Blackish gravel snaked along the sidewalks in two long tracks, and in some places patches of the compressed snow and ice remained. The lake at the Carl Zuckmayer Bridge was frozen over, unpicturesque but evocative in its polluted way, as a log hovered over its surface and the ducks were conspicuous through their absence. I inspected a willow twig nearby and it did have tiny green buds but they still looked hard and wintry. What was most interesting, though, is the layer of snow and ice that had hardened over the lawn in the middle. J. and I tottered over the bumpy Arctic expanse and we looked down at our feet much of the time so that we wouldn't slip. Here and there it was clear, and in the grey-tinged ice the tangled grass was suspended as if it were seaweed, and where it wasn't clear the frosty surface scintillated in the sun like a million infinitesimal diamonds. The birds were out in large numbers, so I suspect that the coldest part of winter is over.
In the evening I went for another excursion, this time to the Gemäldegalerie. I haven't felt as frugal lately, so I rode the bus instead of walking on the way up. It seems that the gallery is open later than I remembered; I thought it closes at 6 p.m., but it actually closes at 10 p.m. So I had the choice of only going into the other parts of the Kulturforum, or of paying entrance; I decided to do the latter, for once.
This time there wasn't anything particular that I wanted to see, so I aimlessly wandered around the rooms, which were nice and empty, beginning with 15th-century Dutch painters. For me (well, most likely for everybody) the most worthwhile way to appreciate art galleries is to become absorbed in the atmospheres of the paintings, and to temporarily imagine one's self in the world that is depicted in it. It's harder to do now than when I was little, but equally rewarding. So yesterday I would often, quite unconsciously, look at the backgrounds (which consist amusingly often of blue-green hills decorated in castles and set in a tranquil sky) first, and then slowly let my thoughts and glance wander to the foreground. By this means I discovered that I like the Biblical paintings of Rogier van der Weyden, because at times there are quite vivid scenes executed in the middle ground, where one normally doesn't pay so much attention.
My favourite paintings in the gallery are the big paradise scene of Roelandt Savéry, the Madonna with the roses by Rubens (I went looking for it before I left), and the painting of St. Catherine by Guercino. But I also like the round painting of the Madonna by Raphael, in spite of the fact that it is difficult to ignore the lavish flowered frame; Canaletto's scenes of Venice; the portraits of people whose grave and concentrated expressions arrest one's attention; and almost any still life where the glass and silver and linen and fruit and game are depicted with imagination and intense clarity. As far as details go, I like hellish monsters, and finely draped cloth, and gold stars and rays in Biblical paintings; intricate old towns; trees with flocks of delicate, dark leaves; flowers in the foreground (though it is puzzling why they are often so stylized); tiny people; and ruins, if they look convincing.
Still, I did become irritated now and then. For instance, I fumed a little at tableaus of Jesus's crucifixion where the artist had fiddled around with the eyes of the attendees until they were bloodshot like a raging bull's (but with weeping instead of rage), in what seemed to me a calculated tug on people's sensibilities. It is as if somebody would ostentatiously cry in public and then half-open one eye every now and then to see the effect. It also irritated me when very uncongenial-looking models portrayed saintly characters (vide the proliferation of stodgy-faced Marys). I also don't like it when the subjects of the paintings are in unnatural and self-conscious poses. Which reminds me that paintings of St. Sebastian tick me off irrationally. There is something about people looking at one with arrows peeking out of their tummies that is not quite right, and when the unfortunate man is affixed slumpingly to a tree-trunk like a teenager lounging against the wall of a bus stop, it is even more macabre. Another neurosis of mine is that crosses that look like a T are bothersome.
***
At any rate, I quickly dove into the exhibit in the Kupferstichkabinett, and had the room (lit in a vapoury white that reminded me vaguely of ET) all to myself. The artworks were mostly tracings of the outline of a human face, with one tracing superimposed for shock value (sometimes the artist went for a skull, sometimes for a urinal, etc.) and sometimes other tracings, for instance of something that looked a good deal like a tangle of airport runways as it might appear on a street map. Then there were scribbles. I didn't see the videos. I was in an unappreciative mood, so in short order I walked out again, and then walked home.
Picture Sources: Wikimedia Commons
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