Chapter eight-nine: Vienna? I-I--- 1906

6 months left until deadline​

Selecting the pieces to present to the Vienna Academy was, without a doubt, the most challenging part of the process. With the Academy's reputation for excellence, I knew I couldn't afford even the smallest misstep. Determined to give my best, I retrieved all my works from the back room and spread them across the main floor, earning an exasperated sigh from Mother.

Each piece underwent meticulous inspection. I repaired minor flaws, painted over smudges, and ensured every canvas was free of imperfections---no tears, no omissions in detail, no careless oversights. I categorized them methodically: by technique (reference versus freehand). by lighting (day versus night), by medium (oil or standard paints), and by perspective (upward angles against downward ones). Every detail mattered.

My goal was to present a diverse selection that showcased the breadth of skills I had honed over nearly nine years. I wanted the panel to see depth in my work and recognize me as more than a one-trick act. Still, I knew technical skill alone wasn't enough to guarantee success. Gustav's advice seemed to echo in my mind: always seek feedback.

Mother's opinions, though well-intentioned, would inevitably be colored by her affection for me. I needed unbiased perspectives---and quickly. Then, an idea struck me: there was a public art gallery in Linz, just twenty-four miles away. It was the perfect venue to gather honest feedback.

The gallery was modest, sustained largely by public donations, but I had a connection there. With the owner's help, I could arrange a small display and set up boxes to collect audience ratings.

Over the next five months, I did exactly that. With the owner's assistance, I rotated my pieces every three weeks, carefully collecting responses to determine which works resonated most with the audience.

The plan worked better than I had hoped. By the end, I had gathered 480 responses---far more than I ever anticipated. With only 25 days remaining until my application's review and a strict limit of three submissions, I now faced the daunting task of making my final selections.

Most of the landscapes---trees and hills---were eliminated. One piece, however, stood apart: a painting of an upward cast view from the base of a hill, capturing a sunset through the branches of a solitary oak. The interplay of light and shadow on the leaves, their hues blending toward the centerline, was my proudest achievement in the spring of '05.

The piece demonstrated I possessed a great understanding of light, and unique perspectives, including the fact that I could work under time constraints, as such a unique view could only be held for a few minutes at a time.

My second choice was a piece I'd created atop a building during that business trip to Vienna in 1904. The composition showcased my ability to capture scale and intricate detail. The downward perspective of the bustling city left no room for error-any flaw would have been compounded over the image. Making mistakes glaringly obvious.

The second one would be one I had made on top of a building in 1904 on that business trip to Vienna. I picked it primarily because it could show that I was capable of scale and quality of detail. There was just so much going on with a downcast view of a city that any mistakes would be highly noticeable.

For my final piece, I chose a painting of the creek where I had played as a child. Unlike the others, it hadn't been part of my feedback collection; the choice was purely sentimental. Perhaps the castle I painted at night was technically more impressive, but nostalgia won out. I'd already chosen two pieces that demonstrated skill---this one was for me.

With my paintings carefully wrapped and a few quiet goodbyes exchanged, I boarded the train. This journey marked the start of what would become one of the most defining moments of my life.

22 days left until deadline​

Arriving in Vienna as the sun dipped below the horizon, I made my way to the financial district in the north. There, I paid upfront for three weeks at an expensive hotel---far beyond my usual means. The suite included multiple rooms, room service, and even an in-house restaurant. Reflecting on the decision, I admit it felt hypocritical.

After all, I was among many to preach the virtues of austerity, and living within one's means. Yet here I was, spending more in a day than I could earn in months of hard labor.

Still, it seemed wasteful not to indulge at least once. For over a year, Gustav had been sending us money---far more than we needed. Most of it sat unused, apart from essentials like food and basic upkeep for the house. Neither Mother nor I had the knowledge to invest in stocks, and we both dismissed bonds as uninspiring.

Letting the money stagnate made me feel guilty, as though I were squandering Gustav's generosity. We didn't need so much---there were no grand renovations to undertake, no pressing desires unfulfilled. Our simple life was enough for us. Still, I couldn't ignore the slow erosion of value brought on by inflation.

Even with the currency stabilized under the gold standard, inflation crept forward. Hundreds---eventually thousands---of Krone languished, losing value simply because we had no use for them.

Determined to make the most of my time and resources, I split my days between preparing for the Academy and savoring small luxuries. The food was exceptional, and the rare moments of rest were welcome. Yet, on the eve of my interview, as I lay in a sprawling bed, sleep evaded me. Nerves gnawed at my being, as I thought of potential paths the future might take.

Chapter nine: Vienna? II --- 1906​

The first thing I noticed about the campus was how impossible it was to navigate. The maps were sparse, and the buildings were identified by numbers rather than names or landmarks. My letter simply instructed me to go to the building behind the art gallery---an instruction that left me hopelessly lost. I had to stop several times to ask for directions, unsure if I was speaking to students or faculty based on their attire. Still, I managed to arrive with only minutes to spare.

The atmosphere of the building was, in a word, peculiar. It combined modern conveniences---swing windows and electric lighting---with an archaic charm of a 15th century structure. The walls and ceilings bore intricate, hand-crafted designs, yet the precision of the layout hinted at industrial influence. It felt as though two eras had collided within its hollowed halls.

The paintings lining the walls were equally perplexing. They embraced a modernist-esoteric style, with softened edges and ambiguous forms that defied immediate understanding. Some pieces hinted at recognizable shapes, while others seemed entirely abstract, leaving me uncertain of their intent.

One painting vaguely resembled animals---if I squinted. Another depicted what might have been a building, though its lack of defined edges made me question the interpretation. One piece was nothing more than an array of rectangles and circles. I couldn't make sense of what I was supposed to understand---or to feel.

The entire building was unlike anything I'd ever encountered. It felt otherworldly, unfamiliar, and entirely unexpected. I couldn't decide whether its strangeness was inspiring or unsettling. If anything, the atmosphere, it intimidated me, casting a shadow over my confidence.

Despite my hesitation, I pushed forward, heading toward the application room. The door, propped open by a stop, invited me inside. To my surprise, the space was not the bland, modernist, utilitarian office I had expected but a small, inviting lounge. The walls were adorned with orange floral wallpaper, lending the room a warm, welcoming atmosphere.

The red carpeted floor complemented the red chairs arranged in a semicircle around a sturdy oak table. In front of the table was a small station---presumably where my artwork would be displayed. Three men in suits sat in the chairs, their tired expressions suggesting a long day.

These were to be my judges; their scrutiny was clear the moment I entered. Their eyes swept over me, assessing everything from my attire to my obvious nervousness. The man on the right, whom I silently dubbed Judicator Number Three, broke the silence with a frown. "We don't have all day," he said curtly. "Show us what you've brought."

For a moment, I stood frozen, unsure how to proceed. I had expected to introduce myself, perhaps explain why I had applied, and deliver a polished opening statement before presenting my work. Was this abruptness normal? I had no idea.

I reached for the painting of the creek, my hands trembling slightly as I unwrapped it. Determined to sound composed, I began, "This is my most recent work. I haven't decided upon a name for it yet, but I---"

I grabbed the one I made of the creek, as I began to unwrap it in a nervous manner I spoke as clearly as I could. "This is my most recent work, I do not currently have a name for it yet, but I—"

"We don't want backstory. Either explain the piece or let us judge it in silence," said Judicator Number Two, his voice heavy with impatience.

They studied the painting in silence, their pens moving briskly over notebooks. I stayed quiet, fearing that any interruption might sour their mood. From where I stood, it seemed their attention lingered mostly on the depiction of the water. Before I realized it, they were finished. Though it felt like mere seconds, I knew minutes must have passed.

Without a word, Judicator Number Two gestured to the next piece. Taking the hint, I placed my sunset painting on the station. To my surprise, they let me speak uninterrupted this time.

They allowed me to explain the paintings origins and the techniques I used to achieve the hard lighting effects on the tree while preserving its distinct shape. Judicator Number One even offered a small nod of approval. Eventually, they stopped writing and asked for the final piece.

I unwrapped the final painting and placed it on the station, the other two now carefully bundled at my feet. It was my rendition of downtown Vienna. I noticed Judicator Number Three's gaze sharpen with recognition---he knew the street I had painted. In contrast, Number Two's expression darkened into a frown. My heart sank, and beads of sweat formed as I tried to decipher what had gone wrong.

Had I made a mistake? Had the painting been damaged during transit? My mind raced, searching for answers, but nothing came. Even as I glanced back at the canvas, I couldn't see anything wrong---nothing obvious, at least.

I was jolted out of my thoughts when all three judges rose from their seats. Had so much time really passed? A glance at my watch confirmed it---nearly two hours had gone by. As I prepared to leave, Judicator Number One spoke, informing me that I would receive their decision in a few weeks. Whether I had made the cut or not, I couldn't say. The question consumed me on the entire train ride home.

Did I make it? I replayed the moments in my mind---the nods of approval, the flurry of note-taking, the questions about my lighting technique. Each memory felt promising, yet uncertainty gnawed at my soul.

Even after it was over, the nervous tension lingered, following me home like a shadow. I knew it wouldn't fade until I held their response in my hands.