Mountains, Art, and Eccentricity
The Alps is a dramatic place—no surprise there. It’s the kind of landscape that makes you feel more alive, or at least more aware of how fragile life is when you’re surrounded by towering rock formations that could squash you like a bug. For the past two years, I’ve found myself tucked away in these mountains at a hotel that looks like it should be an Instagram wellness retreat for influencers who don’t eat real food. It’s small, remote, and full of things that make you roll your eyes—pillows stuffed with spelt, biodegradable tissues, and other bits of “hippie shit” designed to remind you that, yes, you’re paying for an experience. But beyond all the oat-scented nonsense, there’s something truly captivating about this place: the art.
The hotel, owned by a man named Peter (and his wife Wally, who radiates evil energy), is an art lover’s dream—or nightmare, depending on your tolerance for eccentricity. Every square inch, from floor to ceiling, is plastered with works by local artists. Every six months, Peter does a full rotation, swapping out the old pieces for new ones. And the quality? Well, it’s a mixed bag. There are moments of brilliance and moments that leave you asking, “why that?” You know, a real range. But that’s part of the charm.
Peter’s connection to the art world isn’t accidental. His parents ran an art gallery in Schwaz, a small town nestled at the foothills of the mountains, just a short drive away. For such a tiny place, Schwaz has an oddly vibrant art scene. Despite its modest size and a population mostly invested in farming and getting through the next ski season, it’s surprisingly artsy. You’ll find small galleries tucked into backstreets, and in summer, there’s an almost obsessive energy around local artists and their work. Maybe it’s the isolation that breeds creativity, or perhaps the overwhelming beauty of the landscape—but whatever it is, it works.
Peter’s brother, whose name I’ve forgotten because details irrelevant to my personal survival tend to escape me, is the artist in the family. I met him briefly last year when he gave me a tour of his studio. Imagine a large barn—something you’d expect to house a tractor or, at the very least, a couple of goats. Now replace that mental image with endless piles of Scheiße: old metal, scraps of wood, random detritus probably fallen off a truck at some point. He assembles this stuff into sculptures. He’s one of those artists who thrives on chaos and disorder.
But the real gem of this hotel isn’t inside. It’s outside, known as the “art walk.” Imagine taking a leisurely stroll around the grounds of a hotel in the heart of the Alps, with breathtaking views and wonderfully fresh air. Now, add some art installations scattered along the path. That’s the art walk—a 40-minute loop around the property, featuring various sculptures and pieces by different artists.
Here’s the thing: art in a gallery is one thing. You look at it, contemplate it, maybe stroke your chin thoughtfully if you’re that type of person. But art out in the wild, surrounded by trees, rocks, and the kind of untouched nature that only the Alps can offer? That’s something else entirely. Neuroaesthetic research shows that art is best appreciated in context, and these pieces—bizarre as they may be—take on a different life here. You’re not just looking at art, you’re experiencing it, and it becomes part of the landscape.
Schwaz, with its surprising devotion to the arts, plays a quiet but significant role in this whole setup. While not the first place that comes to mind when you think “art scene,” it has its own pulse of creativity. Galleries pop up in old buildings, and there’s a certain pride in supporting local artists—people who might otherwise be overshadowed by the flashier galleries in nearby Innsbruck. But Schwaz? It’s got heart. And Peter, with his revolving door of artwork and eccentric hotel, is keeping that heart beating.