There before me was a perfect valentine image: a young
couple kissing, wrapped in each other’s arms. Together they formed one unified
shape, and a golden glow seemed to envelope them.
I was standing in front of Gustav Klimt’s famous, nearly
life-sized painting, The Kiss in Vienna, Austria. I had spent the
morning at Schönbrunn, the Versailles of Vienna, and in the past few days, I visited
some of this city’s 160 museums from the Kunsthistorisches (Art History), with masterpieces
by Vermeer and Velázquez, to the Natural History, especially to view the “Venus”
of Willendorf, dating to c. 25,000 B.C.E., to the Albertina, for works by Dürer
and Michelangelo. But on this afternoon, I was in the Belvedere, the beautiful
Baroque summer residence of Prinz Eugen of Savory (1663-1736.) Since 1780, when Emperor Joseph II, first
opened part of the palace to the public, the Belvedere’s art collection, ranging
from Medieval to Modern, has been a major draw of visitors.
So many times, I’ve said that viewing a picture in a book is
not the same as seeing it in real life, but more than ever, on this day, I was
believing my own words. The Kiss has been reproduced so often—in
textbooks, on candy tins, neckties and stationery—that it can appear almost
trite and childish. However, seeing the original, now, almost 6-feet square, I
could grasp the power of the painting. This is one of Klimt’s gilded works, so
the gold truly does glow and the reference to a religious icon is not lost. The
couple is kneeling on a field of flowers that seems to grow, organically
forming the woman’s dress, linking her to all of nature. In contrast, the man
encompasses her in a golden cloak with bold, black-accented rectangles
interspersed with Art Nouveau swirls. The painting projects universality and
individualism.
Klimt was the founder and first President of the Association
of Visual Artists Vienna Secession, a group of academic artists who, in 1898, broke
with tradition in a Freud-influenced era. While not focused on one particular
style, they were largely responsible for the spread of Art Nouveau or Jugendstil
(as it is called in German-speaking countries.) Within two years, the association
built their own Exhibition Hall engraved with their motto: “To every Age its
Art; to Art its Freedom.” The Secession Building, nicknamed the Golden Cabbage
because of its gold filigree dome, was designed by Joseph Marie Olbrich. Today,
its basement houses Klimt’s Beethoven Frieze, on long-term loan from the
Belvedere, in a room specifically built for that purpose. Dating from 1902, the
frieze is a 34-meter-long mural based on Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.
I had observed examples of Jugendstil throughout Vienna.
Directly opposite the Nascthmarkt (a wonderful open-air food market,) I found
two apartment buildings by Secession architect Otto Wagner. One is decorated
with gilt medallions, while the other is covered in a majolica tile façade
featuring climbing pink flowers. Wagner was also the architect of Karlesplatz
Pavillion, which once marked the turn-of-the-century underground transportation
system. Golden sunflowers and vining tendrils still adorn the buildings. On the
opposite side of the city, I stood in Hoher Markt to watch historical figures
move across the face of Anker Clock designed by Franz Matsch in 1911. Klimt’s
1886-8 ceiling fresco Der Thespiskarren, illustrating the history of the
theater, remains in place at the Burgtheater, and his Egyptian decorations are
in situ at the Kunsthistorisches Museum.
Klimt and the Secessionist artists contributed a
distinctively recognizable character to the fabric of Vienna. The tapestry of
grand buildings and magnificent squares of this former capital of the
Austro-Hungarian empire is woven throughout with a fine gold thread that
embellishes its splendor with a glittering, curvilinear flourish.
