The Not So Lonely City

By Lorena Orlacchio

Art as a Treatment for Homesickness

In the country I grew up in, mountains were just there. They were not something I sought out or felt nostalgic for; they were a constant presence, the familiar backdrop to everyday life. But since moving to London, I have found myself unconsciously searching for them in every painting I see.

Moving from Switzerland to London has been thrilling, a blend of excitement and challenge. A few weeks ago, I fell ill for the first time since arriving. Anyone who has been far from home knows that being unwell can make you long for the comfort of home. While I had not felt homesick before, at that moment, I found myself yearning for anything that reminded me of home. Ironically, even the origins of the word ‘homesick’ are deeply connected to my country. The English word ‘homesick’ can be traced back to the German term Heimweh, translated as “woe for home”. It was first coined to describe a condition experienced by Swiss people who spent years in foreign lands. In 1688, the Alsatian physician Johannes Hofer named this illness Heimwehe in his Dissertatio medica de nostalgia, noting that unless those afflicted returned home, they would decline, perhaps even die. Hofer speculated that the longing was tied to the very air of the mountains, suggesting that distance from that environment made them physically ill. Over time, Heimweh evolved beyond Swiss culture and was recognised as a universal feeling across Europe’s many migration waves in the nineteenth century.

For the Swiss, though, mountains are particularly connected to Heimweh. I thought of this recently while reflecting on Heidi, a classic tale by Johanna Spyri from the mid-nineteenth century. The heroine of Spyri’s novels, later adapted into a popular anime series—is Heidi, a young orphan sent to live with her gruff grandfather in the Swiss Alps by her aunt, Dete. Eventually, aunt Dete returns and brings Heidi to Frankfurt. In the bustling city, Heidi grows deeply homesick, often sneaking out at night in search of the tallest building, hoping to catch a glimpse of her beloved mountains. Ultimately, the story ends happily, with Heidi returning to the Alps she loves.

Since returning to the Alps was not an option for me, I had to seek comfort elsewhere. After I recovered, I came across a painting by Angelica Kauffman in the Now You See Us: Women Artists in Britain 1520 – 1920 exhibition at Tate Britain. Kauffman is a rarity in eighteenth-century art history: a Swiss-born woman whose talent gained her fame across Europe. Born in 1741 in Chur, the capital of the canton of Graubünden, nestled in the Swiss Alps, Kauffman spent her youth immersed in art as she moved across Italy and Austria. She had the privilege of training under her father, a painter himself, assisting him with large-scale works, while developing her own remarkable talent.

In 1766, Kauffman moved to London, where she and English painter Mary Moser made history as the only two female founding members of the Royal Academy of Arts. The Academy later commissioned her to create four ceiling roundels, each representing one of the essential elements of art through allegory: Colour, Composition, Invention, and Design, completed between 1778 and 1780.

At the recent Now You See Us exhibition, I saw her roundel for Colour, an awe-inspiring depiction of a female figure draped in white and ochre with a striking red mantle. She holds a palette and brushes in her left hand, and with her right, she lifts a brush to pull pigment directly from a rainbow above her head. Seated on a moss-covered rock, a chameleon rests at her feet—an emblem of colour’s transformative nature, symbolising the power of hues to alter perception.

But what captivated me most in this work was the mountainous landscape surrounding the allegorical figure, a recurring motif in Kauffman’s work. I could not help but wonder if these alpine scenes were her way of keeping Switzerland close, a subtle tribute to the landscape she had left behind. Whether intentional or not, seeing those mountains in her paintings gave me a sense of home. In the end, maybe that’s what art does best—it brings a little bit of ‘home’ to wherever we are.

Heidi, Girl of the Alps, 1970, Japanese Opening, film still, Studio Ghibli. https://www.swissinfo.ch/eng/culture/isao-takahata_director-of-japanese-heidi-cartoon-dies/44027024

Angelica Kauffman (1741-1807), Colouring, circa 1778-80. Oil on canvas, 126 x 148.5 x 2.5 cm. Royal Academy of Arts. https://www.royalacademy.org.uk/art-artists/work-of-art/colour.