I confess, my husband and I like bad art. No, we actually adore it. As far as bad 19th Century art is concerned, a trip to the Schack-Galerie is like a pilgrimage to Mecca; you simply must make the journey at least once in a lifetime.
Everything about the Schack-Galerie is slightly off-center in a surreal sort of way. From the dead silence save for the ticking, gurgling, humming, and occasional spas
tic outbursts of the dehumidifiers, to the near-paranoid security staff who follow you from room to room, you might be in an old episode of The Twilight Zone. Wall after wall is covered with some of the most delicious examples of bad 19th Century paintings. But two are so "special", that they must be kept behind heavy velvet drapes. When you enter their rooms, the wonderfully creepy attendant silently glides over to it and, when he ascertains you are in the proper position, ceremoniously draws the curtain for you to glimpse a view. Ah, but not for long, as when the attendant determines that you have seen it long enough, the curtain is then whisked shut. For the life of me, I cannot figure out why these paintings were singled out.
On the day of our visit initially we were the only two visitors. Only after awhile were we joined by a young couple. I don't know which of us had more difficulty keeping from snickering.
My favorite painting? That's easy; it was a little number with the charming title that translates into English, "The Hypochondriac".
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