Castles in the air.

I guess, when you’re a king, you won’t ever have to built a single castle in the air, instead you might even built them out of thin air. Just for fun, for a laugh, ha-ha-ha. To be fair, Frederick the Great built some of them, like the Neue Palais, for other reasons, for real statesmanly reasons like entertaining other kings or have a ball with diplomats, ambassadors, and such, but Sans Souci, he did built for nothing but pleasure. In winter, the joyfulness of it all might be less visible, but the architectural finesse of the ensemble is to be experienced at its very best.

Royal Wrappings.

In the 1700s, when Frederick the Great was in charge of Prussia, chinoiserie was in style. And so he had his splendid little tea house outside Potsdam’s Sans Souci palace built à la chinoise, in rigourous splendour as well as in rational opulence; he was into arts, but he was also a very Prussian Prussian. He lived in the age of showing off, but he also knew that a crown is merely a hat that lets the rain in. The golden statues of romanticized Chinese noblemen having tea outside the little pavilion are part of the showing off side of things and therefore purely ornamental, and as such they require even more attention than any other tea guest, no matter how high their level of maintenance might be. In winter, they get all wrapped up, to protect them from the cold, from the ice and snow of the severe winters in Eastern Germany.

Kaiser Wilhelm and his bad taste in castles.

Earlier this year, I made an important discovery: Kaiser Wilhelm I had really bad taste, I mean, really bad taste. Schloss Babelsberg, his grotesque summer residence just outside Berlin, is a perfect example of why you won’t find a Wilhelm I chair or ottoman or whatever in any fine antiques store, there’s Louis XV and XVI, there’s even Louis XIII if you don’t care for clichés, there’s Queen Anne, Empire, which is basically Napoleon, everything Victorian, there’s been a lot done in Victorian style, she reigned so very long, then there’s Louis Philippe, George III, the Swedes have their Gustaf, the Austrians have Joseph II and the Americans got their colonial style, I think the colonies belonged mostly to these Georges on the British throne, so it’s safe to say it’s Georgian style, but Wilhelm I? Forgotten with an effort. As if he had never lived. One must know, however, that this particular catastrophy’s architect was none other than Karl Friedrich Schinkel, Biedermeier’s Norman Foster, one of the best Germany has ever had, at least at the beginning, in the early 1830s, when they started construction. Later, after Prince Wilhelm was declared Crown Prince and to inherit Prussia’s throne, his brother’s marriage had remained childless, the budget was increased, allowing them to put more effort in it, demanded especially by Wilhelm’s wife Augusta, she needed even more Gothic bling, for some strange reason everything Gothic was fashionable at the time, an effort that Karl Friedrich Schinkel’s health did not agree with, he died during the planning of the extensions in 1841. Just take a look at it, you’ll understand.

The church of a thousand styles.

It’s a mess, a complete architectural mess, an eclectic monstrosity, Potsdam’s Church of Peace evokes everything at the same time, it features the Italian Renaissance, as well as Roman columns, Greek temples, Russian icons, Venetian mosaics, a miniature baroque mausoleum, a Tuscan campanile, Romanesque ornaments, a Tyrolean chapel, and a particular Tyrolean chapel at that, the one that recreates a chapel from Calvary outside Jerusalem, a replica’s replica, so to speak, there are sculptures of all kind of kings, namely Solomon, David and Charlemagne, and there’s Moses, Aaron and Hur, too, the only thing it doesn’t feature is anything remotely contemporary, the Prussian architects of the mid 1800s who were involved in erecting this absurd ensemble must have had no clue of what they were doing when planning a place for all those sarcophagi of the Prussian kings and emperors and their spouses, but at least the result is so grotesque, it’s definitely worth a visit, by the way, there’s a daughter of Queen Victoria buried here, too, called Victoria as well, married to Friedrich III, and although Germany and Great-Britain are one big family, at least as their Royal families are concerned, she wasn’t very influential, otherwise this compound would feature some stunning oriental references, too, her mother was Empress of India, wasn’t she?

Potsdam revisited.

Blend out what you dislike, that would be my general advice in life, and in particular when visiting Potsdam. The city is over a thousand years old, but mostly known for its glorious ornaments ever since it became a royal seat, the palaces and follies of the Prussian kings, prestigious buildings, carefully designed for entertainment, pleasure and recreation, to praise God, too, of course, the Protestant way, a little less pompous than Roman Catholics, but really just a little, Luther’s influence stopped when architecture was concerned, and guys like Karl Friedrich Schinkel took over, and there are plenty more of fine buildings to house soldiers, horses and plants. It’s all still there, at least most of it, but something else survived, too: the architectural crimes of the GDR, some newly invented iconoclasm, instead of destructing the monuments of Germany’s royal past, they just surrounded them with their derefined vision of socialist housing, let’s get rid of that stylish nonsense, let’s disparage all architectural styles, let’s baste Potsdam with concrete and glass and show them what it means to be equal, pardon my temper, but this is what you have to blend out when visiting Potsdam – unless you care for historically correct polar opposites, of course.

Royal gardening habits.

My parents’ home has three garages. There’s one for the car, of course, one for the kit and kaboodle and all other kinds of stuff such as fertilisers for every sort of rhododendron and azalea, the lawnmover and terracotta pots of various sizes, and one for the garden furniture – the latter we call the orangerie. Pure irony, of course, we’re quite ironic a family, but as the years went by, the irony got lost somehow, and now, we all think of this garage as of our orangerie. How very absurd that is came to my mind just this Sunday, when visiting the New Orangerie at the Royal Parks in Potsdam, built under the reign of Friedrich Wilhelm IV, I laughed out loud, as its left wing alone could easily house half of Wyoming, I understand, Wyoming is not very crowded, and I can’t come up with any other references. Anyway, the New Orangerie, an example of the revival of Italian Renaissance, a style popular in the 1850s among the royal and famous, doesn’t house that many people any longer anyway, the opulent guest chamber in malachite is currently only visited by tourists, but all those beautiful and well cared palm trees, oleanders and lemon trees that adorn the gardens and parks in summer, and as there are such a lot of them, the size of that building is really not that exaggerated. Prussian kings were obviously quite modest. Just ask Voltaire, he’ll tell you.

The Prince of Kent.


There was this brooch, worn by Princess Michael of Kent, showing, well, something all too obviously perceivable as an object of racism, the world was outraged, I, however, grinned, maliciously, not being totally smitten by the woman Harry chose to marry like the rest of the world, for different reasons like Her Royal Highness though, I just would like to have somebody of royal blood marry into any of the royal families of Europe, just for a change, at least serene, the next generation of kings and queens are all married to girls and boys from the middle class, lower or upper, who cares, definitely all next door, not next palace, all these Kates and Daniels and Mette-Marits may all be nice and sweet and loveable, but if I were a subject to some family chosen by the grace of God, to a family allegedly superior to me, I‘d prefer them to take their task seriously and marry appropriately within Europe’s courts (even Princess Caroline managed to in her third attempt, and although she was no pure breed either, her mother was at least the finest Hollywood royalty), or resign and de-HRH themselves, as I don‘t feel in any way inferior to any of their current in-laws. So, in order to quote Princess Michael of Kent, still grinning maliciously, I decorated the Christmas tree with a man I made in school in Luxembourg at the age of eight, just for a politically ever so incorrect laugh.

The royal pleasures of summer.

I’ve had enough of it. One more morning to greet me with a grey sky, and I’ll shoot someone, but the joke would be on me, there aren’t any people in the streets, they’re all at home, overcuddling their dogs, as a compensation mechanism, some kind of seasonal displacement activity, overdosing on cookies won’t help any longer, you started that in October, anyway, I can’t stand it any longer, it’s so depressing. I’ve tried to walk the splendid gardens of Charlottenburg Palace to put me in a better mood, one of the royal Prussian residences in my direct neighbourhood, but it didn’t help much, turns out, all that splendour, all that rococo, all that abundance, all that gold and turquoise, all these shades of green, all that chinoiserie, all of it does need some light to shine, too, turns out, it’s just “Bonjour, tristesse” in winter. But I shall be patient, I’ll wait, I’ll endure this rotten season of greyish dullness, I’ll just need some more egg noggs to nogg me out till summer’s back.

Marie Antoinette in Paris.


Here she once lay. In a graveyard next to Boulevard Haussmann in Paris, next to her husband, Louis XVI, King of France. Quite nice a spot for someone who had a death sentence to endure. I think most of the others who made it to the guillotine on Place de la Concorde during the French revolution weren’t exhumed as soon as the winds had changed, just to spend their eternity a little nicer, rather in a peaceful little graveyard in Paris’ eighth arrondissement than in a mass grave. But as soon as she had been exhumed and was buried on this little spot, they made her move again – “they”, she never ever had a say in this, “they” made her leave Austria and marry the King of France, “they” decided she was spending too much money on frivolous things, “they” declared her unworthy and chopped off her head, “they” didn’t even stop after her death, “they” made her rotting corpse run from pillar to post and brought her to the basilica of St.Denis, she was to meet her relatives, French side of the family only of course, and here, on square Louis XVI, “they”, namely Louis XVIII, had a little chapel erected, the chapelle expiatoire, to remember her by. Which I did. Her and her flamboyant extravagances.