I was eight the first time I saw one of Antony Gormley’s sculptures. I didn’t understand it, not really. But I felt something—a quiet energy, a presence that stayed with me long after I walked away. I didn’t have the words for it then, but looking back, I think that was my first real experience of art not just as something to be seen, but as something to be felt.
Years later, standing in the middle of the Alps, watching his massive, solid figures take their place in the landscape, that feeling came rushing back. I had read about his work before, seen pictures, but nothing prepared me for what it would be like to actually be there. To see these weighty forms somehow feel weightless, perfectly balanced within the wild landscape. Nothing about them was random. Every angle, every shadow, every shift in the land—it was all thought through. And you can feel it.
Art That Breathes with the Landscape
This place isn’t just another luxury retreat—it’s the kind of place that makes you stop and actually see the world around you. Here, art, nature, and architecture don’t just coexist; they shape each other. And Gormley’s sculptures? They feel like they’ve always been here, just waiting to be noticed.
These aren’t pieces to admire from a distance—they demand to be experienced. Walked around, studied, felt. Gormley is known for exploring the human body’s relationship with space, and these works—Be, Lie, and See—each bring that idea to life in a different way.
Three Sculptures, Three Perspectives
Lie: A Moment of Stillness
Lie is inside the chalet, made from stacked Haute-Savoie granite slabs, resting in a peaceful corner. I stood beside it, watching the mountains through its gaze. And for a second, I swear, it felt like it was watching back.
I remember thinking—wait, this isn’t just lying here, it’s resting. Like it’s exhaling, just as the landscape does at dusk. And that made me realize—I’d never thought about stillness as an active thing. But here it was, carved into stone, showing me that even resting is an act of being. The way the morning light hit its surface was something else—it felt like it had been placed there just for that moment. Like it was meant to watch the sunrise every day, just as we do.
Be: A Quiet Presence in the Woods
Then there’s Be, tucked away in a clearing among the trees. I almost missed it. The first time I walked by, it was like the trees had swallowed it up. But when I stopped—really stopped—it was like it was waiting for me. Like it had been listening the whole time. The wind, the rustling leaves, the quiet hum of the world.
I could smell the damp earth, the pine needles crushed underfoot. The air had that crisp mountain chill that makes everything feel sharper, more real. And at different times of the day, the way the light filters through the trees changes its entire presence. In the morning, it’s almost invisible; by sunset, the shadows stretch and pull it into focus. The landscape decides when you see it.
See: A Gaze Into the Unknown
They told me where See was, and I made my way there, expecting something obvious. Instead, I stepped into a room and was sure I was in the wrong place. It was pitch dark, humid, the kind of space that makes you instinctively reach out for a wall. My eyes strained, adjusting, searching for something—anything. And then, out of nowhere, it appeared.
It wasn’t just a sculpture waiting to be seen. It was something you had to find. Placed at the end of a narrow passageway, it forced me to look down, to focus on what was just beyond sight. The way the piece played with darkness and light, how it pulled me toward it, completely changed the way I engaged with the space.
During the day, it’s easy to miss. But at dusk? When the last light catches its edges? It pulls you in. The sculpture isn’t just looking into the passage—it’s making you look, too. And for a second, I wasn’t sure what I was seeing. Just shadow? Or something else? And it made me think—how often do we miss things just because we aren’t looking the right way?
Gormley’s Philosophy: More Than Just Sculptures
Watching these sculptures take their place, I started seeing them the way Gormley does—as part of the landscape, not separate from it. He once described his work as an “acupuncture of space”—small interventions that completely transform how a place feels. That’s exactly what these sculptures do at Magic Megève. They turn familiar spaces into something more—a place of reflection, of stillness, of connection.
It’s not just about admiring the art—it’s about what it does to you. How it makes you move differently, look differently, think differently. How it pulls you into the present.
The Insane Process of Getting These Sculptures Here
Here’s the part that blew my mind: how they actually got these sculptures into place.
It’s one thing to see them standing solidly in the middle of nature, but knowing how they got there? That’s another story. The blocks of granite were massive, and somehow, they were carefully transported into the forest without disturbing the landscape, without damaging the surroundings. Everything was balanced, calculated, planned down to the millimeter.
And yet, the final result? It looks effortless. Like they just appeared one day, fully formed, waiting for you to find them.
A Personal Reflection
Being there while these sculptures were installed, seeing the sheer effort it took to bring them deep into the landscape, changed the way I think about art. It’s easy to walk through a gallery and admire a piece, but when you watch something being placed with such care, when you see how the light shifts over it at different times of the day, when you experience how it transforms the way you move through a space—that’s when you realize art isn’t just something you look at. It’s something you feel.
Antony Gormley’s work at Magic Megève isn’t just about sculptures—it’s about presence, about being in the moment, about how the human body relates to the spaces we inhabit. And in a place like this—where nature, architecture, and art come together—that experience is something you carry with you long after you leave.
