WHEN I visited Stockholm, late last summer, I was prepared to keep my eye on design. Blond Scandinavian furniture, after all, defined forward-thinking sophistication when I was growing up, and big floral Marimekko prints in a living room meant that its occupant wanted to make the world a better place. More recently sophistication in design has meant taking inspiration from the blond neoclassical furniture named for King Gustav III, the eighteenth-century Swedish aesthete; the Swedish company Ikea is among the leaders of a revival of a style that looks like delicate, sun-bleached French Provincial.
I was happily surprised to find that Stockholm is filled with echoes and expressions of two of my favorite styles--Art Nouveau and Arts and Crafts, which co-existed in the 1890s and the first decades of this century. Every city has a defining era. Stockholm's was the Belle Epoque, when Alfred Nobel was amassing the explosives-based fortune that would allow him to establish his prizes, and when the profits of industrialization were changing the face of the city. The streets the guidebooks will tell you to wander are the preserved medieval ones of Gamla Stan, Stockholm's old town, with their imposing baroque palaces. They are indeed charming, but the streets that delighted me most were those of Ostermalm, a fashionable residential neighborhood in the center, where I saw everywhere perfectly maintained examples of the restrained, elegant Swedish versions of both Art Nouveau and Arts and Crafts architecture. Ostermalm's indoor market, for instance, which houses the city's best victuallers, has the Edwardian grandness, the wrought-iron flourishes and polished mahogany counters, of Harrods Food Halls--not to mention the silkiest herring I've ever tasted, and little cartons of tiny wild strawberries and juicy, pillow-soft cloudberries picked in the Swedish countryside.
I would return to Vienna, Barcelona, or Budapest simply to walk at liberty through its Art Nouveau neighborhoods, and now Stockholm, too, is on my list. Given Sweden's fierce and long-standing love of nature, its artists and craftsmen found special resonance in the sinuous natural forms of Art Nouveau. The new wealth of the period helped them to further Sweden's first internationally recognized painting style, called National Romantic for its Barbizon-influenced landscapes. Nobel wanted to be the eternal patron of the world's intellectual heritage; his fellow industrialists were content to glorify themselves and their friends, and those friends were often architects and artists.
In the course of my wandering I devised an Art Nouveau itinerary, which includes a stop for herring or pastries at that carriage-trade market. The main attractions are three house museums that distill the creative ferment that transformed Stockholm from 1890 to 1910. Touring the three, to which guidebooks puzzlingly give short shrift, will also surround a visitor with the city's most appealing landscapes--both urban and parklike.
THE tone of the tour is ideally set by a stop at the Royal Dramatic Theater, a white-and-gold Art Nouveau monument, built from 1901 to 1908, that seems to be a vision from Vienna. The building stands out like a beacon, facing both a major intersection and a busy canal; its bas reliefs, of a commedia dell'arte troupe and a Dionysian procession, are visible from as far away as the next islands. (Stockholm is built on fourteen islands, and is situated in an archipelago of about 25,000 of them.) I bought a ticket to a Molière play performed in Swedish in order to have a better look at the marble-and-gilt interior and to sit on the plush red seats. No, I didn't make it to the end, but I did feel as if I had spent time in the Gilded Age.
Two buildings down the canal, which forms one border of Ostermalm, is the 1910 Hotel Esplanade, whose curvaceous Art Nouveau façade and interior furnishings are largely intact. I can't vouch for the service: I stayed at the aptly named Grand Hotel, where I had to content myself with a beautiful gray-and-silver Gustavian room. Also near the theater is the first of the house museums, the Hallwyl, a palace designed by Isak Gustaf Clason and built in the 1890s for the Countess Wilhelmina von Hallwyl and her Swiss-born army-captain husband. The countess, a timber heiress, collected seemingly everything in sight--armor and swords and scabbards, French and Belgian tapestries, furniture, Chinese porcelain from uninteresting periods. Some of her acquisitions merited the money she doubtless doled out: superb early Meissen ceramics and, in an upstairs gallery next to a private gymnasium, a stunning Cranach of a nude Venus. I was most drawn, though, to the building itself, a concoction of Venetian arches and Spanish Gothic and Renaissance themes (and vast bathrooms), all expressed in an unmistakable Art Nouveau vocabulary.
A sympathetic guard told me that if I liked the house and wanted to see really good art, I should go to his favorite museum in Stockholm, one that few people know--the Thiel Gallery, another large house built at the turn of the century by a rich collector. This collector, though, Ernest Thiel, befriended the best artists of the time. Just take the bus outside, the guard said, to the end of Djurgården. He didn't know that the bus would leave me at the bridge, blocked by a women's marathon, and that I would spend the next hour getting to the museum by foot --the only choice that day.
The unplanned excursion turned out to be the pleasantest of my stay. Djurgården ("Animal Park") is the greenest of the city's islands, and one of the largest; residents treat the whole of it as their park. Swedish friends explained to me that every Stockholmer's goal is to leave the city as often as possible for a rustic retreat; they didn't tell me how easy it is for Stockholmers to fulfill their rural desires in the city--fishing for salmon just outside their office buildings (the city spends a fortune to keep the water clean), taking city hikes as a matter of course. Visitors will find renting a bicycle to be an easy alternative to the efficient public transportation; for someone unfamiliar with the streets and bridges, a car would be inconvenient, and would miss the point--Stockholmers seem to rely on foot and boat.