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Tillandsia/Chapter[10}-Sylvia Petter 
TILLANDSIA
Chapter [10]Lunch with Fritz had been a simple affair in the same underground cafe where they hadmet. Astrid and Fritz alighted from the red tram at the Suedbahnhof and crossed the broadWiedner Guertel to the top entrance of the Belvedere Palace.The pebbles caught in Astrid's slingbacks. She had to keep bending down to flick themout. The broad grey avenue leading up to the stairs of the palace was flanked by lime trees, punctuated by wooden benches and columns. She waded through the small stones, somesmooth some sharp. Fritz adjusted his gait to hers, smiling quietly at her discomfort.The posters for the exhibition had been plastered on the columns the length of theavenue to the entrance. Always the same sketch - self-portrait of the artist with his mouth open.“That one was done with black crayon in 1910,” Fritz said.“His hair's almost like yours,” Astrid said. I'm glad you have more clothes on, shethought as she felt a tinge of heat at the base of her throat. The drawing stopped just below ahand over the artist's stomach, but it was obvious he had modelled in the nude.They went up the broad marble staircase to the first floor. Fritz paid two entry ticketsand with a sweep of his arm ushered Astrid to the left.“The exhibition starts here - his early works.”The shiny wooden floors caught the click and clatter of shoes, Not many people. Three-metre high ceilings. Pictures spread out. The early works were portraits - men in their stiff white stand-up collars, women with hats and lace choking their throats. Then followedinteriors, landscapes. Just like any old paintings, Astrid thought.“Schiele studied at the Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna,” Fritz said. “It was hard to getin. Someone now famous tried a few months before him, but didn't make it. Guess who?”“I don't know.”
 
Tillandsia/Chapter[10}-Sylvia Petter 
“Adolf Hitler.”A waft of a smile touched Fritz's lips as he steered Astrid into the next room. The stylehad changed. There were still portraits and interiors and outdoor scenes - mostly of houses. Butthe style had become more angular and the women's clothes were highlighted by rings of goldand red.“Egon's teacher at the Academy said the devil had sent him,” Fritz said.“Doesn't look too devilish to me,” Astrid said. She wondered why Fritz used Schiele'sfirst name. No one called Picasso Pablo.“Wait. Here you see Gustav Klimt's influence - you know that famous picture, don'tyou? The Kiss?”Astrid had seen prints of the opulent gold and colourful spirals enfolding the lovers in acloak. It was flaunted on calendars and postcards in the tourist shops. She nodded. “Did Klimtsay that to him about the devil?”“No, Klimt wasn't his teacher. In fact he told Schiele that he was the better one.”“Klimt does have more gold - I don't understand,” Astrid said.“You will.”As they moved into the next room, the style had changed yet again. “Egon and Wally -she was his favourite model - had moved to Krumau in Bohemia when he did these,” Fritz said.A water-colour and crayon picture of a little girl sleeping on her stomach was the firstthing Astrid saw. The blues, greens, reds and whites of her checked blouse and striped skirtcontrasted with the black coverlet on the bed and with the flesh of her naked buttocks and legs.Another showed two teenage girls locked in each other's arms, the black of their garb offsettingthe white of their faces and the flesh above their stocking tops.“They banished him from Krumau ... for 'public immorality'.”Astrid said nothing as they moved towards the next chamber.“Ah, these ones are special,” Fritz said. “Many people didn't understand poor Egon. He
 
Tillandsia/Chapter[10}-Sylvia Petter 
shocked them, of course, but he lived for his art. These are all of Wally, his ... lover.”Astrid felt a sudden prickling inside her. Warmth crept to her face. The pictures had become fine angular line drawings on a gouache background. Embracing women, almost nudes but for red or black stockings, or a hitched up bodice. Most half clothed. An orange mouth tomatch taut orange nipples worn above blatant pubic hair. Two crayon drawings of recliningnudes with fingers darting into nether parts. One nude wore boots.Astrid turned to Fritz, her cheeks hot. “Is that all?” She tried to keep her voice steady asif it was something she did every day, look at Egon Schiele's works.“I hope you're not shocked, Astrid,” Fritz said, his thumb gently rubbing her nape.“No,” Astrid said and shook his hand off as subtly as she could.Fritz dropped his arm. “How about some fresh air? A coffee on the terrace perhaps?”“That would be nice.” Astrid felt the warmth in her cheeks fading as they traced their  paces back to the entrance. She had seen nudes before, had been to galleries, but Schieletroubled her. Or did he touch something in her?They sat at a small round wrought iron table on the small terrace overlooking theSchwarzenberg Platz, the spires of St Stephen's in the distance. The Viennese coffee steamedthrough the lashings of cream and the sprinkle of chocolate dust.“He was grossly misunderstood, you know,” Fritz said. “One of the greatest artists of our time.”“He's awfully ... erotic,” Astrid said. “And tortured.”“You've understood, Astrid. He was tortured ... by his art. He left Wally soon after theincident in Krumau, married and lived happily ever after until ..”“Until?”“He died in 1918, three days after his wife, Edith. Spanish flu. An epidemic. He wastwenty-eight.”“How old are you, Fritz?” Astrid heard herself saying, Fritz's features washing in withthose of Schiele she had seen on the photos at the entrance.
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