Art in the Wild and Urban Spaces

Hey, Art Lover!

In this issue of the newsletter, we explore how art transforms our perception of reality across different landscapes. We start with Oliver Westerbarkey’s dioramas. Then, a quirky alpine hotel where art becomes an immersive experience. Finally, we dive into the dynamic energy of the Spring Break Art Fair.

Oliver Westerbarkey: Nature Reimagined

A couple of weeks ago, I found myself at a wedding in Austria. It was one of those perfectly idyllic situations—beautiful bride, stunning scenery, the whole nine yards. The bride is a close friend of mine, and her brother-in-law is a German artist named Oliver Westerbarkey. Now, I’ve been following his work for a while, but having him there gave me a rare opportunity to talk to him about his work directly.

Of course, trying to discuss art at a wedding reception, with the clinking of glasses and the constant threat of a conga line breaking out, is never easy. Add to that the fact that English is not his first language, and suddenly you have the makings of an interaction that felt a bit like playing charades, but with more lofty concepts like “human survival” and “the ambiguity of reality” on the table. But we got through it—sort of. Enough to spark a deeper curiosity about what it is he’s doing with his dioramas.

Oliver’s art, in essence, transports us into a world where nature rules supreme—independent, thriving, and not particularly interested in whether we’re there to witness it or not. His diorama-like works explore the uncomfortable truth that while nature can flourish without us, human survival is inextricably linked to the environment. This isn’t a lecture; it’s more of a nudge—a subtle twist in how we usually see the world. What appears most alive in his work—lush green patches of grass, a perfectly formed leaf—is, in fact, artificial. And there’s something both unsettling and profound in that realization.

Westerbarkey’s dioramas are analog representations that evoke a sense of augmented reality. Not the kind with an app or virtual goggles, but something more tactile, more real. These dioramas exist fully in the physical world, which means they engage your senses in ways that a screen never could. His works blur the line between what is natural and what is fabricated, creating an experience where you’re never quite sure what you’re looking at—and that’s the point. It’s as if nature has been reassembled by someone who understands the rules but enjoys bending them just enough to make you question whether you’ve been paying attention to the world around you at all.

What makes Oliver’s work particularly compelling is the ambiguity it embodies. There’s no one truth waiting to be uncovered in these pieces, no correct answer. Instead, the truth emerges through the viewer’s interpretation. For some, his work might evoke a sense of nostalgia, pulling them back to a childhood memory—running barefoot through a forest, perhaps, or that weird time you collected rocks and kept them in a shoebox under your bed. For others, the dioramas might feel more like archaeological finds, remnants of an ancient world carefully preserved for us to contemplate.

But here’s the kicker: the duality in Oliver’s work—between natural and artificial, past and present—encourages us to reflect on the delicate balance between humans and the environment. His art underscores a fundamental truth that we’d all do well to remember. While nature will continue on its merry way, indifferent to whether we’ve sorted out our recycling, we as humans are deeply tied to the earth. We can’t afford to forget that. The artificiality of his "living" elements is a gentle reminder that in an increasingly tech-driven world, we can’t lose sight of our deep-rooted connection to the natural one.

One of the things I love most about Oliver’s work is how it highlights the small things we so easily overlook in our day-to-day lives—the texture of soil, the quiet persistence of moss growing on a rock, the intricate patterns of tree bark. His dioramas preserve and imitate nature, but they also force us to slow down and pay attention to the details we usually breeze past. In a world dominated by quick fixes and instant gratification, his work feels like an invitation to pause, reflect, and remember that the world around us is a lot more complex—and a lot more beautiful—than we often give it credit for.

Ultimately, Oliver’s dioramas challenge us to reconsider what we take for granted and to recognize the delicate balance that exists in the ecosystems we rely on. His work is a testament to the enduring power of nature and a reminder that, while we may try to control and replicate it, the natural world operates on its own terms. Whether we like it or not, we’re just along for the ride.

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 Schei?e: 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.

Spring Break Art Fair

This week, I went to the Spring Break Art Fair. Here are some of the highlights:

On a personal note…

Here’s a picture of my family at the Alpine wedding.

See you next week!

Pato