Well as I was saying I bumped into three girls from Cork, though only briefly as there was Venice to be seen and I only had seven or eight hours. What was a great and honoured help was the miracle of the Left Luggage Office. For a tenner I was free of the Monster and Mini-monster. Free, free, free to wander and do my back in properly.
Now the last time I was here I missed the Guggenheim. This time I would get to it, but first I wanted to get my bearings and the best way to do that was to get to San Marco. Rather than get a water taxi or bus or whatever they are, I decided to walk it, take in the sights.
It was a sweltering day and the streets were indeed crowded with tourists. Everyone complains about the tourists, but generally seem to forget that (unless they themselves are Venetian residents) that's exactly what they are themselves. I didn't and don't mind. By steering a course along the canal I hoped to make it into the Square. A sound plan that worked. Eventually I saw a glimmer of bright light at the end of the walkway. Just coming through the cramped alleyway with the space of the Square ahead of me was exhilarating. And then there it was, the Square threaded with queues and dotted with groups, and above all the Lion of the City on it's tall pillar. And of course as many as the tourists were those rats with wings, the pigeons. I was not tempted for one moment to stand foolishly with corn in my hand and on my forehead. God help this city if bird flu strikes.
Now assured of where I was I got a little lost on my way to the Guggenheim, but finding the Academia Galleria, I soon made it. It was not quite the revelation I was expecting. The Max Ernst stuff was marvellous ("Attirement of the Bride", for instance) and there was a nice Magritte, but I was a little underwhelmed. Fortunately there was any exhibition of pieces collected by the Italian, Mattioli, featuring many of the leading lights of the Italian Futurists. That really appealed, particularly Ballo's "Mercury passing before the Sun" and especially Boccioni's "Materia". Now there was a masterpiece.
While there I took a visit to the bathroom to check the time of departure on my ticket. It was ain a money belt I was wearing around my belly. Shocked me a little to find it wringing wet, the pages nearly stuck together, sweaty pig that I am. It looked a bit peculiar, but I spent the next five minutes drying it under the hand dryer. Anyhow time to go.
Next stop and Internet cafe to get my accommodation in Vienna sorted. Strangely I had to turn over my passport before they let me use a machine. Internet cafes were thin on the ground so I had to put up with that. Anyhow after a few hits and misses [I'm writing this on the train and I think I heard some Irish accents next door; why do I always get the non-English speakers! Germans to the left of me, Polish to the right, Chinese in front], I found what turned out to be the best hotel yet.
Now the problem with wasting hours in cafes is that you have to keep buying coffee or something, otherwise you're out. That's why churches are so cool. You can sit and sit, nursing your bad back, until you feel like leaving. My back, of course, was in bits. Too much walking as usual. I'd blame my shoes, but I fear it's actually my walk which is that of something between a duck and a very short stiltwalker. Eventually having gazed sufficiently at whatever was in my immediate vicinity, I decided to wander around San Stephano, I think. There was a little chapel off to one side with some very interesting paintings on the wall. Unfortunately it was a little too dark to see what I knew were some Tintorettos (well, the labels said so). Luckily at the drop of a 50 cent piece in a slot, God let there be light and a wonderful "Last Supper" by Tintoretto (and others it has to be said) was revealed. Really fine piece. There was a time when I disliked Tintoretto feeling his style was too crude. My last visit to Venice, his home city, changed that, especially after I visited the Gran Scuola di San Rocco. The place was plastered (sometimes literally) with Tintorettos. His style sunk in. It's as valid as Bronzino's, or indeed Picasso, or any major artist. I think he's building a little on Titian to an expect, but what do I know. One way or the other I like his work.
Plenty of time still, but I thought I'd head back to the Brek near the station where I had had lunch, have some dinner and reclaim my baggage. Although getting to San Marco had been easy, relatively speaking, getting back was a nightmare. There were no signs, as there had been for San Marco, to reaffirm you on your way to the station and aain and again I felt like I was going backwards. This is truly the city of alleyways, dead ends and false promised pathways; tip your hats Nice and Genoa. Anyhow to cut this long story short I made it.
Once upon a time I did the couchette thing when travelling to Budapest from Munich. I didn't get much sleep then (too many ticket collectors and passport checkers) and didn't expect to get much now, so I settled for a seat rather than a bed. There were a young Chinese couple and an Italian brother and sister (I guess, they looked like twins to me) in the compartment, while the sixth seat was alternately taken by two African men (the second one was up and down like a cat on a hot tin roof). There was not much room and the heat was almost unbearable. We had to keep the door open or we would have passed out, but this meant we got noise from the Aussies on one side of us and the really obnoxiously loud Germans on the other. I stuck on my headphones and ept them on. The others practically went to sleep from the beginning, but at 10.00 we finally turned the lights out. I stayed awake though. A star shone, the first I have noticed in weeks, and it seemed really comforting somehow, homely and familiar. Then the moon, which was full, shone doubly reflected in the double glazed glass of the window. The effect was of a triple moon, each nearer iteration a smaller, ghostlier version of the last.
It struck me that travelling by night I was going to miss the Alps. Just as this thought crossed my mind, huge shapes began to loom up outside the window. As I said, the moon was full and so the sky was a glowing blue, so the mountains were very apparent and at times glowed themselves in the moonlight. I felt a little privileged. The African beside me may have been awake, but I felt I was the only one to get this vision, and although the true glory of this mountain range can probably only be appreciated by day, I still felt grateful for sight. Tacky as always, I put on Brian Eno ("Apollo") and stared and stared. At one point we stopped at a station called Carnia and visions of a Volkswagen Aslan fluttered across my mind.
As we passed through the Alps (it seemed to last an hour or so), I noticed a slight drop in temperature. It was still uncomfortably hot, but there was a little edge of steel. Eventually I did doze off, waking briefly to heavy rain as we stopped in Salzburg. I knew then that the weather of Italy was now gone. Any tan I had accumulated would now as usual fade to albino white once more.
It was during the journey that I had my initial introduction to the Austrians and it was not auspicious. As expected around 1.00 or 1.30, with the compartment asleep or getting there, the lights suddenly go up as the ticket inspector arrives. And he wanted us to be sure he had arrived; a hearthy greeting had he! We had already had our tickets checked coming out of Verona, but I suppose Italy is suspected of too much inefficiency for that to suffice. One way or the other he wouldhave his tickets. In fact he insisted on waking up the brother for his ticket, despite the fact his sister had just given up. Sadistic so-and-so.
Arriving at 8.40, I had a while to wait before check-in, so again availing of the miracle of LEFT LUGGAGE, I decided to walk the city, unwashed, smelly and knackered. Getting the underground to Stephensplatz, I walked up the steps from the station prepared to be amazed. Vienna's Stephensplatz! The central square! I was a mite disappointed. Granted this was early morning on a week day, but it was small and empty, no buskers, no space, just one very big, slightly ugly cathedral. Remember I had just been to San Marco, and before that Piazza Bra, and before that the square beside the Theatro Felice in Genoa. As to cathedrals, I have had those coming out of my ears. As it happened this wasn't even one to while a while sitting down. With nothing better yet to do, I went in.
It is impressive and very much of the North rather than the Italian churches I had seen. However there really was nothing to see as it was all fenced in. Unless you went on a guided tour you couldn't get through the fence, and I really wasn't that bothered. I noticed on my way out that the devotional candles were 58 cents. 58 cents? Not 50, not 60, why 58? No doubt they didn't want to extort a single cent more than they needed to. Didn't Christ do something to the merchants in the temple?
I found the Film Museum (a classic Westerns retrospective was on), had a hotdog, then a coffee. Of course this is the 250th anniversary of the birth of Mozart and Vienna is awash with stumbley gougers in period dress trying to flog tickets. Down Kartnerstrasse there was an office devoted to Mozart tickets, while just outside a stage had been erected for some sort of display of dance; salsa, Irish, waltz (I was tempted to show some of the turns I attempt at my 'school'). The gougers were everywhere, but I went into the official office to escape. Opera was out, all tickets sold. However, there was a special musical event the next night, where numerous venues around the city were hosting concerts, be they classical, jazz or pop in celebration. A ticket was just ten quid, which got you in to any event, so I got one.
By the way, hotdogs here are not like our sorry excuses for warm mutts. No slicing a roll and stuffing things in higgledy piggledy. Instead they take a fresh roll, cut the top off and spear it on a metal spike. They put the ketchup and mustard in the hole before stuffing the sausage in. Then like a lemon wedge on your drink, they nick the top of the sausage and wedge in the top of the roll. No onions, I'm afraid. Anyhow after spending hours learning these mysterious arts, I reclaimed my luggage and made it to my hotel.
The room was huge, clean and comfortable, with a big bathroom and bath. Internet access was free (though I rarely had time to use it) and all in all I was impressed. It had everything! I suppose the staff could have been happier, but then that's their business.
After all my travelling I took a rest that first day, going out for something to eat and then on for a pint in one of the local Irish bars, Flanagan's. Of all the Irish bars I have been in, this probably best looks the part and it seems authentically busy, not just a tourist pub. It has its regulars too. However, a very obviously non-Irish girl tried to pour a Guinness in one go. I hate to be nosey, but this offended me and I mentioned it to another bar girl who seemed genuinely shocked. Nasty me.
On my way back I saw that across the street from the hotel, an innocuous looking cafe by day had suddenly tranformed into something slightly more tacky. A red light had gone on inside, neon lips blared on the sign and a black woman at the door kept whistling over to me to come in. I am sorry to say I declined the invitation. As I said my hotel had everything!
On Saturday I took a trip to the
KunstHaus Wein (that's a gallery), but before I did that there was one very important thing I had to do. In the Prater (a park) is a huge and very old ferris wheel. In "The Third Man", it is on this ferris wheel that orson Welles discusses art and the cuckoo clock. I had to go on it and I did. Outside of a great view there's not much to be said for it, but it was one of those things to tick off before I die. Anyway, back to the KunstHaus Wien. There was an exhibition of the work of
H.R. Giger, the designer of "Alien", etc.. Also in the gallery was a permanent exhibition of the work of the Viennese artist,
Hundertwasser. Hundertwasser's work occupies the first two floors and it should be said he also designed the building (and others for that matter, including Vienna's main incineration facility). Architecturally he is a cross between Piet Mondrian and Gaudi. He was greatly involved in Green issues and this inspires his "Tree Tenants", trees growing within the building and occupying the windows. His paintings are immediately endearing, full of colour and humanity, but after a while the repetition of motifs etc. starts to get a little wearing. There are always beautiful, but artistic? The hoary old question of "What is art?" crossed my mind again and again. I think ultimately he was a great designer, but not a great artist, but then how can I say this when I can look at a Renaissance artist like Tintoretto and hail him as an artist, when it is predominantly the beauty that appeals in his case. Art means more than just beauty (and often is not even characterised by beauty). What an artist should convey beyond mere mastery of his/her craft (which is a huge matter in itself) is something more challenging, an intellectual or emotional wisdom that fires from their humanity to ours. To be fair, Hundertwasser does this occasionally, and so does Tintoretto, but it is again something beyond mere mastery and indeed can sometimes not even require mastery. I am writing glibly. Now and here is not when and where to be discussing this properly.
Coming from the bright hope of Hundertwasser to Giger, should, and to an extent is, a tremendous shock. The perversity evident in almost all Giger's work, coupled with the darkness of the vision is arresting. However, there is very little development in his work. As early as 1964, elements of the Alien (1979) are apparent. It's very obvious stuff too. "Hell's Angels" features a host of bikers being menaced by winged demons. Grotesque babies are common whether as bullets in a biomechanical gun, or as bloated monsters (liked the masked creatures in Gilliam's "Brazil"), while tortured female bodies (even down to his illustrations of De Sade) are everywhere. It is not for nothing, as one of the exhibits shows us, that he had a show hosted by Penthouse. Having said all that though, it is all startling stuff. Walking by the (larger than) life size alien statue on display is especially unnerving (you still expect it to bite). Were it not for the incorporation of technology in his work ('Biomechanics'), I would say he was made to illustrate Lovecraft, and indeed one painting called, "Lovecraft and his Pets", indicates the commonality of the two minds. I would love to see him do this. Lovecraft too was obsessed with the alien aspects of sex, but he sublimated it to an unrecognisable degree. With Giger it's all on the surface. There are a number of pieces, "Passages", that break this preoccupation to an extent. Apparently inspired by garbage trucks, Giger made a series of paintings nearly twenty years ago, but more recently has made sculpted metal versions. Even here he links them to birth, but his reference to them as gates of Hell are more accurate. They shouldn't intimidate, but they do.
I don't think Giger is in any way a great artist, but I am grateful for his vision. Outside of Bacon, I cannot think of anyone who comes close to the individuality of his work. It is calculated to shock (Giger is an avowed showman), but I'm glad it's around.
Hours later I made my way back towards Stephensplatz via some apartments designed by Hundertwasser. Apparently tourists called upon the tenants so much asking to see inside that Hundertwasser had to design a shopping centre opposite the apartments for the public to view. It also features the World's First Modern Art Toilet, though I did not feel the need to pee. Travelling on I happened to pass MAK. This is mainly a museum of decorative arts, not something I usually rush to see, but the interesting thing here is that a number of artists were invited to design the actually display of the artifacts, ordering the rooms and the means by which items were shown (Collins Barracks take note!). This creates a context that makes things that little bit more interesting for me. I had intended to go the next day, but noticed that today it had free admittance, so swallowing my back pain (there again), I braved it out.
Some rooms work, some don't, but it was a pleasant hour or two. In the basement there was a piece on the immaterial architecture proposed by Yves Klein. He wanted to use air, water and fire to construct our living environments. For instance instead of roofs, jets of air should be used to protect against the weather. It was interesting for all that it was ludicrous. There might be something in it somewhere. Actually it got my mind thinking on energy generation.... Anyhow I wanted to eat in a Jewish sandwich restaurant called Trzesniewski's. Of course, I'd forgotten about Sabbath and it was closed by the time I got there. Instead I crossed the alley from its door to a small Viennese establishment. Very nice. Minced liver dumpling in a beef broth to start and then boiled rump steak Viennese style with rosti. The potato came on a plate with two dishes of sauce, while the beef was in a broth in its own bowl. I ignorantly began eating as the beef from the bowl until the waitress pointed out I should put the sauce dishes on the table and take the beef from the bowl to the plate. Once my blush abated I enjoyed the meal. The beer was great too.
I went back for a rest before my concert. Given my liking for classical and the night that was in it, you would expect me to attend a Mozart recital. But no! Far from it. The Irish pop performer, David Kitt, was playing in the Ost Bar. I do not know much of his stuff, but he was promoting a new album, so I didn't think it would matter. One way or the other, I wanted to party a little.
The Viennese opening act, Vivian Mumblemumblemumble, looked a little like Val Kilmer in drag. Unfortunately she also performed a little like him, even down to a diva like bow after each song. Strangely enough although she introduced each song in German, she sang in English. The next act was Jape (Richard Egan, I think), a member of David Kitt's band and a performer in his own right. He really enjoyed himself on stage, taking technical hiccups in his stride, and put in a great show. However, his lyrics are a little weak ("One apple, one plum, one pair...of lady's legs") and his music is a little sub-Moby-ish. Still as I say he put on a decent show and I chatted briefly with him after the show. Nice chap. Then David Kitt and band were on. The iPod with all the backing tracks had been robbed at the airport (I learnt this from the drummer later), so they had to play the set traditionally! As a five piece (sometimes six piece) band! I can honestly say, outside of one or two of the slow songs ("Saturdays" springs to mind), none of it really sank in. However, I can also honestly say they put on a great show and I did enjoy it. The place was packed and I was by the wall with a good view of the stage; when two girls on a seat beside me left I stood up on the seat and got an even better view. The downside was that I was unable to leave my place for a second drink the whole show; I thirstily got one afterwards. After that, as I left I met the drummer and congratulated him on their performance. As it happens he studied in the Ballyfermot Rock School studying under Dave Murphy of The International fame. Sorry to say I just made my way home then.
The next day I took a visit to the
Kunsthistorisches Museum. The first thing to say is that it is an incredible building, impressive on the outside, breathtaking on the inside. The painting collection, on one side Italian/Spanish, on the other German/Dutch is very rich too. Something for everybody from
Rubens (of whom I am not a fan) to
Pieter Brueghel (of whom I am; his paintings are wonderful). There really is a lot there, though the tourist groups with the loud-mouth guides were a little distracting. I could barely walk by the time I got to the Roman and Greek antiquities, with which I spent only a little time. I had half a chicken somewhere, stumbled up to the Rathaus to take a look (yeah big building, very baroque; isn't that a carnival set up outside) and then crawled home. I emerged after frantic Internet searching for my next destination to eat again, searched some more and went to bed. I had considered Switzerland, Innsbruck in Austria, but in the end wanting to get to Scandanavia, I decided to get the night train to Berlin, stay a day or two (I'll be coming back here next week) and then head on.
Through the miracle of LEFT LUGGAGE, this meant I had an extra day in Vienna. More museums!
There is a very enjoyable exhibition on the life of Mozart in the Albertina, though the audio guide is essential. The differences between his life and the life depicted in the film, "Amadeus" (he never called himself Amadeus, instead he used Amadei; and his first name wasn't Wolfgang, it was Johannes, though he did use Wolfgang), are striking. What was left out even more so. For instance, at one point he went with his mother to Paris. She basically lived alone barely leaving her room and barely seeing her son, until, after a sudden illness, she died. Mozart couldn't tell his father and in a letter written the day she died, pretended she had just fallen ill. At least in part he was preparing his father for the shock, and he told him about his deceit a week or so later. That's strong stuff for a young man (remember he died when he was 35 or so; this was in his very early twenties, I think). He gambled, lived beyond his means and had a big grudge against the abuses of the aristocracy.
I am no fan of Gainsborough, but there was a striking portrait of one Thomas Linley and his sister that surprised me. Linley was a child prodigy like Mozart, but a violinist. They became friends, but Linley died at 22 in a boating accident. Right in the middle of all the exhibits there was some pornography based on the works of De Sade, though it never made it clear just what this had to do with anything. Hell, do they need a reason?
Because it was Monday, I could try Trzesniewski's after all. Basically it's a buffet where you choose from a range of small egg and something (pepperoni, herring, liver) sandwiches. It is an awful lot more delectable than it sounds and very famous. Naturally it was packed, but I got a pepperoni, herring, prawn, chicken liver, herring and onion and something else, all in egg, sandwiches with a small (very small) beer for around 6 euro. They were very, very good. If you're in Vienna, try it; just off the Graben.
Easier in my soul, well, stomach, I set off for the Museum Quarter wanting to see the Modern Art gallery (MOMUK). The day was beautiful and the Museum square was crowded. Again Dublin should take note. Scattered around were huge red, padded 'C's (well, far more angular than that) on which people were lounging. There was a 'summer's day at the university' atmosphere to it all (before the university shuts, of course). Unfortunately MOMUK was shut, but the Leopold Museum was open, a gallery with the largest collection of Schiele in the world. In many ways the place is depressing. There is a wealth of beautiful works inside, including pieces by
Klimt, but learning about some of these Viennese artists and their works is sad.
Despite some incredible work, Schiele was at one point arrested, accused of corrupting minors (it didn't go into this too much). Klimt was commissioned to paint paintings for the new university. One of them, "
Medicine", was decried by the teaching staff and in the end he had to resign his commission. Then the painting (they have a black and white reproduction on the wall, and a small colour test piece) was destroyed in a fire in 1945 (what they didn't say was that it was in a castle burnt by retreating SS). If ever there was a masterpiece it would have been that painting. It was stupendous; huge, stunning, very much of its time, but mystical. And there were two others, "Philosophy" and "Jurisprudence", also destroyed. Schiele, Klimt and Kolomon Moser all died in 1918. Schiele at 28 died of Spanish Flu having survived the First World War. Klimt (in his 50's, I think) had a stroke (Wikipedi says it was Spanish Flu in its article on "Medicine"). I don't know what happened to Moser (though Wikipedia again claims Spanish Flu). Another artist,
Richard Gerstl, killed himself aged 25 after an affair with the composer Schoenberg's wife.
After the Schiele and Klimt, there was a fantastic exhibition on images of women from 1600 to the present. Very varied.
By the way, have I at any time said that Vienna is a beautiful city? Well, it is. Not only that it is a living city, full of living, working, recognisable people. There is a culture specific to Vienna, not culture with a capital 'C', but the culture of an active community. In some ways it is like Dublin, though far superior, of course (except with regard to food, where Dublin's variety is always appealing). Anyhow I liked it.
I had some paella, beer and a herring sandwich and went off to the station. I started on my blog too late to really write anything, hence the first part of this piece, but on the train I had until my battery died to make up for lost time. The trip as before was a hot and crowded one. No Alps to keep me awake this time, just seats specially engineered to leave you in excruciating, though drowsy, agony. Going to the bathroom I noticed one compartment had only a Japanese couple, another two lads drinking, so why was my compartment uncomfortably full. Then a possible answer hit me; when asked 'Smoking or non-smoking', I would have automatically said 'Non-smoking'; all the other compartments were for smokers. All us non-smokers were stuffed together. Painful.
Without much sleep I arrived in Berlin at 8.00. LEFT LUGGAGE saved me once more, though this time I had laundry to do. I asked in the Tourist Office for the whereabouts of one, but all the guy behind the desk knew was of one in his local area. It was only when I got there that I discovered it was just over a stone's throw from my hotel.
Just to make a note of how to treat a new city; firstly I got rid of the luggage, then I ate breakfast, bought the map, got the travel pass and then as quickly as possible started using it. First impressions of this huge city are very favourable.
I am now showered, settled and laundry done; the smell has gone. I am a clean, refreshed man!
Labels: art, Music, Travel
South Bank by Night
South Bank Party
