary Vienna—Café Mozart, Café Central (L.’s spiritual teacher, Gödel, was a returning visitor there in the Vienna Circle) and Café Museum. Hooray!

Австрийские tutti quanti: P. 11 (The Kunsthistorisches Museum, p.2; photos, En)

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.

Австрийские tutti quanti: P. 10 (The Kunsthistorisches Museum, p.1; photos, En)

On our way to Belvedere, a sneak peek from a visit to the Kunsthistorische Museum:

Австрийские tutti quanti: P. 9 (Albertina, part 3; photos, En)

And, of course, you simply cannot visit the Albertina and not see Dürer’s Young Hare: we did. The only (mild) disappointment was that this time it was a facsimile as the original is kept in a repository (fair enough: if you’re more than 500 years old, naming yourself a Young Hare doesn’t magically help on its own). But who was able to see the original that was last seen on display three years ago, when everything was pretty much locked up, I wonder?

But also the drawings of “The Tree Man” by Bosch and “The Painter and the Buyer” by Breugel were there somehow untitled! Were they also facsimiles or originals? I didn’t find out yet enjoyed them thoroughly.