This is Mein Hotelzimmer in Paris, or My Hotel Room In Paris, by Augusto Giacometti, 1938.
I’ve been waiting for months for the weather to turn colder so that I could show it to you. Isn’t it the cosiest painting you’ve ever seen? Don’t you just want to climb in? I do. I want to have come back from a fun dinner just as it’s started drizzling, and to climb into that bed and to lie there listening to the rain pittering on the rooftops.
It’s one of the interiors paintings I love best - so simple but so evocative. It’s the light, of course - it’s always the light - which is the kind of light you see inside people’s houses when you’re trudging home from school in the dark in winter. That yellow, welcoming glow gives you such a specific feeling - joy mixed with the anticipation of comfort, maybe of something nice for tea, and, for me, a presentiment of Christmas.
I love how rich the interior is, even though it is plain to a fault: a metal bed frame, a modest wooden table, a nondescript lamp. But then you have that light, that gorgeous wallpaper, so full of life and warmth, and that incredibly inviting bedding - plus a thoughtful eiderdown for extra comfort. Needless to say I have a whole narrative in my head about the middle-aged woman whose hotel it is, who is motherly and puts extra layers on beds for weary visitors, and who is extremely proud of her wallpaper choices.
The painter is gratifyingly appreciative this imaginary woman’s efforts. He likes the room enough to quickly whip out his paints. Augusto Giacometti, who was Swiss, was the cousin of Giovanni Giacometti, the father of Alberto, as in the long thin sculptures, Diego, also a sculptor, and Bruno, who was an architect. Amazing family. Augusto was a painter, a maker of stained glass (including in three prominent Zurich churches) and a poster designer. He was also one of the first abstract painters of the 20th century.
This painting of his hotel room is not in any way significant or important. It’s of no consequence whatsoever. But it is lovely, and that is enough.
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It’s beautiful. I want the wallpaper very much.
I know that winter trudge very well, and the magical golden glow from people’s windows. (Christmassy! Box of Delights! Yes!)
Wasn’t it a shock when you went past a house with what must have been fluorescent strips and their hard, blue, thin light? So cold, like the inside of a fridge or a picture of an iceberg. I always wondered why they didn’t understand how uncosy their house looked and why didn’t they do something about it. There were always thin, unlined curtains too, with no generosity to them, so that when they were drawn they were just a single, miserable sheet of fabric hanging at the window.
I now realise that they were probably very low-cost rentals. The people living there were probably as fed up about the icy strip lights and the thin, flappy curtains as I was. But they were at the sharp end, living it, and I was a child of no awareness, basking in her middle-class privilege and warm-toned incandescent light bulbs.
It was worth the wait. That yellow pool of light is so comforting and I just want to climb in and read.