Ruth and I have looked at a couple of crazy people in Vienna. Freud, father modern psychoanalysis, seems to have been quite the grand poo bah. The home movies edited and narrated by his daughter Anna show Freud as the center of the entire family, with everyone catering to him while he lay in a bed/chaise covered due to his illness. Other videos show him with his grandsons practically hopping through the countryside in what appears to be in good, if not perfect, health. He did die about one year after (finally) fleeing Austria in 1938 for London, so reports of his I'll health most probably were correct. Still, his role in the family was undeniable as the wise father figure whom everyone deferred to. In one essay on women, he stated that he had a good marriage as his wife was neither very abnormal nor was she often ill. AARGH, nothing worse than a sick wife. He was able to live his life because his wife bore children, took care of them, catered to him so that he would be free to read, think and write. Oh, and meet and counsel female neurotic patients...
Our next stop was the Friedensreich Hundertwasser exhibit at the Kunsthaus Wien, a building designed by Hundertwasser (Stowasser) along with the apartment/office complex of the Hundertwasserhaus. His art work has always fascinated me, and the museum had a large collection of paintings, graphic silkscreens, and architectural models. The most fascinating part of the museum was the film about his life and art with him as the focus of the film and which he narrated. This guy was completely unable to relate to others, since he had dedicated his life, and all his energy, to exploring how nature and architecture needed to live in harmony. He stated that he did not want to enter into a relationship with a woman since could afford no distractions, and would not want to lose time from his work. Interestingly, he sailed around to various points in the world, constantly painting, with a (possible companion) who organized the functioning of the boat, and presumably his meals. There was a poignant scene with his mother where she poured his coffee, added the milk, and sliced a piece of cake for him. This man had caretakers so that he could completely give his life to his life as an artist. Other scenes documented his work, e.g., lying on a slab of ice in a small brook, watching the patterns in the melting ice or sitting nude on a beach, painting. He apparently like to be nude, the first layer of all humans.
