As you approach St. Moritz from the south via car, the vast frozen lake adjoining the town, St. Moritzersee, reveals itself—first dotted by small groups of people ice-fishing and cross-country skiing, and then, rounding the final corner, by a large crowd of people gathered around scores of rare and vintage cars, airplanes, and the occasional helicopter. A hot-air balloon is about to launch, but first, six fighter jets in a tight formation—the Patrouille Suisse, the aerobatics team of the Swiss Air Force—scream across the sky performing wild, look-at-me loops, dives, and climbs.
Down on the ice—or I.C.E., as the unfortunate acronym goes (here, it stands for the International Concours of Elegance, an annual convergence of the world’s notable car collectors and high-end car brands), the look-at-me vibe also roars loudly. On this particular weekend in St. Moritz, one feels almost foolish not draping oneself in cashmere from head to toe, and not submitting to some throttle therapy behind the wheel of a large automobile.
Photo: Getty Images
I have come to town to drive a small fleet of vintage Ferraris on a specially constructed racetrack out on the ice of that lake as part of the marque’s legendary driving school, known as the Corso Pilota Classiche. But that’s tomorrow. Today, I sneak past an armada of sable and Sorel boots hopping into G-Wagons at the exit of my lodgings at the stately Carlton Hotel, and head up the hill—on foot, if you can believe it—for a short walk to the Vito Schnabel Gallery on Via Maistra, the chic main drag of St. Moritz. (While the glittering parts of this jewel-box ski town—think Downhill Racer, but directed by Wes Anderson, or St. Barths with snow instead of sand—all seem to be laid out in close proximity, walking a distance longer than, say, from fondue chalet to cozy-fireplace bar seems to be alien territory.)
There’s an exhibition of Ron Gorchov’s large, curved, brightly colorful canvases that’s really enjoying the pride of place at the gallery, but I came to spend some time with the more modest and idiosyncratic pieces from the late poet, artist, actor, critic, and firebrand Rene Ricard, grouped in the exhibition Rene Ricard: and if you arrive, do you know you are there? The canvases, given ample space under low-vaulted ceilings, seem imbued with a kind of peace that belies both their creation and their creator’s turbulent life—and, frankly, contemplating the gulf between that life and work and the bustling world outside this gallery’s doors is enough to send me back onto the street for some alpine air.