I would never have considered myself out of shape before my residency at Cervo, but the entirely foreign angle imposed by the landscape of Zermatt—made glaringly evident during my first walk up to the resort, which itself is positioned only a small fraction of the way up the mountain—quickly disabused me of any notions of fitness I believed I had. I arrived to the resort soaked in sweat, a state that remained consistent throughout the duration of my stay—the flights of stairs never seeming to get easier. It was, in a sense, a period of constant ascension, one my body certainly wasn’t used to, coming from the flat landscapes that comprise the Prairie region of Western Canada.
Having never worked in such an environment before, I intentionally entered the residency without any fully formed ideas about what I wanted to pursue. I knew that I didn’t want to rush or force anything. Most of the previous painting I had done that engaged with natural environments had, up to that point, focused on scenes that at least resembled those familiar to me; forests, meadows, rivers and ponds. Many of these were landscapes I had briefly lived or spent time working within, and they were all scenes that relied upon a horizontal perspective, and in a way, a horizontal mindset as well.
Stepping onto the back terrace of my accommodation at CERVO for the first time, the scale of the wall of rock that immediately met me was almost literally disorienting. You couldn’t look at it for too long, nor could you settle your attention on any specific portion of the mountain. It was simply too large and overwhelming to consider, and it seemed to demand a constant shifting of one's gaze.
So I spent the first few days taking in the resort’s immediate surroundings from different corners of the property—despite a persistent itch to start doing something. I did so while seated on the terrace adjoining my room, during jogs through the woods that snaked behind the property, or while dining at one of the on-site restaurants, where guests are treated to a view unlike anything they’re likely to have encountered before—let alone had the opportunity of enjoying over a bowl of handmade black truffle carbonara.
After several days of avoiding the fact that I hadn’t settled on pursuing any idea in particular, and while sitting on the terrace one evening, gazing absentmindedly at the mountain (surprisingly, not the Matterhorn), several painting ideas came to me—and nearly all at once. I scanned the section of the Alps, from right to left, that had originally caught my eye upon arrival—the wall of rock located directly across from the terrace— at a deliberate pace, and began to plot out the details of these paintings in my head.
It seemed significant that the mountain was so quiet. No movement could be seen along its face—neither near its base in the town nor halfway up, along the trails that scarred its slopes.
It’s unusual, at least for me, to have so many ideas arrive at once, but the diorama-like stillness of the mountain itself seemed to present these ideas as tiny vignettes, nearly fully formed upon arrival. No human or even animal presence was visible, but a fable-like mood seemed to enshroud the scene, making it easy to imagine what these paintings could become. After this reflection, I felt that I had a several painting ideas that were as good as set in stone.
I have always struggled with painting landscapes. The apparent repetition and minute observation required to recognize the variances within them feels often overwhelming and endless. I find I need something to grab hold of—a landmark, an object, a visual anchor—something to differentiate and demarcate the end of one section of trees from the beginning of the next. Having at least one point of reference seems to cement the motivation to pursue a new painting, and fortunately on the mountains face there were many.
My time in residence reinforced a tendency I’ve had for much of my life as well: to spend time focusing on what otherwise might be overlooked in favour of the more obviously impressive. Perhaps it’s the contrarian in me—as annoying as that can be— but this residency period seemed to encourage a shifting of ones attention from obvious beauty (i.e., the Matterhorn) to that which may be less immediately awe-inspiring. Though the impact of the Matterhorn can’t be overstated—evidenced by decades of works referencing the mountain and the inspiration it has provided to visitors—it was the mountain that sat directly across from Cervo, attached to but not in the same sight line as the Matterhorn, that I found myself unable to look away from.
Despite a desire to do so, I intentionally made an effort not to learn the name of this section of the range, nor did I research it online to better understand what I was seeing. The boulder gates at the top of the mountain—mimicking headstones when viewed from afar—seemed to encourage a willful ignorance that I was happy to be led by. I don’t know the reason as to why, but I felt that learning anything about the range would colour my approach to recreating, or reimagining it in painted form. I didn’t want these paintings to be informed by any history other than my own experience. Perhaps that’s an unintelligent approach—maybe even an arrogant one—but more than anything, I’d hoped to recreate what it felt like to stand there alone, never more aware of how small I am, how small each one of us are, when contrasted alongside the environmental monoliths that dwarf every visitor of Zermatt.
Though this certainly isn’t a new or original observation—in fact, it’s probably one everyone has had at some point in their life while standing in an unimaginably vast landscape—it seems to me to be a wonderful reminder not to take ourselves, or the work that we pursue, too seriously. It’s an easy trap to fall into, especially when your work relies so heavily on speaking about your own thoughts and ideas—ideas often rooted in nothing more than personal experience, and certainly not in any kind of universal truth. The scale of a place like Zermatt ensures that you are abundantly aware of this, and it’s this very perspective that I hope will carry me into the process of making these particular paintings—and in any work I pursue in the future.
As I wrote in a letter to the staff of Cervo upon my departure: “Now the real work begins for me.”
I’m a slow artist when it comes to working speed, and having gathered enough photo documentation during my stay to sustain my practice for years to come, it feels like it will now be the time to begin realizing what it was that gripped me during my time in Zermatt. I tend to paint about the individual experience, and the environment presented by Cervo—sitting perched above a bustling alpine town tucked neatly between the sliver of two mountain ranges—made it feel very much as if I were experiencing everything entirely alone.
With no mosquitoes to bite you, no bears to eat you, and not even a wind strong enough to blow off the loosest-fitting hat, this may be as close to perfect as any place I have ever been. And this is before even making mention of the food, which I will spare you from having to read.
I will not forget my time at Cervo—of time spent with others and time spent alone. Through whatever work is to be pursued in the future, my goal will be to convey a small sense of how special this place is.
Wish me luck.
Jared Boechler
www.cervo.swissBEYOND EXPLORING