VIENNA
Diane slept peacefully during the turbulent flight over the Atlantic and woke shortly before landing. October in Vienna is the first faint hint of fall with pleasant sunny days and crisp cool nights. The young woman at the Hotel Karlskirche welcomed guests from three countries, switching effortlessly from German to French then English with dazzling courtesy. The hallways and rooms at the hotel were decorated with valuable contemporary sculptures and paintings, all in bright primary colors. The balcony in Diane's room overlooked the magnificent Kunsthistorisches Museum and it's twin, the Natural History Museum across the park. Voluminous white clouds filled the sky and Diane could smell the chance of evening rain in the air.
She walked down to the busy Mariahilferstrasse shopping district. In a gift shop full of Mozart memorabilia and miniature violins in tiny velvet lined cases, she bought some postcards to write on the train to Brno. In the Museums Quarter where the Modern and Leopold Museums face one another from across the wide concrete plaza, Diane sat eating a ham sandwich from a street cart and watched some noisy boys in baggy pants do tricky maneuvers on their skateboards. Hanging three stories up, teetering on the edge of the gray, monolithic Modern Museum was an art installation by Edwin Wurm. It was a small white house with a red roof looking as though it would tumble onto the ground at any second.
Across the plaza the white cube shaped Leopold was exhibiting an Expressionist show featuring the work of Egon Schiele, Kathe Kollwitz, Lyonel Feininger and Emil Orlik among others. Within the serene interior of the museum was a white marble foyer illuminate by skylights four stories overhead. The most notable aspect of the architecture was the absence of echo throughout the vast atrium as the visitors streamed in. The galleries were housed on the floors above and as Diane passed from one to the next she absorbed the impact of the Expressionist movement; the ferocity of color, the boldness of form and the power of the content. She stood before an etching by Kathe Kollwitz of a mother and dead child that moved her so deeply tears welled up in her eyes. A painting by Lyonel Feininger of a woman in a long lavender dress amused her. Feininger had captured the movement of the woman's legs as she walked creating the impression that she would spin right off the canvas into the gallery.
Diane left the Leopold satiated and inspired by the art. Early on in her education she had realized that she lacked the essential mysterious spark that separated a great artist from an average one. She didn't mourn the fact rather she had accepted it. Knowing her limitations allowed her to enjoy painting her minimalist concepts without the angst of longing for recognition or acceptance. Diane was able to revel in the genius of others without envy or self- deprecation in the face of their greatness.
In the time-honored tradition Diane sat at a wood paneled, old world cafe at four o'clock with the Viennese. There were mothers with their children in school uniforms just out of class and tatty, older men smelling of pipe smoke reading the newspaper having cake and coffee. Later Diane slowly strolled through the Volksgarten admiring the last of the summer roses, their colors intensified by the warm radiance of the setting sun. At twilight she took the bus around the Ringstrasse past St. Stephen's Cathedral with it's elaborate Gothic tower pointing up to the heavens. She could see the glittering dome of the Opera house and horse drawn carriages escorting tourists through St. Stephen's Square. The street lamps glowed along tree lined avenues flying off of the circular boulevard like the spokes of a wheel.
When night had fallen as she walked the narrow cobblestone alleyway back to the hotel past rows of little shops selling antiques, old prints and books, Diane wished that she could live half of every year in Europe. Somewhere in one of the apartments above someone was playing Chopin on the piano and Diane imagined that somewhere in Warsaw someone else was playing Mozart. Music and art, she thought, transcend borders.
