Sex Session = Secession [Gallery]

It started with a pair of humping turtles. Well, actually it started about an hour before when I met a fellow West Virginian and asked her whether she liked to go the Secession gallery with me. But in hindsight, our adventure began with two ceramic reptiles getting it on, on top of a counter. The gallery was supposed to show Art Nouveau, like Klimt, but all we could see in the dim light were red walls and black leather. I figured it was some sort of trendy nightclub where the Viennese could mingle among the art. We were told to go down the corridor and a flight of stairs to get to the exhibit. We began what became the most interesting walk of my time in Europe.

The dim lighting continued with tassels separating the cloak room to the hallway. Off to the left was a small orange room with plush walls, a mirror, and a bed taking up the entire space. On the bed was a box of tissues. Strange, guess this was progressive art.

The next room we passed had two large double beds and above them was a large plasma screen playing a very explicit porno. More boxes of tissues.

It dawned on me, a creeping realism of what sort of building we had just entered. I whisper to Amanda, who was still in her church clothes that I think we just paid 5 Euros to get into a sex club. Sure enough, the handout I was given by the severe Austrian receptionist explains that we had entered Element 6 a swingers (and noncommercial) sex club. After saying this out loud, still staring at the captivating fingering that was going on above our heads, I became very conscious of the man who checked our tickets. Did he know that we had made a mistake or was he expecting us to….you know?

Amanda looked at me with large frightened eyes and said we should leave. I had the same thought, I wouldn’t want to encounter anybody, but at the same time I was very curious. Just how far done the rabbit hole should we go? I told her we should see what else there was, after all, we hadn’t gone downstairs.

We passed another bedroom with tissue boxes, this time the walls had holes where eyes and genitalia could peep through. We passed a hot tub and finally went down the stairs. Passed a sauna, a small basement-like room held an assortment of lawn furniture and plastic trees. The trees and other plastic flora enclosed mattresses on the floor covered in red velvet adorned with more tissue boxes. It was after we got over the jungle fever that we looked up to the famous frieze lining the top section of the walls. The gold paint and naked women of Klimt.

There were several other people milling about the room. Amanda and I were unsure as to whether they knew they had purchased tickets to a sex club. Whether they were here for Klimts or clits or both. A striking blonde stood in the center speaking in English. We learned that the artist who earned 4 months of exhibition time at the gallery had sold it to an adult entertainer who had turned it into a functioning sex club. An artistic expression of the most progressive sort.

Coffee House Rules

With a cold gust of wind and a heavy pull on an old door, we left the empty street for a hazy coffee house. The fresh air in our lungs was instantly replaced that of smoke. Usually, I would be offended, but in the coffee house with old wooden chairs and cloth covered couches, it seemed more than appropriate. We sat at a small round table at the middle of the room, quietly staring. Posters covered an entire wall, they ranged from huge tapestry-like announcements of new museum exhibitions, to small print-outs informing the artistic audience of the next gig. The rest of the walls consisted of a bar, a full window that overlooked the street, and a more subdued wall with well-spaced framed art. This was my first coffee house in Vienna; it reminded me of a book I had read a long time ago. This was where the Radicals, rebels to Vienna’s formal and classical schools of thought, had fled to. It was here they discussed their philosophies, played chess, debated whether Hitler was good for Austria or not. The waiter came and went dressed in a tuxedo that seemed lavishly out of place, even on principal—the Radicals were against capitalism and embraced the socialist ideal of equality.

My chair in the center was conveniently facing a table that seated people who were made to be written about. The first couple was sitting next to each other drinking coffee. They were in love. Two very strong, artificial blonde Aryan men, whispering and smiling, touching each other on their shoulders, legs, necks. After they had gone another couple replaced them. This time it was older tattooed woman, wearing thick red lipstick and her partner in crime sporting a great handlebar mustache that formed a giant square arc around his mouth. He was wearing a great leather vest. The two that would look right at place straddling a Harley, were instead eating delicate pastries and mulling over a newspaper. The third and final character was, undoubtedly, the most Viennese. A hefty old man wearing a V-neck sweater and a newspaper boy cap. He sat down and ordered a snack of anchovies on buttered bread along with a coffee, his top lip hidden under the most ideal white mustache. He spent considerable time packing and lighting a wooden pipe which was clenched between his graying teeth. Upon lighting it to his satisfaction, he then strolled around the room puffing the scent of sweet tobacco like a one-man train. We left Café Hawelka long after the smell of his pipe had dissipated.

Chopin Dessert

Walking into the Music Hall was like stepping into a Napoleon, but instead of the rich layers of cream and pastry the building layered dessert of gold and wood. Everything gleamed. We stood and attempted to digest it all. Carved women looking eternally voluptuous held up the balconies. In the center of the stage, a magnificent black piano demanded our attention. The audience consisted of heavy fur coats and pearls. An older generation was sitting elegantly in the seats, while the young ones who only had 6 Euros to spare were standing in the back. It was warm and close in the room, a perfect medium for Chopin. I drifted as the music began. I thought about the Count of Monte Cristo, how he must have looked in a room not to different from this. I thought about the dresses and the highly-styled hair the women used to have. A loud note would call me back to the concert. But then the music would make me think about people, emotions, places, and I would be off again. Fans circulated slowly, hung carefully from painted ceilings, as if they were stirring honey. Mixing the shimmering gold and people’s thoughts.