Great Reasons to Visit Colmar

Perhaps Colmar’s biggest claim to fame is that it was the birthplace and home of the sculptor Frédéric Auguste Bartholdi, the man who designed the Statue of Liberty.

Frédéric Auguste Bartholdi was born in Colmar in 1834, and became a student of Ary Scheffer at a fairly young age. Bartholdi came into the limelight early enough: in 1855, at the age of twenty-one, he designed a statue of General Rapp. Bartholdi died in Paris in 1904, but he lives on in Colmar’s collective memory. The city is home to a Bartholdi Museum, and all across, in parks and squares, are statues that he created.

We didn’t have the time to visit the Bartholdi Museum (which is off Rue des Marchands), but a stroll through Colmar’s old town gave us glimpses, not just of Bartholdi’s genius, but also of Colmar itself.

Clustered around the south of the Musée d’Unterlinden are some of Colmar’s other big attractions, the Dominican Church and the Collegiate Church of Saint Martin among them. Regretfully bypassing the Musée Bartholdi, we continued southwards, past the lovely Town Hall with its restrained stone carving, to the quarter known as Petite Venise.

All the tour guides and brochures wrote of Petite Venise in glowing words, but to us, frankly, it was disappointing. Yes, the canal is pretty, and yes, the gondola-like boats moving down it are picturesque. The half-timbered houses flanking the canal, with bright geraniums in their window boxes, are picture-perfect. So are the cobbled streets and the beautifully curved lampshades of the street lamps. But if you’ve seen Strasbourg’s Petite France, then Petite Venise is no great shakes: in fact, it struck us as just a reduced version of Petite France. Two streets, one slim canal, and that’s it.

But we came across a Bartholdi work tucked away next to Petite Venise, and that redeemed it for us, a bit. This is the Fontaine Roesselmann, created in 1888 by Bartholdi. Jean Roesselmann was a 13th century provost of Colmar who died in battle while defending the city from invaders representing the Bishop of Strasbourg. Bartholdi, however, gave the statue the features of a later hero: Hercule de Peyerimhoff, a 19th century mayor of Colmar who refused to submit to German authorities after the German annexation of Alsace.

This is an imposing statue, the warrior clad in mail and long surcoat, his head helmeted and one hand resting on a long, triangular shield. Below him is the fountain, carved from stone: the water drains from four carved stone lion’s heads and from the mouths of four large curved fish (the fish, like the statue itself, are of a dark grey metal, unlike the rest of the fountain).

Pleased with ourselves, we wended our way through the narrow streets snaking off to the west. Here we came across another statue, though not a Bartholdi. This is a stone replica of the famous Mannekin Pis statue of Brussels, a fountain consisting of a little boy peeing into a tank of water. An expression of solidarity and friendship between Colmar and Brussels, it’s only a few years old.

But we were on a Bartholdi quest, and it took us out of the cobbled streets and half-timbered houses of Old Colmar, down the Rue du Manege and to the Boulevard Saint Pierre. Here, tucked away in a strip of green lawn, shady trees and flowerbeds, we came to another landmark: the Monument Hirn. Gustave Adolph Hirn, who died in Colmar in 1890, was a well-respected 19th century scientist and philosopher. He was, from what I gathered, something like a latter-day Leonardo da Vinci: mathematician, physicist, astronomer etc, whose work in thermodynamics and petroleum technology helped make modern industry. Bartholdi’s statue of Hirn was made in 1894 and is very different from Roesselmann’s. Instead of a fountain, it sits on a pedestal carved on each side with the names of the disciplines Hirn specialised in (`Astronomia’, `Physica’, etc). The man himself sits in a chair, an overcoat draped carelessly over the back of the chair; one hand rests on the arm of the chair. The other hand is raised in what I presume to be a question. Interesting, though it lacks the presence of the Roesselmann statue.

A quick glance at our map, and we decided to go down Avenue Joffre, towards the towering Château d’eau. This is a water tower, 53 mt tall, built between 1884 and 1886—just about the time Bartholdi was reaching the peak of his career. The tower is decorated on the outside with stone arches alternating with bands of brick, and is topped off with a conical green roof, all very obviously practical.

What made this patch of Colmar interesting for us wasn’t the water tower (which, by the way, hasn’t been functional since 1984); it was the Bartholdi statue next to it. And this one isn’t a statue by Bartholdi; it’s a statue of Bartholdi. The man stands, bearded and self-confident, one hand resting on his hip, the other elbow leaning on a pedestal on which stands—obviously—his prima donna, a miniature Statue of Liberty. The statue, which was created in 1907 (and so, I suppose, has considerable historical significance in its own right), was made by Hubert Louis-Noël and Antoine Rubin.

After a quick walk past the nearby Cour D’Appel (the Court of Appeals, a fine Imperial German building with carved stone façade and green roof), we stopped for a breather and to get our bearings. A little bit of peering, and we realised that we’d actually walked off the official tourist map, so it was time to head back to civilisation. We did this by heading north, walking along the tree-shaded Boulevard du Champs de Mar. Not long after, we had to make a brief detour off to the west, into the large park known as the Place du Champs de Mars. People come here to stroll, chat, doze under the trees or canoodle; we came here to see another Bartholdi masterpiece, the Fontaine Bruat.

Standing in the centre of the park (eight paths radiate from it), the Fontaine Bruat is one of Bartholdi’s early works: it was inaugurated in 1864. This is also the most ambitious of the Bartholdi statues we saw in Colmar, a large circular tank with four sprawling larger-than-life figures, one each at the four cardinal points. These are allegories of the four continents, with Oceania’s face being modelled after that of the wife of one of Bartholdi’s friends. The lady in question, by the way, was the great-grandmother of Yves Saint-Laurent!
In the centre of the tank is a pedestal on which stands the statue of Armand-Joseph Bruat, Admiral in Chief of the French Navy during the Crimean War. The admiral stands tall, a more impressive figure than the four surrounding ones below him, even though they’re larger. We later discovered that these allegorical figures, along with the basin of the fountain, were destroyed in 1940. The original heads survived and can be seen in the Bartholdi Museum; the ones here were made in 1958.

And from there, pleased that we’d managed to see something of Bartholdi’s work (I still haven’t made it to New York City!), we headed back towards the Colmar railway station, content with a good few hours of sightseeing.

I’d read somewhere that Colmar’s Musée d’Unterlinden was France’s most visited museum after the legendary Louvre. I’ve been to the Louvre and I’ve seen its crowds; the Musée d’Unterlinden, by contrast, was quiet and peaceful. We had the galleries more or less to ourselves, and except for a brief bit of shuffling around to accommodate other visitors in front of the museum’s main highlight, the Isenheim Altarpiece, we were un-pushed and un-jostled.

The Musée d’Unterlinden is named for the 13th century Dominican convent of Unterlinden (`under the linden trees’), the building of which today houses the museum. The museum’s been around since 1853 and has a large collection of art and artefacts ranging from the decorative arts to religious art, silverware, and finds from Neolithic excavations. All of this spreads across three floors.

We arrived at the museum shortly before noon, and began by spending a little while strolling around, admiring the beauty of the building itself. The pillared 13th century cloister, the garden in the middle, and occasional glimpses of the original walls of the Dominican convent of Unterlinden certainly add to the experience.

That done, we moved on to exploring the exhibits on the ground floor, beginning with what we assumed was a reconstruction of the convent’s original wine presses and casks (there weren’t any signs around and the audio guide we’d received at the reception desk was silent about this). Further along the corridor spread the actually galleries of the museum, this section abounding in 12th century carvings, literally dozens of depictions of the Madonna and Child (painted, carved, and painted plaster), and—this was what caught my eye—triptychs. Most of these finely carved and painted pieces functioned as domestic altarpieces for chapels in aristocratic homes.

The largest and most magnificent altarpiece of all is the museum’s pride and joy: the Isenheim Altarpiece. This was made for a monastery in Isenheim, near Colmar, between 1512 and 1516. It was painted by Grünewald and carved by Nicholas de Haguenau in a series of panels that depict a range of Biblical scenes: the Annunciation, the Passion and Crucifixion, the Ascension, etc.

A group of conservationists was busy at one end of this room, carefully restoring a painting; but we made our way past them and on to the altarpiece, which is massive and dominates the room. It opens out into a number of panels, each richly painted and arranged one behind the other, so that visitors can see it in its entirety. This was where the audio guides provided came in full use: each allegory and detail of the altarpiece is explained, making it much easier to appreciate the work. Among the most striking sections is a fantastic (literally, since it shows mythical creatures—demons and the like) depiction of the tormenting of St Anthony.

After the splendour of the Isenheim Altarpiece, the rest of the Musée d’Unterlinden seemed to pale into insignificance. On the other floors, though, the galleries of decorative and fine arts eventually proved worth a visit. Among the displays here are some finely painted ceramic stoves, paintings (including a series by Colmar’s very own 15th century artist, Martin Schongauer, and a memorable The Repentant Magdalene with mesmerising eyes) and murals. There’s furniture (look out for the exquisite old cupboards decorated with fine carving and marquetry) and even oddities like the mechanical armonica. This, we discovered, was a musical instrument invented by Benjamin Franklin; it consisted of a series of glass bowls of different sizes, each of which, when struck with wet fingers, produced a different note. Only sixty pieces of Franklin’s original armonica exist; this is one of them.

And that isn’t all. The Musée d’Unterlinden also has displays of loads of other items: armour, weaponry, gargantuan church bells, gleaming silverware, porcelain, and prettily painted kügelhopf moulds. There are cute dioramas depicting life in the ages gone by, with little kitchens, dining rooms, and so on in dolls’ house-like reproductions.

By the time we finally made our way down to the basement, we were tired and hungry, but we still managed to do a quick round of the archaeological galleries. These are devoted to archaeological finds from across Alsace, but also have interesting artefacts like pottery, beads and weapons from further afield, such as Greece and the Etruscan civilisation.

Not, perhaps, as vast a museum as some others, but definitely worth a visit—even if you go just to see the Isenheim Altarpiece. Entry to the Musée d’Unterlinden is €7 per person; this includes a free audio guide. Photography is allowed in the museum, but without a flash.

We’d had a big breakfast before we’d set out from Strasbourg for our day trip to Colmar. And Colmar, by the time we emerged from the Musée d’Unterlinden, was boiling hot. It was already well past lunchtime, and though we were hungry, we wanted something light. The idea of a meat-laden Alsatian meal wasn’t precisely appealing.

Serendipity, fortunately, is something we often find ourselves blessed with; and it happened again. Right across from the museum, at 2 Rue Unterlinden, we found an attractive winstub called (what else?!) Unterlinden. This is a picturesque little building painted a pale yellow, with light greenish-blue shutters on the windows and a smattering of stained glass. What I liked particularly was a vaguely rustic arrangement of dried flowers and leaves spreading above the main door. Artificial, I’m sure—natural stuff wouldn’t survive the elements for long—but pretty. Through the windows, we could see a dimly lit interior, but the tables outside, with their white beach umbrellas, looked much more inviting. We’d barely seated ourselves when a brisk but friendly waitress, speaking adequate English, came by to hand us the menus (in German, French and English).

The choice at Unterlinden is fairly limited: you’ll get the usual Alsatian fare of sauerkraut with sausages, but other than that, there isn’t much unless you count their specialty: flammekeuche, also known as tarte flambée. Flammekeuche is something I hadn’t even heard of before I went to Alsace, but I’d soon learnt that this was a local savoury tart, something like a pizza but without the tomatoes. It sounded good, so I ordered a traditional flammekeuche, while Tarun settled for one with added seasonings. And, since it was so hot, I asked for a Coke Lite while Tarun ordered a Reisling.

We sat and cooled off for a while, admiring the tablecloth (a cheery striped and printed affair in red, pink and yellow) and the placemats (with a charming illustration of Alsatian dancers against a backdrop of half-timbered houses) while our drinks were served. A few minutes later, our flammekeuche arrived on large individual `plates’ of thin wood. One bite, and I knew people had it wrong: the only resemblance a flammekeuche bears to a pizza is in the crust. In all other respects, it is mouthwateringly different. My traditional flammekueche had a gloriously thin and crisp crust, topped with yoghurt, lots of onions, and lardons (bits of smoked bacon) before being popped into the oven. Tarun’s flammekeuche had some Mediterranean add-ons: thyme, olive oil, and some goat cheese. Both flammekueches were out of this world: hot, flavourful, and just the right size to fill us up without leaving us feeling like we had something sitting in our tummies. Perfect for a hot day, really.

At €25 for our two flammekeuches, including the drinks and a tip, this was a reasonable meal. The food was excellent and the service was efficient. Plus, Unterlinden has a wide range of flammekeuches to offer, including (if you like pizza but aren’t willing to experiment too much) some with tomatoes and other familiar ingredients. And, of course, it’s very convenient if you’ve just emerged from the Musée d’Unterlinden. Much, much recommended.

Among Colmar’s most illustrious sons—including, of course, the famous Frédéric Auguste Bartholdi—is the 15th century engraver Martin Schongauer. Schongauer’s family hailed from Germany, but Martin himself was born in Colmar sometime in the mid 1400’s, and it was at Colmar that he created some of his best works as a printer, engraver and painter. During his lifetime (he died in Colmar, in 1488) Schongauer made a vast number of works, most of them religious engravings in a style often recognisable in the work of the later, better-known German engraver Albrecht Dürer. The Musée d’Unterlinden has some of Schongauer’s work, but most of the tourist literature we’d read seemed unanimous in the opinion that one of Schongauer’s best paintings (not engravings, since those are more common; Schongauer made few paintings) is to be found in the nearby Eglise des Dominicains, the Dominican Church.

A short walk from Rue Unterlinden, past Rue Kléber and then through Place des Martyres de la Resistance, brought us to the Dominican Church. This, as we discovered from the sign outside, was founded by the Dominican friars after they arrived in Colmar in 1277, much to the dissatisfaction of the canons of St Martin, who were already established here. Six years later, in 1283, King Rudolph of Hapsburg laid the foundation stone of the Dominican Church. The construction of the church was completed by the mid 1300’s.

On the outside, the church is pleasing, but nothing extraordinary. It has an austere exterior of golden-brown stone, a sloping roof covered in brown tiles with a diamond pattern in green, and a slim, unadorned steeple. Walking to the entrance, we saw a lovely old stone statue of Mary and the baby Jesus, but that was about all.

Inside, the Dominican Church is a little more decorative than its façade. There are 13th century stained glass windows, and—the main reason for our visit—a large altarpiece painted by Schongauer. This is known as the Virgin of the Rosebush and was painted in 1473.

The depiction of the Madonna and Child in a garden is, according to the church guide, common enough, but Schongauer’s version, with luxuriant roses blooming lavishly all across the background, is particularly striking. The life-size picture is dominated by Mary (clothed in deep red) and the baby Jesus, seated in front of a trellis covered with climbing roses. Birds sit amidst the leaves and flowers, and two small angels clad in deep grey-blue hold a crown—which also appears to be entwined with roses, or they may be rubies, I can’t tell—above. More angels, these ones carved, painted and gilded, form the frame of the altarpiece. The side panels are also carved and gilded, in a simple pattern of stylised vines and flowers.

The Virgin of the Rosebush is remarkable and historical enough, so we don’t mind paying the fee of €1.50 per person for entry. Photography, unfortunately, isn’t allowed inside the church, so we have to be contented with shots of the exterior.

We happened upon the Collegiate Church of St Martin—the Collégiale Saint-Martin—almost by accident. We’d finished seeing the Musée d’Unterlinden, we’d had lunch and even visited the disappointing Dominican Church, when, near Place de la Cathedrale, we came across this lovely old church.

I must admit that what really attracted me to the Collégiale Saint-Martin was its exterior: all golden and grey stone, flying buttresses and tall windows, beautiful but not overwhelmingly ornate. And the sloping roofs beside the spire were delightfully quaint, with two slopes. The lower slope, tiled in a deep green, had a pattern picked out in diamonds of brown tile. The upper slope was the reverse: brown tiles, with a pattern of green diamonds. A church with an exterior like that deserved closer inspection, we decided.

Near the main entrance to the church, we found the ubiquitous signboard (a feature I appreciated about Colmar’s attractions: each sign has an illustration of the monument/statue/fountain/whatever, along with a brief history and description, in French, English and German). This one informed us that that the Collégiale Saint-Martin is considered the most imposing Gothic church in Middle Alsace. On a more useful note, we learnt that it was constructed 1235 onwards on the site of a previous building. The roof (those lovely tiles!) was put in during the 16th century, after a fire in 1572 destroyed a spire that originally formed part of the church.

The interior of the church proved equally lovely. There are beautiful stained glass windows, some of them very old and dating back to the early years of the building. The rose window, while not especially intricate, is distinctly early medieval in style: from a central circular `portrait’ of Christ’s face, petals in blue, purple, white, red, green and yellow radiate, with patterns of flowers and leaves in separate panels below and around. Worth a look, but where the Collégiale Saint-Martin really scores is in its extensive and excellently carved woodwork. The choir stalls, of dark polished wood, are carved in intricate patterns featuring saints and angels, vegetation, flowers, and fragile, almost-lace like borders. There’s good carved stonework, too, but the carved wood is a must-see.

The Collégiale Saint-Martin definitely deserves a visit (it is, by the way, the largest church in Colmar). Entry is free and photography is allowed, though without the use of a flash.