Cuno Amiet

Cuno Amiet

Winterlandschaft

circa 1908

     Time sluggishly moves over this hill. The clouds form lazy blue shadows that sleepily mould themselves along the ground, melting the thatched Toblerone-shaped roofs and the trees and bushes into a pool of chilly air. The minuscule village almost appears to be a mirage, many of its shapes taking on curious guises that, at a long and studied first glance, remain somewhat indistinct. The thick haze that settles with the chill is felt through the use of cool colours: mud-purple, yellowish- and pine-green, spotted red and snow-blue, all relax with each other on a dream-like play area that forms this Swiss landscape.

     The absence of people strengthens the composure of this piece. One is supposed to focus their eye on the irregularities - on the hills on hills, on the humourously coiffed tree tops and their squirming trunks - and to mindlessly run over every line and curve without a precise destination, like following an incomplete map. Only subtly is one reminded of human kind; Amiet purposely placed the triangular dwellings at the centre of his composition, but by submerging them in a layer of shadow he masked the crudity of their structures, thus blunting their sharp edges into the sinuous ways of their environs. In a sense, Amiet buried this hint of humanity into the ground; he tells one that it is there, but he veils its presence with the one thing that has and always will dominate: Mother Nature.

17th Century Metalwork: the Perfume Bottle

Made in the Netherlands (artist(s) unknown)

Scent Flask

circa 1650

(enamelled gold)

     This is tiny, once held by the fingers of a lady at her toilette or by a gentleman bestowing a token of love. Even tinier are its parrots and peacocks and hummingbirds, and its spray roses, tulips and other flowers - the plumes and petals of which lie together like puzzle pieces against the white skies.

     With a gentle tug the nozzle is meant to be popped off to reveal (possibly) a little rod either of treated ceramic or wood and imbibed with the perfume. It is easy to picture that, mimicing the flask's tapering neck, the scent whisped out like an escaped flame, creating a transient halo above the gilt mouth. The flask's neck also suggests that the perfume was not something to be gushed out half-heartedly, but used in delicate quantities.

     Perhaps the immaculacy of this flask is in response to its function. Everything is intentionally delicate, whether it be the ease of transition from one colour or line to another, or the lightness of feathers and soft winds. Seeing the flora and fauna brightly lit by such a magnificent palette not only whets one's eyes and ears (is it not possible to imagine the birds' soft calls or the rustling of leaves?) but also one's nose. The thought of perfume coordinates perfectly, as the flask uses its outer décor to foreshadow its contents inside. And for those who wished to convey pristine elegance this palm-sized bottle certainly fulfiled that purpose.

(Please note that this flask is no taller than a quarter of the surface size of one's palm.)

Carl Moll

Carl Moll

Winter (Hohe Warte in Wien)

circa 1903

     We are leaving this scene, or at least it is leaving us. The figures' backs are facing our direction, implying that we are unwelcome, and the snow-pillowed bench has been untouched for some time, lacking any kind of warm-blooded contact. The skies are heavy with greyness, possibly foreboding sadness, and though the trees stand in a neat queue they remain singular and distant from one another. Their nakedness is not only a sign of hibernation, but of a lack of security.

     There seems to be a set of footprints just visible in the immediate foreground: slightly distanced apart they lead to our right, but there are none on either side of them. Could they be another sign blocking our path? Or do they deceive our eye, being merely the sunken crevices between the cobblestones?

     This interpretation of the colour woodcut is perhaps a bit depressing, but it is necessary to think of in order to understand another take, that which is probably more realistic. Despite the apparent bareness of the cobbled drive and of the skies and branches there is something beautiful that ties this all together; something that is simple. It is the moment in a large seasonal cycle, like a page in a thick book, that shows everything at rest, taking its time; as the viewers we are at least meant to pause and take in the stillness of what we see, but to not enter into it. We are meant to look past the thoughts of lonliness, and to see with ignorant eyes an honest portrayal of a winter's day.