It was impossible not to notice the announcements. All over central Vienna, posters of various shapes and sizes blared the words Monet to Picasso, as they leapt out from café awnings, street corners and roadside stops. Inside the grand foyer of the Albertina Museum, they appeared once again in glorious calculated cadence — like an invitation impossible to refuse. Their intention was clear: you were here for two names only. And so, with time carefully allotted, in between curated tours and relished meals, I came with the purest of intentions — to admire Claude Monet and Pablo Picasso, and no one else.

Judging from the museum’s promotions, it seemed the exhibition revolved solely around those two titans. The illustrations featured Monet’s tranquil garden in Giverny — sunlight, lilies and reflection — a seamless blend of Impressionism and Cubism.

That first afternoon, I strolled through Monet’s luminous waterscapes and Picasso’s restless geometries, utterly absorbed. And yet behind those two names lay a remarkable array of other masters, quietly waiting to be discovered.

Turns out, I was compelled to return to the depository for another look — a rarity, if at all!

There was a long line at the entrance when I returned a few days later. Once inside, the crowds dissolved into muffled footsteps and hushed admiration. The Batliner Collection, which the Albertina proudly calls one of the most significant compilations of classical modernism in Europe, courtesy of the banking family of Herbert and Rita Batliner, unfurled before me — a journey spanning more than a century, from the late nineteenth to the mid-twentieth.

And so, I revisited the 12 artists whom I had previously skipped due to time constraints. Here are some of their obras.

My first encounter was Alfred Sisley’s Moret: The Banks of the River Loing — a landscape so tranquil that time seemed to stand still. The gentle play of light upon the water, the quiet reflection of trees, and the subtle haze over the riverbank encapsulated the tender heart of Impressionism. 

Not far from it, Paul Cézanne’s Farm in Normandy imposed itself with deliberate solidity. His brushwork revealed the scaffolding beneath nature’s surface, translating earth and architecture into geometry. Cézanne’s scenes highlighted the steady pulse of permanence within the world’s ever-changing scenery.

Pierre-Auguste Renoir’s Douarnenez (Sunset) offered a somber reprieve — the very light of a late summer day. The amber and rose tones glowed like embers, the fields almost breathing in the dusk. We were content simply to watch the sun’s final descent.

Then came Henri Toulouse-Lautrec’s White Horse “Gazelle,” vivid and vigorous, with the unmistakable confidence of Montmartre’s enfant terrible. The figure was captured at rest inside its stable, with a stark background emphasizing Lautrec’s theatricality.

Across the next wall, Edgar Degas’s Two Dancers caught me mid-stride. Two young women, shoulders turned, bodies taut with quiet effort — frozen forever in that private, fleeting moment between rehearsal and performance.

Henri Matisse’s The Striped Dress brought an explosion of color — bold, whimsical and unrestrained. His model sat enveloped in rhythmic patterns, the kind of composition that meets my eye. Matisse painted upliftment as if it were a physical force, radiating from canvas to viewer.

And then there was Amedeo Modigliani’s Female Semi Nude — long lines, sculptural grace, eyes downcast, serenity mingling with melancholy. His other obras were always in deep inner silence and private thought, as if they belonged to another world.

Paul Signac’s The Golden Horn, Mist shimmered in its precision —thousands of dots merged into the haze of an Istanbul morning. The surface vibrated with light, turning the harbor into a dreamy mosaic of air and water. 

Just beyond hung Edvard Munch’s Winter Landscape, austere and yet moving. The snow’s silence pressed against the frame, the bare trees reached upward. The expanse evoked peaceful loneliness.

Paul Klee’s Southern Coast in the Evening pulled me toward abstraction. His outlines were simple yet lyrical — blocks of color suggesting a coastline best remembered rather than physically seen. 

Joan Miró’s Metamorphosis swayed with surreal delight. Lines and dots breathed, while playful forms emerged and vanished. From experience, Miró’s dreamscapes are never entirely decipherable, but they invite one to look and smile.

The final gallery mounted Alexander Calder’s Red Horse — a sculpture which was most ready to trot away! Its arcs and angles balanced with mathematical grace, but felt spontaneous, almost magical. Due to all the paintings, Calder’s creation distinguished itself as it appeared to move without moving.

Each of these masterpieces made me pause, made me linger. I had signed up to see Monet and Picasso — and ended returning on another day for the other twelve. The second tour was an excellent investment in time, in vision, and in renewed wonder.

As I gladly exited the Albertina that second afternoon and early evening, Vienna’s dusk wrapped around me. The museum had offered a gentle reminder that art is a continuous conversation, each painter answering the one prior. The posters had only promised Monet to Picasso, but the Albertina preserved an entire century of geniuses.