Looking at Pictures

by Robert Walser, Susan Bernofsky (Translation), Lydia Davis (Translation)

A beautiful and elegant collection, with gorgeous full-color art reproductions, Looking at Pictures presents a little-known side of the eccentric Swiss genius: his great writings on art. His essays consider Van Gogh, Cezanne, Rembrandt, Cranach, Watteau, Fragonard, Brueghel and his own brother Karl and also discuss general topics such as the character of the artist and of the dilettante as well as the differences between painters and poets. Every piece is marked by Walser’s unique eye, his delicate sensitivity, and his very particular sensibilities—and all are touched by his magic screwball wit.

Genres: Art, Nonfiction, Essays, Short Stories, Photography, 20th Century, Art History

144 pages, Hardcover

First published January 1, 1981

About the author

Robert Walser, a German-Swiss prose writer and novelist, enjoyed high repute among a select group of authors and critics in Berlin early in his career, only to become nearly forgotten by the time he committed himself to the Waldau mental clinic in Bern in January 1929. Since his death in 1956, however, Walser has been recognized as German Switzerland’s leading author of the first half of the twentieth century, perhaps Switzerland’s single significant modernist. In his homeland he has served as an emboldening exemplar and a national classic during the unparalleled expansion of German-Swiss literature of the last two generations.

Walser’s writing is characterized by its linguistic sophistication and animation. His work exhibits several sets of tensions or contrasts: between a classic modernist devotion to art and a ceaseless questioning of the moral legitimacy and practical utility of art; between a spirited exuberance in style and texture and recurrent reflective melancholy; between the disparate claims of nature and culture; and between democratic respect for divergence in individuals and elitist reaction to the values of the mass culture and standardization of the industrial age.

Reviews

[Warwick · Rating 2 out of 5]

This handsome collection of Walser's essays on art is a beautiful book qua book, with sewn pages and pasted-in reproductions of some of the pictures he discusses – it just calls out to you to pick it up and browse. Unfortunately, what Walser is saying is mostly rather banal as criticism – perhaps a better way to think about these pieces is that they are little bursts of creative writing inspired by works of art. This piece from Karl Stauffer-Bern, for instance:


Portrait of Lydia Welti-Escher, 1886

…inspires a brief imagined dialogue between the painter and his subject (‘STAUFFER: Hate me, and act accordingly. It appears to me as if this is the path by which salvation might come to me. LYDIA: Friendship—how painful you are!’), while Manet's Olympia:


Olympia, 1863

…makes him fantasise that he is trying to write while Olympia stares at him (‘“You seem so immersed in your vocation,” she said, and I nodded’). The artist he responds to most often and most feelingly is his brother, Karl Walser, several of whose pieces are reproduced here:


The Dream, 1903

His response to this is typical of his general tone: ‘All was soft and seemed lost. Had the woman's powers shrunk me to a manikin? The power of Woman: where, when, and how does it reign? In the eyes of men? When we are dreaming? In thought?’ To me Walser is whimsical, trivial, inconclusive and vaguely unfulfilling, and yet weirdly compelling at the same time. Often he says nothing of any relevance at all, or breaks off at random, traits that the translators in their introduction try to spin as productive eccentricity. One review of a Belgian art exhibition that he wrote for Prager Presse in 1926 just stops abruptly with the following words:

Pleased as I am to have had the opportunity to speak about a stately and beautiful artistic event, I consider myself obliged to limit myself with regard to the extensiveness of my remarks. Everything I have neglected to say can be given voice to by others.

Would have loved to see his editor's face when he saw that one come in. Overall I continue to find Walser rather overrated, but this is at least a beautiful book to hold and flick through.

(August 2017)

[Jimmy · Rating 4 out of 5]

In Nature there is no warmth, it is only man–fearful, ever-zealous man–who thinks he ought to feel some. And what charming lies the poets present to us! Poets are not usually acquainted with Nature, they rarely get to know her and don't even wish to. They are generally quite thick-headed. The painter's trade involves his making far more tender observations. It is Nature's indifference and intransigence that often inspire him to apply his most glowing, ardent colors. The task in a certain case is to pull oneself together; in another, to remain cold in the face of coldness. One can be cold with the greatest ardor, cordiality and warmth when art requires. All the great painters mastered this, every one of them had to learn this skill. Their paintings make this obvious. Painting is the coldest art, it is an art of the intellect, of observation, of contemplation, of the most severely dissected feelings. What is taste other than dissected feelings, dismembered musings? And what does one paint with if not with one's taste? Should not one's sense of color and one's sense of taste stand in the closest proximity to each other? Should not a certain odor be able to call forth the impression of a certain color?

I shared the above passage with my girlfriend and she felt that he was being prescriptive and condescending.

I immediately felt defensive. But then there is something about defending this claim that made me think, maybe I am not giving Walser enough thought precisely because I think I understand him too much. I always jump to the first conclusion having given him the benefit of the doubt, that he is a heavenly and tender soul and can do no wrong. Therefore all is excused. I started to say how he doesn't mean what he says, many times, because he is writing in a voice, and he is actually much more of a poet than a painter, so he is kind of making fun of himself.

But now that I think about it, I still defend him. But for different reasons. Because although Walser always plays with voice, he is always sincere. He never doesn't mean something that he says. But he means it so deeply, so tenderly and without irony (or at least with a very ambivalent soft irony) at every point. And at every other point he is always contradicting himself with equal sincerity, saying the very opposite with full feeling, that it creates an effect where it's not like you believe him less, you believe him more. But that the art of saying, the art of writing the thing so fully felt is the point, rather than what is said. And yes, maybe he is being condescending and prescriptive, but I don't believe it is from the point of ego. It is almost like he is trying on the clothes of saying, as a poet does with words, and trying on the suit of feeling. He is both ironic and completely sincere. He understands irony, surely, he is not as naive as he at first seems. But simple flat irony would be an easy way out for him, and it would not make Walser as interesting as he is to me if he were only that. It is that he is always completely sincere and yet you can never take what he says as standing in for him, for Walser's definite being, for his unmoving ego. 'Feeling' for him is ever fluctuating in the rhythms of saying the thing. That you feel the watery nature of man, moving from statement to statement, so sure of himself yet so silly, so full of folly and fault. And yet Walser knows this. He knows many of the faults of this watery-ness and he peers into it. He allows you to see his faults, his inconsistencies, his own ugly warts. His ridiculousness and his hypocrisy at every turn. He lets you in on his ugly self. That this in turn creates great feeling within himself, conflicted feelings about himself and the world. It is an ever fluctuating cycle that returns and reverberates outwards and inwards creating waves and waves. There is no standing self. There is no Robert Walser but a million images of him being truly him. Being full of conviction, pushing every fault to its fault-lines until he doesn't exist anymore. He's held everything fully and wondered at it. He's been the jerk, he's been the tender naive one, he's been the self righteous one and the one who condemns self righteousness, he's singeing with humanity in all its messy imperfections, he's practically the most human writer out there. He contains a hundred million little shards of truth, each one not being any less true because another one contradicts it.

The rest of this review will just consist of quotes:

"The sickly paleness of the poet's face gave me occasion to use my favorite colors, the ones that have been the most faithful to me. I applied them simply, handling them coldly and with pride. What a contradiction: being in love with–completely enamored of–something and yet having to behave in a cold, dismissive way! Mastering this art comprises the entire wizardry of painting. Great talent, a definite gift, and well-cultivated tastes being, of course, prerequisites. Loving a color with all one's ardent soul and yet still having the desire to approach it with as little friendliness and familiarity as possible. Because colors can besiege you! and it is crucial to have learned to coldly, mercilessly reject this onslaught of sweetness, which can be ruinous for a picture. Yet at the same time, you must tremble before the sweetness of these sweet things, feeling endless joy at being able to make use of them, apply them: walking this tightrope of feelings is essential when it comes to great art. Great art resides in great goings-astray, just as the most poignant grace likes best to dwell in contortions." p 32

"For hours and days on end he sought out ways to make unintelligible the obvious, and to find for things easily understood an inexplicable basis. As time went by, a secret watchfulness settled in his eyes from so much precise circling of contours that became for him edges of a mystery." p 138 (on Cezanne)

"From far away, peering gently and discreetly over at what is near at hand, we perceive something we would dearly love to have nearby: the unknown and yet all too intimate, familiar distance." p 125

[Mairita (Marii grāmatplaukts) · Rating 2 out of 5]

Spēju novērtēt izdomu, tomēr Valsera kunga daiļmuldēšana galīgi negāja pie sirds. Laikam mūs šķir pārāk liels attālums laikā un uzskatos.

[Tuck · Rating 4 out of 5]

some of walsers little jewels, short thoughts and essays on art , many from and in pre-wwi berlin. it's interesting to see his progression too from savage young-person punk rock attitude to new things and new ways, to a more thoughtful looking at art later, his topics include his brother karl walser's paintings, plus van gogh, fragonard, cezanne etc etc
has lovely, "tacked in" color illustrations and some source end notes.

[Tom · Rating 5 out of 5]

A trio of top translators (Susan Bernofsky, Lydia Davis, and Christopher Middleton) tackle Walser's musings, fictional and non-, on paintings. With Walser, the emotional register is all over the place, yet a rhetoric of restrained [with gritted teeth] [pseudo] elegance permeates the tone--often humorously, often with over-the-top dramatics. But Walser is also a serious looker and a shrewd analyst.

[Peter Landau · Rating 3 out of 5]

Over the last decade or so I’ve been hearing about Robert Walser, mostly from the New York Review of Books. I take their suggestions very seriously, judging books by their covers and attracted to the design of the imprint as much as those great Vintage Contemporary ones from the 1980s. But it was the handsome volume by New Directions (no slouch in art direction), LOOKING AT PICTURES, that finally got me reading. It’s a lesser work, a collection of essays, stories and diversions triggered by classic and modern paintings, including a few by his elder brother. These pieces are short and the illustrations are small but colorful, giving the book the feel of an art piece rather than literature. I breezed through it, often daydreaming, distracted by a thought generated by the author, which I carried for a few lines or paragraphs before I realized I had strayed. It’s not a bad way to spend the day.

[jo ianni]

Quite honestly one of my favourite short fiction authors beyond any doubt. Wonderful translations in this particular collection of fiction and nonfiction that bring across to English what Walser is known for simplicity, understanding, and surprise.

[Chloe · Rating 1 out of 5]

The title deliberately advises you that this is an account of Walser's response to pictures, rather than a prose retelling of what he saw, which is promising, as visual art should not need verbal description. Equally, it promises an account of the effect of the pictures themselves, unencumbered by the cultural burden of prejudice towards or against an artist. Walser honestly admits that he is often ignorant of the artist's circumstances and inspiration, leaving him free to imagine them, as for example with Watteau:

"Knowing little about him, I shall nonetheless promptly make my way, as if rambling across meadows, into the task of describing his life..."

At this point, Walser departs from his interesting intellectual exercise, his stated mission, and does exactly the opposite: he attempts to use biography - moreover entirely invented - as a tool to interpret the pictures.

Rambling, waffling and inconclusive, Walser frequently devalues his own theorising at the paragraph end:

"Women's intelligence aligns itself more supplely with their feelings; for this reason, their cleverness is generally good, gives the impression of kindness, does not destroy the peaceful course of things, and is more accurate and useful when it comes to giving advice. I like interacting with women, especially in business dealings, on account of this friendlier variety of cleverness. For goodness's sake: what harm does it do if I praise women? If I were a woman, I would praise men."

"For goodness's sake"? Which brings me to the dreadful translation by Susan Bernofsky (Lydia Davis and Christopher Middleton also translated passages, and did a better job): it jars and is unforgivable in the following two examples:

"The sickly paleness of the poet's face..."

"...in an era when delicate persons have the most indelicate heaps of cares piled upon their shoulders."

Not for nothing do we have the words "palor" and "people".

Ultimately, the question of why we should be interested in Walser's response in particular is not adequately answered by this - albeit beautifully illustrated - pompously written, lazily ignorant volume.

[Dave · Rating 3 out of 5]

Not exactly what I expected. Walser was a Swiss writer and artist from the first half of the 2oth Century. The book is a series of reflections on art. They are not criticisms but flights of intellectual revelry. His voice reminds of the effete comic characters of 1930s movies, the thin older men with single lens eyewear and high collars and thin ties who expound on the artiste. He doesn't have all that much to say, which is promising in a way. Doing writing about art does not have to be very difficult.

[Santino · Rating 5 out of 5]

I found this book to be very thought-provoking. It is an essential read for anyone who is interested in Walser or Art. Reproductions of the paintings Walser discusses are included and this is a nice touch.

[Taube · Rating 4 out of 5]

Like Sister Wendy Beckett and Oscar Wilde had a baby.

[Wendy · Rating 5 out of 5]

Absolutely magical.

[Brian · Rating 5 out of 5]

Impossible not to be charmed.

[Alexa Kibbgy · Rating 5 out of 5]

Robert Walser's Looking at Pictures is, in the simplest of terms, an eclectic collection of the author's musings on various artworks.
Light-hearted but never shallow, noble but never moralising, charming but never twee. This collection is endearingly "old-fashioned". Beauty, truth and love are central themes, without it feeling like you're reading A Course in Miracles. Quite unexpectedly, Walser's discussion of women and sexuality in this book won't seem archaic to contemporary readers.
This book is ideal for the artist, the amateur or the gallery-goer. Fictive autobiographies give advice and inspiration to painters, while Walser's commentary on both famous and less well-known artworks provide a unique way to view, enjoy and learn from art in one's own life.
Walser's storytelling ability shines in this anthology- this is not so much art history as art speculative fiction, art poetry, art meditation. There are vignettes of historical fiction, long explanations of portraiture and landscape paintings, and near-mystical musings all wrapped up in a relatively short and very readable text. The translators did an excellent job, providing clear and vivid interpretation.
Ultimately, this book is excellent for those looking for a meaningful, eloquent, down-to-earth and enjoyable book on art that does not require a lot of prior art history knowledge. All you need to take with you into this book is the ability to find pleasure in art and a heart that can be stirred accordingly.

[Jina · Rating 3 out of 5]

This book was, admittedly hard to read. I often found myself having to re-read not only a sentence or an entire page, but sometimes an entire passage. A lot of these works were unpublished ramblings; a far from fluid stream of thoughts that had merely made it to paper. Despite easily getting lost in his flowery words (and not in a good way), I really did enjoy this book. It was interesting to see art through someone else’s eyes. The way Robert gave life to two dimensional pieces was refreshing. I can honestly say it has forever changed the way I will view a work of art.

A bit of side note, but I also really enjoyed the way this book felt in my hands. The weight and size wasn’t too much for one hand. The texture of pages were pleasant to hold and turn. The way the pieces of art were inserted as if they were a separate photo someone glued into the book (you could literally lift them three-quarters away from the page). I daresay that this book, itself, is a piece of art.

[Geri Degruy · Rating 3 out of 5]

3.5. An odd, fascinating collection of short essays about art. In some cases Walser describes the art in detail, in some he creates intricate stories about the work discussed, in some he goes into a mode of free association about his own life. The first read was a bit confusing, the second clearer. I've never read anything quite like it.

[Steven Severance · Rating 1 out of 5]

This is a stupid and anoying book. Perhpas these short essays are supposed to be a farce. But in any case don't waste you time reading about art from a writer who is sloppy and incompetent at looking.
I don't know if he is a good short story writer, but as an art critic he is horrible, lacadaisical, flippant, and without integrety.

[Nina Shevchuk-Murray · Rating 3 out of 5]

Very elegant writing, very loosely related to the art - as another reviewer pointed out. My favorite essay was on Beardsley - he is so wonderful, and so obscure, and clearly, the latter was not the case for Mr. Walser.

[Evelyn · Rating 3 out of 5]

A series of essays reflect on artists and their works by engaging in speculation about their lives, their paintings, and the people and places that they portray. These are quirky essays that are unusual forms of art criticism.

[Marlies · Rating 3 out of 5]

Not as good as I hoped...impulse purchase at the National Gallery of Art's bookstore. Interesting but bizarre. Maybe it went over my head. 🤔

[R.K. Cowles · Rating 4 out of 5]

3 3/4 stars

[Richard Anderson · Rating 5 out of 5]

Deeply interesting attempts to analyze the spirit of paintings.

[Glen Retief · Rating 5 out of 5]

A gorgeous book, with beautiful full-color art reproductions. The prose is marvelous--quirky, funny, eccentric, and enormously insighful on both art and life.

[Pamela · Rating 2 out of 5]

I can't remember anymore what prompted me to want to read this. I know it sounded unusual and I like reading about art. Robert Walser was a Swiss/German poet and writer who was never successful enough to support himself by writing but was greatly admired by his comtemporaries and by later, particularly German, writers. He did most of his work at the turn of the last century so the language here is a bit archaic. He seems to be enjoying something of a revival as his books are in reprint.

It was certainly an unusual book. Instead of normal art explanation or critique, each of these short essays was more of an uninhibited ramble and at some points seemed to have nothing to do with the piece under discussion. He puts himself into each artwork and imagines an elaborate and fanciful story. Some are good; some are almost unintelligible (to me at least). it's as if he wrote down whatever thought came into his head and made no attempt to relate them to the picture. Still his language and style are occasionally delightful, especially if you like whimsy.

[Jason · Rating 4 out of 5]

Robert Walser was an eccentric German-speaking Swiss writer in the early 1900s whose work has recently gained increased recognition as a number of English translations have been published. This book collects his meandering quirky ruminations on art. I mostly bought this after reading that the book was uniquely well-constructed. It is a hardcover, handheld-sized, and printed on sturdy paper. The best part is that the book contains 16 tipped-in color reproductions of the paintings discussed in the essays with the top border glued to each page for easy flipping and viewing.

[Frank Hoppe · Rating 5 out of 5]

A small book, beautifully made. Robert Walser wrote articles on his responses to examples of art, many original pieces in museums, but also some reproductions. He would then, "hurry home," and write his responses to these works. The articles in this book have been brought into English by a number of translators, but his voice remains distinct throughout. Buy it, read it, and cherish it, or in my case, buy it, read it, and pass it along to a cherished friend.

[Jill Bossert · Rating 5 out of 5]

Walser's mind works very differently than mine, so he is always surprising. Despite his way of getting at a subject from a unique place, often I find myself saying to myself, "Yes, that is how it is! How did he reach that odd little place in my brain? How wonderful that he did!" This is rich reading, in small doses, admittedly, but worth every minute. Also, kudos to the publisher of this beautifully produced book with its lovely, tipped-in images.

[John · Rating 5 out of 5]

mind of his own
fantastic writer
Walser's world

[Patrick · Rating 4 out of 5]

Last book of my first cut at ekphrasis, and by far the weirdest, most charming of them all. Walser takes us on a pleasant, uncanny walk through his musings. Sometimes the musings turn into strange, invented character studies like Olympic. Sometimes they turn philosophical, discussing leadership or life (Saul and David (II); Diaz’s Forest). Rarely do the musings remain focused on the painting which launches the writing. Moreover, there’s barely any discussion of technique, historical context, or anything else you run into in museums and art texts. The writings consist entirely of Walser’s response to a painting, which is usually far afield of the painting itself. I guess his point is that ekphrasis may be all but impossible, and the only way to get even remotely close is just to go completely sideways.

None of this gets at how unique this book is though. Walser is a master of the uncanny. Sometimes, he’ll unleash a sentence in an otherwise straightforward story that turns the whole thing upside down, and leaves you wondering what happened to the ground you were standing on or whether there ever was any ground in the first place. “From far away, peering gently and discreetly over at what is near at hand, we perceive something we would dearly love to have nearby: the unknown and yet all too intimate, familiar distance.”

Other times Walser pulls an entire story from the uncanny. My favorite example of this is The Dream (I), an ethereal, otherworldly story where the laws of nature don’t apply, yet everything remains plausible, even factual, not to mention beautiful and melancholic.

Walser reads like an alien trying to reveal important, necessary insights to us within the limitations of our own language

As a postscript, I started reading this book up at a family cabin in the mountains of Pennsylvania this past summer. The cabin is off a gravel road, and doesn’t have an address. It was morning and I was on the back porch with a cup of coffee, switching between the lake and this book. Around the corner of the house comes a small man with a fishing pole. He barely spoke English, but managed to explain he was a French fisherman and wanted to use the lake. The combination of the picturesque, the suggestion of early modern Europe, and the unexpected uncanny was pure Walser.