International studio (48.1913)

M. Fernand Khnopff's Villa

The home of an artist : m.
FERNAND KHNOPFF’S VILLA
AT BRUSSELS. BY HELENE
LAILLET.
To speak of the “Villa Fernand Khnopff” is to
speak of one of the artist’s greatest works ; it is the
expression of his own personality which he has
built for his own satisfaction ; it is his immutable
“Self” which he has raised in defiance of a
troubled and changing world.
In the Avenue des Courses, on the outskirts
of the Bois de la Cambre, in a magnificent rose-
garden is situated this strange dwelling-place which
mystifies many a passer-by—“ A chapel probably,”
say some ; “ A vault built by some eccentric person,”
guess others. Then they pass, but those who
know what famous “ eccentric ” hides himself be-
hind these walls stop and consider the perfectly
proportioned house. They have no difficulty in
guessing by what artist it was designed, for in its
pure clear lines the cold yet noble aestheticism of
Fernand Khnopff is easily recognised. There are
no complicated ornaments, only black

standing upright behind the head of Hypnos, ab-
sorbed in a reverie both sad and mysterious, holds
in her slender fingers the veil which she has drawn
between dreams and reality, and is indeed a sym-
bolic figure. Above the picture are inscribed the
three letters of the word “ Soi ” (Self). This
ante-room is impregnated with the character of the
artist.
A silken hanging of a greyish blue, artistically
faded, is raised, and Fernand Khnopff, man of the
world, welcomes you. But he has hardly time to
assume this wordly mask before it is laid aside; on
the other side of the silken curtain the personality
of the “artist” alone exists, it imposes itself upon
you and is found in all the slightest details of the
harmonious surroundings.
It hardly seems possible to realise that five
minutes ago you were in the busy streets of Brussels,
for here no sound from the outside world troubles
the mind, no window placed too low brings you
into contact with life ; your imagination carries you
away, and you feel yourself to be far from all that
is low, petty, mean, and worthless ; you are in the

lines and golden circles; here and
there a monogram in black on a golden
background, very simply and delicately
drawn, stands out against the pure
whiteness of the panels. The front of
the house has an air of reserve, almost
of disdain. Above a black door, bare
of any ornamentation, are the words,
“ Past—Future,” and on the top of the
gable is a statue of Aphrodite. One
tries in vain to classify this house ac-
cording to any definite style of architec-
ture ; he who occupies it has set his
own seal upon it, and in its singularity
lies its style.
If you are fortunate enough to gain
admittance, the servant silently opens
the door and shows you into an ante-
room decorated entirely in white, with
walls of polished stucco. From a
position of pride, a superb stuffed Indian
peacock watches from the corner of his
eye; he is the haughty guardian of this
austere dwelling-place. On a slender
blue column stands a little Greek
statue which, with a graceful gesture,
invites you to silence, and on the white-
ness of the walls hangs a little replica of
a picture which the artist has entitled


Une Aile bleue. This haughty woman,

“FUTUR”: TINTED MARBLE BUST.

BY FERNAND KHNOl’FF

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