To mark the 250th anniversary of Caspar David Friedrich (1774–1840), the Metropolitan Museum of Art, in collaboration with Germany’s Alte Nationalgalerie, the Dresden State Art Collections, and the Hamburg Kunsthalle, has curated an unprecedented exhibition featuring 75 of Friedrich’s masterpieces. This is the first time such a vast collection of his works has been displayed outside Germany, drawing not only American audiences but also a significant number of German visitors across generations.

The exhibition covers Friedrich’s most iconic periods, yet notably absent is The Sea of Ice (1823)—perhaps his most haunting and debated work.

In the early 19th century, Germany was not yet a unified nation, still struggling with its national identity. Friedrich’s paintings became symbols and allegories that helped forge a collective German consciousness. Yet, his art was later co-opted by the Nazi regime, a tragic association that tainted his legacy for decades. It was not until the 1970s that Friedrich was rediscovered and celebrated purely as an artist—free from ideological appropriation.

Compared to German philosophy, literature, and music, German visual art has remained less understood beyond its borders. However, the spirit of Romanticism that defines Friedrich’s landscapes profoundly influenced other disciplines. What makes his landscapes so evocative? His mastery of composition and color embodies the essence of German Romanticism. He did not merely depict nature; he infused it with a soul, a presence that transcends the visible. As Friedrich once said, “The artist should not only paint what he sees before him, but also what he sees within him.”

His landscapes are not passive scenes but mirrors of the human condition—exploring solitude, estrangement, and the search for meaning. Unlike the French Romantics, who placed humans at the center of their works, Friedrich’s vision was existential, with nature itself taking the lead. This marks a key distinction between German Romanticism and the human-centered approach of artists like Eugène Delacroix and Théodore Géricault.

History Is a Nightmare We Cannot Wake From

The figures in Caspar David Friedrich’s paintings, whether solitary or in groups, almost always face away from the viewer. Traditionally, this “Rückenfigur” (back figure) composition invites the audience to project their imagination into the landscape. One of his most iconic works, Wanderer Above the Sea of Mist (1818), has become a symbol of German Romanticism, appearing across various media like a cultural totem.

In Eastern Coast of Rügen with Shepherd (1805–1806), Friedrich employs a minimalist composition, compressing the coastal scenery into just the bottom quarter of the canvas, highlighting the vast, boundless sky.

Another work, View of Arkona with Rising Moon (1805–1806), also painted on Rügen Island, received high praise when exhibited in Dresden in 1806. A critic marveled at how “the moon gently gilds the silent waves” and how “the eternal sea evokes an endless solitude.” The painting’s composition is striking—no human figures, just a ghostly empty boat on towering rocks, an eerie silence reigning over all. The flickering reflections on the water connect the foreground to the horizon, creating an astonishing sense of spatial depth.

For the Romantics, monks symbolized mystery and spiritual insight. Friedrich’s Monk by the Sea (1810) is another of his masterpieces. Again, the horizon is pushed to the lower quarter of the canvas. The stark, minimal color palette blurs the line between sky and earth, creating a sense of infinite space. The air seems to hum with an invisible presence—emptiness within emptiness. The insignificance of man within nature. The indescribable loneliness. Every time I see this painting, it takes my breath away.

Friedrich’s landscapes are always vast and silent—so silent you can almost hear the voice of the universe. But Frozen Sea (also known as The Wreck of Hope) stands apart. Here, an icebound shipwreck barely peeks through jagged, crushing ice floes. It is a scene of destruction. Unlike his usual tranquil vistas, this painting is claustrophobic, chaotic, and overwhelming. The jagged ice consumes the entire composition, forcing the viewer’s gaze to stay trapped within its crushing grasp. Why did Friedrich paint such a scene? What is he trying to tell us?

Franz Kafka (1883–1924), writing decades later, famously said in a letter to a friend:

“A book must be the axe that breaks the frozen sea within us. Literature should remind us of the aspects of existence we fear to confront. If a book does not shake us awake, then it is not worth reading.”

We don’t know if Kafka ever saw Frozen Sea, but his words echo its essence.

Friedrich completed this painting in 1819, the same year the Carlsbad Decrees were enacted—laws that suppressed free speech and crushed Germany’s liberal and nationalist movements. It was a time of increasing restrictions on the press and public discourse.

History is a nightmare we cannot wake from. Friedrich used natural phenomena as metaphors for human struggles. Like the frozen sea, his painting is anything but peaceful—it is a warning.

Humanity needs a profound spiritual awakening, a return to inner reflection, and wisdom drawn from nature. What was Friedrich trying to warn us about? This painting stayed with him throughout his life, as if it held a personal secret.

It is understandable why Frozen Sea was not included in the current exhibition. Unlike his other landscapes, it does not offer solace but sounds an alarm. It foreshadows the coming era of upheaval—wars, the collapse of value systems, the transformation of faith, and the visual arts. Just like the ice floes crushing against one another, history too is a relentless force.

Two hundred years later, has Europe—the cradle of Christian civilization—truly improved since 1819?

JD Vance’s Warning and Germany’s Angry Defense Minister

In February 2025, U.S. Vice President JD Vance gave a speech at the Munich Security Conference. His words were met with little applause—just uneasy glances. Two days later, Germany’s defense minister angrily rebuked him: “This is unacceptable!”

What did Vance say?

He argued that Europe’s greatest threat is not an external enemy, nor AI, but censorship and the suppression of faith. He warned that a civilization founded on Christianity and Western ideals had lost its own identity.

Hegel once said: Mankind never learns from history.

As Friedrich’s paintings are displayed at the Metropolitan Museum in New York, The Sea of Ice is absent from the exhibition. Yet its message lingers like an unheeded warning.

And what of Kafka’s axe?

Can it still shatter the frozen sea within us? Or have we, too, become trapped beneath the ice—mute, immobile, and unwilling to wake?