Poland's Dark Winter Beauty
Staying in a 6th Century City
I spent the wonder holidays with some friends in the countryside of eastern Poland near a city called Lublin. Apparently, archeological remains of settlements can be dated as far back as the 6th century in this area. The city served as an important trade center in the Middle Ages due to its strategic location at the crossroads of major trading routes. Historical facts aside, the city was dressed for the festive season with Christmas wreaths, garlands, and colorful lights. The dense piles of snow that had swallowed our feet and suitcases in the first night had quickly melted and given the pavement a glossy shine, a few dirt-speckled piles remained huddled up in the shadows of the buildings.
We decided to tour the city center and visit the Lublin castle to see the art exhibits. Although it was a rather drab exterior, the art contained within the walls was breathtaking, I wish I could have photographed inside. There were numerous galleries, with an array of art including paintings, ceramics, sculptures, furniture and more. It had apparently been quite a while since I had last visited a gallery, since I had forgotten how truly stunning artwork is in person.
The enormous Union of Lublin painting in particular left me spellbound. Looking at a digital version online does a grand disservice to the incredible skills of Jan Matejko. I sat on a small bench in the dim gallery, utterly gawking at the masterpiece illuminated on the wall. Filling up almost the entire height of the room, there was so much to take in all at once. I let my eyes wander back and forth, allowing new gems of artistry to capture my attention as I searched through the colors and brush strokes. It was astounding the level of realism in skin textures, poses, fabrics, and pearls that the artist depicted with such mastery. I was absorbed by wondering how long it took him to paint it, how did he learn these techniques, what went through his mind as he studied art this way, was he proud of this work?
When passing through another hybrid gallery of polished wooden wardrobes and glittering clockwork, a simple painting of fruit beckoned to me from across the room. It was a delicious piece by Alexander Coosemans. The lighting and detail of the fruit was so realistic it resembled a photograph. Again, the photos online can't hold a candle to the work in person. I was moved by the craftsmanship required to give the fruit depth, volume, and realism, especially with seemingly primitive tools compared to today's technology.
We wandered through galleries, my mind speculating about the state of the world at the time each piece was created and the humans behind the artwork. Some pieces from the earlier centuries lacked the refinement discovered in the baroque and renaissance eras, but it gave me pause to think of the purpose of art. In many cases, the scenes depicted important moments of history or reverence to biblical figures. These ideas were significant to the artists or commissioners at that time, something they hoped would inspire the viewers and relay messages, memories, and emotions. Regardless of my judgement, it was incredible to think that the artists' messages were received by me hundreds of years into the future. If you could say something to the humans of the far off future in one piece of art, what would you want them to know or feel?
Aside from the Lublin castle, we returned to the city center several times during my stay and continued to discover interesting shops and architecture. Unlike the understated uniformity of Norwegian buildings, Lublin boasted both its beauty and its historical scars unabashedly. I was particularly drawn to the faded murals on the building walls, many of them elaborate flourishes that swished and twisted up the tall walls like the winding ivy upon an old house. Other times, it was merely the cracked and weathered plaster that made me pause and wonder how many hundreds of years of history those buildings had seen.
One of my favorites was a Hokusai imitation painted on the boarded up windows of a cracked and dilapidated wall, an elegant juxtaposition beside the bright blue waves. This visage seemed to capture how I viewed the Polish people — hardened and weathered by a brutal history, but defiantly beautiful nevertheless.
One historical oddity I came across was the Stone of Misfortune. As the name suggests, the stone is supposedly seeping with bad luck to any fool brazen enough to touch it. Countless tales of woe can be described on Lublin's cultural website. Whether I really believe in such things or not has yet to be decided, but I figured it would be best to give the stone a wide berth as I passed by. And yes, that is an executioner's symbol on the triangular sign next to it.
One snowy day later, I discovered a row of gated gardens along a neighborhood footpath. This area had been sectioned off into small lots with numbered gates covered in resting vines and a thick layer of snow on top. Peeking between the vines made me feel as though I was looking into a hundred of varieties of The Secret Garden books. Each garden had its own personality, from the moment you looked at the number on the gate to the thickness of the fence's hedge. I wondered about what the owners were looking forward to planting in the spring, which pests they had battled last year, if they would grow flowers, fruits, or vegetables. So many possibilities.
Walking in the wicked forest
I believe each forest has its own personality, and sometimes even a few personalities if the vegetation is diverse. It's not necessarily an anthropomorphic personality, but more of an energy that you can feel emotions from. It’s like hearing the single mournful note of a violin that pulls at your heart in a way you were unprepared, its resonance lingering in your soul.
This particular forest was unsettling in a sort of fiendish but alluring way. The path was wide and the trees thin and tall. They were lined up in unnaturally straight rows, likely planted that way by humans, and very different from the unkempt, deep wildness of the Norwegian forests. The sun hung low in a soft diffused light even though it was midday, adding to the sleepy haze of a spell I felt cast upon me as I entered. The trees swayed like a hypnotic metronome as the wind whispered an incantation on the nape of my neck. I diverted off the main path when a tunnel of trees beckoned me to the right, and my feet dared not disobey. The deeper I went, the more I felt my breath being drawn from my chest as though invisible strings tugged on my lungs, yet there was no incline to exhaust me. With each exhale, the wind greedily groped for just a little more.
When I felt I had sufficiently diverted from the main path, I paused to take in the surroundings. The trees were tinged with a green hue from the mossy bark. I stared deep into the woods trying to find a unique land marker, such as a boulder, or elderly oak, but all I could see was the hypnotic shifting of hundreds of viridescent tree trunks. I felt disoriented, unable to see the edges of the trees, it was an endless void of earthly tones swaying in the languid light. It didn't help that the only sound I could hear was the bark creaking as it protested in the soft wind. Not even the scarce birds dared to disturb the unnatural silence. I passed a bright green stump with a thick, white ring of mushrooms growing around the rim. Two leaves had fallen in the center, or perhaps they had been placed there by faefolk. A ritual perhaps?
For all the uneasy bewitchment I felt at that moment, I was sorely disappointed when my mental fairy tale was disrupted by the bright pink jacket of a woman coming up the path towards me. It was like someone shutting a captivating novel right at its climax and breaking you out of that sacred space of imagination. I resigned myself to return to the main trail, deciding that her unwitting disruption had probably saved me from complete enchantment by this nefarious forest.
Visiting Kazimierz
Normally packed with summer tourists and artists from all around, the historic town nestled along the right bank of the large Vistula river known as Kazimierz Dolny was desolate when we visited one December afternoon. I can imagine how vibrant and exciting it would be to visit in summer, but I nonetheless found the moody gloom of winter to be just as intriguing. The center of the town had a typical medieval feel with a wide empty market square and a dark well located in the middle. Behind it, up the cobblestone streets, stood the proud but modest Church of St. John the Baptist, an errant sunbeam occasionally caressing its terracotta roof before retreating again behind the heavy cloud cover.
The streets were made of large cobblestone blocks of various shapes, colors, and height. One needed to be careful not to twist an ankle while walking along the roads, but it added to the historical charm. To our sides, the bare winter trees exposed one of Poland's creepiest parasites, mistletoe. It always sounded so festive in the holiday songs I grew up listening to. Little did I know that these twisted balls of vines were leaching off the nutrients that the trees struggled to extract from the earth until eventually the tree would die.
We continued up a stony to the Three Crosses Mountain, a large hill that overlooks the city and the wide Vistula river. According to the tourism sign, the three metal crosses that stand on the peak of the mountain were supposed to commemorate the plague in the town at the beginning of the 18th century and the miraculous recovery of the inhabitants there. The 7-8 m high crosses are replaced every 30–40 years. From there we toured the 13th century castle ruins and the nearby guard tower, both with beautiful views overlooking the city and river. A panorama map showed the locations of additional watchtowers along the other bank that aided to guard the city and trade ships.
Our next stop was the Sanktuarium Matki Bożej Kazimierskiej (Shrine of Our Lady of Kazimierz), a quiet chapel and monastery tucked away on a hillside in the outskirts of the town. A small courtyard greeted us at the top of an enclosed staircase before we reached the church doors. Painted in alcoves were twelve frescoes depicting the life, death, and resurrection of Christ. My friends informed me that during World War 2 the Gestapo had taken over the church and used it as a prison. It was right around this moment that the city bellowed with the sound of air raid sirens. During the time I was visiting, the Russian-Ukrainan war was in full swing and a missile had recently fallen in Eastern Poland, not far from where we were. So of course my first panicked reaction was, “Oh my god, is Russia attacking here now?!” Thankfully, it turned out to only be the city-wide fire alarm test. Why they need something so loud and terrifying I didn't quite find out, but it gave me a small heart attack!
Regaining my composure, and chuckles from the friends, we continued up the path to a graveyard (yes, the irony). Polish graveyards actually became a macabre fascination for me, and this was the first of two that I visited on this trip. I'll include photos from both to illustrate my point. The graveyards I visited felt like artistic museums in reverence to both the deceased and to God. All the tombs were above ground in enormous stone blocks. Elaborate and ornate sculptures of all shapes and motifs stood atop, and most were covered with moss and laden with candles and flowers. The tombs were densely packed together, and the rich details called for my attention from every direction.
It was such a striking sight to witness, especially on the dark and moody winter day. An elegant tribute to the lives of those passed and their ascendance into heaven. The flickering candlelight waved quietly as we passed under the darkening sky. The vibrant faux flowers loudly proclaimed their continuing love and remembrance from surviving descendants. I was enthralled by the atmosphere and could have easily spent hours just admiring the graves, wondering about the lives of these people throughout time. I was particularly drawn to the statues of tree trunks, having never seen something like that before. There were a number of them in the graveyard in Lublin.
One thing I can say for sure after this delightful 3-week winter vacation is that this eastern part of Poland has a rare beauty I never knew existed. I think I got to experience what people often refer to as the “Eastern European vibe” or “Slavic culture”. It is a region packed with intense history and artistic beauty, both forged through very dark periods of time. This is a gem of a location I look forward to coming back to again.
