Imagine arriving at 10 A.M. at a suburban house in Freiburg, Germany, and having the door opened by a large man with a full white beard and long hair, wearing a striped dressing gown, whose first words are “Hello. Do you like Morandi, Mr. Weber?”
“I love Morandi.”
“Good. Then now you can see 150 of them. And do you like white asparagus?”
“Yes. I adore white asparagus.”
“Good. Then afterwards we will eat white asparagus. Meanwhile, the place is yours.”
He disappeared up a narrow staircase near the front door, leaving me alone. The Morandi oils, watercolors, and etchings were in a series of small rooms, installed to perfection, their frames simple, and the spacing between them as gentle and intelligent as the art. There was no furniture except for one bench per room. It was paradise, but after two hours I wondered if my presence had been forgotten. I could hear Mozart being practiced on the piano on the floor above, so I knew that I was not alone in the house; but no one came down.
Finally, I tentatively walked up those stairs. Dressed for the day, my mysterious host said to me, “And now you are in for another treat.” In traditionally furnished rooms, I saw a profusion of paintings, clearly in the hand of a single painter—but one whose signature I did not recognize.
“These are by one of the undiscovered geniuses of the 19th century. In many ways, Carl Schuch was the Morandi of his era. He was subtle and masterful, but too quiet for the general public, and remained largely undiscovered during his lifetime.” I am paraphrasing, but that was the essence of what the 48-year-old Franz Morat, an important German art historian and collector, said to me on that memorable day in 1989.
I immersed myself in Schuch’s small oil paintings of flowers, quiet landscapes, still lifes (including one of white asparagus), and portraits. The palette and technique reminded me of Courbet but with a softer light and less structure. These pictures reflected a friendly sensibility.
Three days ago, Frankfurt’s Städel Museum opened “Carl Schuch and France,” an assemblage of some 70 works. This is the first Schuch show on such a scale, and it affords viewers a wonderful opportunity to enjoy the tender style of painting perceived by Franz Morat yet largely overlooked until today.
Schuch, who was born in Vienna in 1846 and died there in 1903, came from a wealthy family. In his early years, he lived with a fellow painter, Karl Hagemeister—they were presumed to be romantically involved—but otherwise he led a solitary existence. Schuch could afford to live as he wanted: at one point he made Venice his home, at another it was Paris; summers were spent in the countryside. He had sufficient means so that he did not have to worry about commercial success, and sold only one painting during his lifetime.
White asparagus again. At the Städel, not only will you see Schuch’s wonderful take on that delicate subject, organized as a perfect bunch, but also Manet’s. The splendid matte whiteness, the poetic articulation of texture and color, the angles and rhythms of the simple composition, make these canvases, as well as the paintings by Cézanne, Corot, and Courbet included in the show, a source of ambient well-being.
By the way, the white asparagus at lunch that day were superb: neither too hard nor soft, and intensely flavorful. But the slab of ham on top of them was an unnecessary intrusion on their subtle perfection. Schuch’s work, like Morandi’s, had me fine-tuned to the understatement and quietude that allow one to focus undisturbed on the essence of a subject. Such strength and beauty need no embellishment.
“Carl Schuch and France” is on at the Städel Museum, in Frankfurt, until February 1, 2026
Nicholas Fox Weber is the executive director of the Josef & Anni Albers Foundation and the author of 16 books, including the recent Mondrian: His Life, His Art, His Quest for the Absolute
