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mariacallous · 7 months ago

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Like many non-Austrians, I first discovered Vienna’s winter ball season through German-language tabloids. The celebrity-studded Opernball (Opera Ball), the season highlight, is widely covered in the German-speaking world, where it is streamed live on TV and culled for clickbait online. Glittering details are consumed with a mix of aspiration and resentment: debutantes, tiaras, and pricey opera boxes (starting cost: $14,000)! The only sign of the 21st century is a name-drop such as Kim Kardashian, who attended in 2014.

The Opera Ball, I have since learned, is only the tip of the iceberg.

More than 400 formal balls are held in Vienna each winter carnival season. This February, I visited three. The tradition combines the public festivities of the medieval carnival with the legacy of the “Waltzing Congress” of 1814, better known as the Congress of Vienna. Held just a year before Napoleon’s final defeat at the Battle of Waterloo, the Congress—a series of diplomatic meetings between leaders of various powers opposing France—aimed to reinstate Europe’s monarchies and hash out the continent’s post-Napoleonic order.

Its more immediate effect, however, was to transform Vienna into a giant ballroom.

With representatives from Prussia, Austria, Great Britain, Russia, and France, as well as assorted royalty and nobility from across Europe gathered at the imperial Hofburg Palace, the prevailing atmosphere was that of a permanent “house party,” observed historian Dorothy McGuigan in her book The Habsburgs. The dance halls were packed, and the streets were filled with music and fireworks; to lubricate negotiations, Emperor Francis hosted evening balls and musical entertainment, including a concert featuring 100 pianos. The enduring epithet of the so-called Waltzing Congress stems from a quip by the rakish Prince Charles-Joseph de Ligne of Belgium, who proclaimed that “[t]he Congress doesn’t work; it dances.”

The Viennese ball season has been celebrated almost continually since 1814, breaking only for the two world wars and recent pandemic. In a country of only 9 million people, it draws more than 500,000 ordinary people out to waltz. Nearly every profession in Austria hosts its own celebration: A nonexhaustive season program includes the Police Ball, the Firefighters’ Ball, the Engineers’ Ball, the Doctors’ Ball, multiple farmers’ union balls, and the Lawyers’ Ball. Some of these dances, such as the Coffee Brewers’ Ball or the Hunters’ Ball, have outlived the imperial-era professions that they were created to celebrate. Others, such as the Ball of the International Atomic Energy Agency or the recently retired Life Ball—founded to raise awareness during the height of the AIDS crisis—are decidedly contemporary.

It was the improbable continuity of 19th-century traditions, however, that drew my attention. The frenzy of the waltz—still performed in the same ballrooms as in the imperial era—echoes a persistent anxiety for Europe’s over-touristed, economically uneasy, and politically pessimistic capitals: On a continent that relishes golden-era traditions yet finds itself slipping in the geopolitical world order, how do you face the future without romanticizing the past?

Viewed through this lens, the ball season refracts the flamboyant anachronisms of a region in transition. Dozens of guests and former debutantes—most balls include a debutante ceremony—described the events to me in terms of glorious contradiction. The balls, I was told, are elegant, tacky, rarified, intimidating, democratic, elite, ironic, gorgeous, decadent, tiresome, astonishing; they are both political and apolitical, accessible and inaccessible, international and decidedly Viennese.

This cacophony carried over to my own impressions. I saw tiaras and hoop skirts and a tattoo of the Sistine Chapel fresco framed in the V-line of a backless ballgown. Orphaned evening gloves and ostrich feathers drifted across the parquet floors of the Hofburg Palace; hair fixtures nested in updos like Fabergé eggs. I witnessed government ministers dance the disco and saw at least six debutantes faint.

I was told by veteran ball journalists that the publications I write for sound “serious and political,” and that a Viennese ball is neither a serious nor political event. A ball is frivolous, they said; a ball is for fun. I don’t disagree. But I also believe that a society’s attitude toward tradition shapes its expectations for the future—and how much that future should resemble the past.

Maryam Yeganehfar, the creative director of the Opera Ball, emphasized the balls’ capacity for rejuvenation and even escape. The carnival festivities were originally founded, she said, to give people “hope, life, enjoyment” in the weeks leading up to Lent, the 40-day period before the Christian celebration of Easter.

“[W]hy is enjoyment always framed as decadence?” Yeganehfar asked.

At a time when Europe’s post-COVID-19 pandemic headlines—on immigration, war, inflation, right-wing extremism, climate change, energy crises, and strained trans-Atlantic relations—often give reason for pessimism, the balls are a testament both to the temptations of nostalgia and to the resilience to party on.

The Science Ball

The first ball I attended was the Ball der Wissenschaften (Science Ball). Oliver Lehmann, who has served as the event’s director since 2014, is aware of the season’s appeal for foreigners: “For a lot of our friends and guests from the U.K. and the U.S., but also from Switzerland and Germany,” he said over a Zoom call before I arrived, “a ball sounds like a sugar fairy tale from a Walt Disney movie.”

Lehmann admitted that there is some truth to that image. But the balls might be better understood as the “Austrian version of a huge networking event,” he said. Even socialists once held balls; in the 1860s, party members at the Workers’ Ball waltzed wearing bright red ties, attracting attention from political censors.

The Science Ball, for its part, brings together representatives from Vienna’s nine public universities, its expansive network of private and vocational colleges, and numerous research institutions to celebrate—and boost—the city’s reputation as a center of innovation.

The Science Ball also has a unique, quasi-political agenda. It was first held in 2015 in part to undercut the claim of the far-right Akademikerball, or Scholars’ Ball, to “scholarship,” Lehmann said. The gathering of right-wing fraternities is organized by the nativist Freedom Party of Austria (FPÖ). In 2014, the annual protest against the Scholars’ Ball turned violent, resulting in injuries and damaged property.

Today, the Vienna government offers the Science Ball its palatial city hall free of charge, signaling its continued support for the ball’s mission and helping to lower ticket prices for attendees. Regular entry is 100 euros, or $107, while students can attend for $43. It’s a win-win arrangement: Scientists celebrate field achievements; students attend on the cheap; local government discredits nativist misinformation; and a city whose reputation for innovation is often overshadowed by its cultural-historical attractions gets to advertise its technical heft.

To Lehmann, the Science Ball’s focus on contemporary Vienna is evidence that the balls have “nothing to do with nostalgia.” When I asked if the recent rise of right-wing nativism in Austria (the nativist FPÖ came in first in Austria’s elections for the EU Parliament this month and is currently polling at more than 30 percent ahead of elections this fall) has begun to politicize the balls, he replied, “Only counterintuitively, because we’ve never sold out so fast.”

When I arrived, the Science Ball proved to be many balls in one. The dancing unfolded through a series of rooms across three floors of the city hall, each with its own band and musical style. The main ballroom, lined with chandeliers and debutante couples in tuxedos and white gloves, opened onto a grand stairwell decked out with flowers. Beyond this lay the sultry tango room, followed by a baroque cloister where a cover band played “Que Será, Será,” and a ground-floor disco crowded with younger guests. The latter venue is where I spotted Austria’s federal climate minister briefly boogying to “Stayin’ Alive.”

This year’s ball was dedicated to promoting more effective strategies for communicating the threats posed by climate change. There were leaflets floating around with a carbon-emissions logic puzzle, plus a cryptic exhibit devoted to whales that featured a fog machine. In the flagstone courtyard, an 8-by-8 meter inflated cube (about 25 feet across), reminiscent of a giant bouncy house, offered a visual representation of one metric ton of carbon emissions; the average European Union citizen emits between 7 and 8 metric tons of carbon dioxide each year.

The importance of these issues to the Austrian government’s agenda was underscored by the presence of Vienna Mayor Michael Ludwig and Leonore Gewessler, the federal minister of climate action, environment, energy, mobility, innovation and technology. On the main stairwell, the politicians posed for selfies with students, many of whom expressed interest in climate-related issues. The balls can facilitate this sort of direct constituency engagement. But Gewessler also warned against overstating the events’ political importance: “A lot has changed since the Congress of Vienna,” she said. “As it should in an open democracy.”

She is right: Things have changed. Many young women—including the president of the Vienna student union—took advantage of the gender-neutral dress code, donning smart tuxedos and white ties. The organizers “don’t give a damn” about who wears what, Lehmann said, as long it’s evening attire. A couple of biologists I spoke to with roots in India, who now work at a Viennese research outlet, appeared in a tux and emerald sari repurposed from Mumbai’s wedding season. (The fact that I, too, had worn my wedding dress became a bonding moment.)

A group of American exchange students from St. Olaf College in Minnesota had bought their outfits at a budget shop in nearby Bratislava, Slovakia, about an hour away by train. They were starstruck. “It’s amazing,” one said. Another chimed in: “But the drinks are really expensive.”

The balls’ class dynamics are the subject of much local scrutiny. Open any Austrian newspaper in January and you will find an announcement about the average cost that each guest spends per visit: $371. About a third of that is paid for entry, and the rest on attire, taxis, styling, and infamously exorbitant concessions. Local headlines decry $15.50 pints and $17 Wiener sausages. In 2022, an Austrian state governor went viral for her tone-deaf tip that constituents restrict themselves to owning three—rather than 10—ballgowns.

The considerable spending associated with the balls is also a source of revenue that working-class Viennese—taxi drivers, caterers, dance instructors, and hairdressers—depend on. Norbert Kettner, the CEO of the Vienna Tourism Board, an independently run organization that also receives funds from the city, pointed out that the hundreds of millions of euros that this year’s 540,000 guests spent on the balls filter back into the local economy. At a “styling corner” at the Science Ball, where guests can stop by for touch-ups, one freelance makeup artist estimated that she makes more than half her annual income during the ball season.

Later that evening, my taxi driver explained that he organizes his night shifts around the ball schedule, which he pulled up on his phone; there were five events that night alone. When I asked whether he’d ever attended a ball himself, he laughed: “Just outside!” That is, at the taxi stand.

It’s natural to wonder whether the 19th-century aura does more to promote or impede democratic norms, especially when far-right nostalgia—such as that channeled through the FPÖ-sponsored Scholars’ Ball—is on the rise. The object of that nostalgia is pre-globalization Europe. There is a perception that the continent’s status has declined since then: The eurozone’s respective share of the global GDP, for example, has fallen by more than a third since 1960. On the other hand, Europe remains comparatively wealthy; Austria’s per capita GDP is the 14th-highest in the world, according to International Monetary Fund estimates.

Meanwhile, as war rages on in Ukraine, Sudan, and the Middle East, the EU Agency for Asylum predicts that 2024 could bring the highest number of asylum-seekers to the bloc since 2015, when 1.3 million refugees arrived in Europe, about half of them from Syria, Afghanistan, and Iraq. Just before this year’s carnival season, the 35-year old Austrian right-wing extremist Martin Sellner presented a bone-chilling “remigration” plan for migrants, asylum-seekers, and “unassimilated citizens” at a November conference of far-right actors near Berlin. He has since been banned from entering Germany.

The balls appear to offer a welcome respite from these thorny challenges—if they don’t feed back into the well of nostalgia from which these troubling political headlines are sourced.

Around midnight at the Science Ball, a psychology master’s student from Bavaria took a break from her heels on the red-carpeted stairs. She told me that this was her second time attending the event; she and a friend visited last year as well to celebrate the conclusion of a dreaded statistics exam.

“We love it,” she said, gesturing at the glittering crowd of young people posing for pictures behind us, “but we also hate it.” In her view, ball culture is elite and exclusive, reserved for the rich—but more so at other events than at this one. All the same, she conceded, “Why not feel super special? For 40 euros, look what you get.”

The Coffee Brewers’ Ball

Hosted by the Club of Viennese Coffeehouse Owners, the Kaffeesiederball, or Coffee Brewers’ Ball, is another of the season’s most-anticipated events. It celebrates and promotes the history of Vienna’s famous coffeehouse culture, which was inducted into the UNESCO list of intangible world heritage practices in 2011. Were there a people’s choice award for balls, the Coffee Brewers’ Ball would likely win; multiple guests, none of them coffee brewers, told me that it’s the most beautiful ball of the season.

The stately Hofburg Palace, where the ball was held, took on the atmosphere of a black-tie nightclub. Attendees—whose ages spanned from 18 to 80—had traveled from Munich to celebrate a 40th birthday; from Dubai, for the glamour; from Austria’s southern Carinthia region to see the scheduled performance by the Vienna State Ballet; and from northern Austria, to see a disco cover band (called the Bad Powells). Most were from Vienna itself. They had come to see the Hofburg, whose status as the former imperial palace lends the events held there a particular lure and elegance.

The guests were there, above all, to dance: the polka, the quadrille, the polonaise, and the tricky Viennese “left waltz,” in which couples follow a double rotation, revolving on their own axes while simultaneously orbiting the room, like planets hurtling around the sun. The dancing spilled from the main ballroom into gold-trimmed apartments leading deeper and deeper into the palace; I finally reached a dead end at the storied Redouten Rooms, which ball-enthusiast Empress Maria Theresa renovated in 1748 to better accommodate waltzes and masquerades. That evening, they had been furnished with neon lights, a gin bar, and a DJ spinning techno.

The balls have long dramatized a broader European tug-of-war between democratization and aristocratic control. From the 16th to 18th centuries, the monarchy strove to regulate, then ban, public masquerades and dances in the weeks leading up to Lent. The prohibitions were issued on the grounds of mischief (murders were known to be committed from behind the anonymity of carnival masks) and the threat of popular uprising.

Meanwhile, the nobility began to host their own masquerades in private ballrooms such as the Redouten Rooms. When Emperor Joseph II opened these rooms to the nontitled public in 1772, the nobility retreated once again to exclusive spaces, where they could better monitor the guest list (and, by extension, the marriage market). The same trend followed the rise of public dance halls at the turn of the century, when every profession began to hold its own celebrations.

Today’s balls are also increasingly international and cross-cultural. “Twenty years ago,” a 40-year-old Viennese guest told me, “you wouldn’t see so many international guests.” This year, he had brought two friends from Paris. As the night wore on, I also met a fashion journalist from Switzerland, a reporter from South Korea, and a correspondent from Munich. In one of the palace’s many golden bars, a local journalist pointed a camera at two models posing in a black tuxedo and a frothy pink gown. When I asked what the photoshoot was intended to advertise, he gave a cheerful answer: “Vienna!” The staged images will run in an international travel magazine.

For European states, the continent’s golden era is readily monetizable through foreign tourism. In cities such as Barcelona and Amsterdam, the annual total of visitors outnumbers locals by more than 10 to 1, prompting some local governments to dissuade further travelers from coming. Today, tourism makes up almost 10 percent of Austria’s economy, the same share as for the eurozone as a whole, which also claims more than 60 percent of the world’s international leisure travel.

There are many reasons to be drawn to the continent; Vienna itself is frequently ranked as the world’s most livable city. Yet among locals, the pandemic, climate change, and geographic proximity to Russia’s war in Ukraine can contribute to a mood of perceived domestic decline.

One former debutante reflected on her experience with a contagious nihilism: “Europe is lost,” she said. There’s “Ukraine,” and “nobody has money. Everything is fucked, basically, so why not party?”

It is not the kind of sentiment that will make the travel magazine spread.

Despite signs of disillusionment, Kettner—the Vienna Tourism Board CEO—said that young people such as the former debutante have “rescued” the balls. The discotheques and increasingly gender-neutral dress codes are part of a concerted effort to appeal to younger generations.

It’s been successful: Debutante classes ahead of the balls, which draw from the under-30 crowd, are full at the city’s top dance schools. Post-pandemic participation across all ages has risen from 520,000 in 2019 to an estimated 540,000 in 2023. The challenge of keeping the ball season relevant is a microcosm for Europe’s overall challenge: How to protect proud cultural traditions while also making sure that they can keep up with the times.

The Opera Ball

This official state ball, the “ball of all balls”—Austria’s most beautiful, decadent, and exclusive event—arrived on the scene in the year 1935. It is a fundraiser, with revenues flowing to the Vienna State Opera, in whose building the dance is also held. In 2019, the event raised the equivalent of more than $1.1 million for the national opera and ballet.

In recent years, the Opera Ball has also developed a side reputation for celebrity antics. This is in large part thanks to Austrian reality TV star and businessman Richard Lugner; the reveal of his date is an annual tabloid event. In 2005, Lugner was accompanied by former Spice Girl Geri Halliwell, who, headlines gleefully reported, refused to dance with him. His other previous companions have included Pamela Anderson, Kim Kardashian, and Grace Jones. This year, he took Priscilla Presley.

A livestream broadcast of the ball is popular with viewers at home. This winter, more than 1.6 million Austrians and 1 million Germans tuned in.

The Opera Ball, with its outsized media footprint, also attracts dissenters. An annual demonstration that has been held on the same day as the ball since the late 1980s has become as much a part of the tradition as the waltz itself. Organized by the Communist Youth of Austria, this year, 400 to 600 people marched to the slogan “Eat the Rich.” More specific demands included a nationalized housing policy, the reinstatement of a national inheritance tax, and wage increases to keep pace with inflation.

The group’s media relations manager, Johannes Lutz, said that the protest stands against the inequity that the Opera Ball “symbolizes” rather than the ball itself. The minimum entry price of about $426 ($38 of which is earmarked for charity) is a point of contention; basic tickets for the season’s other exclusive balls range from $107 to $208.

Yeganehfar, who has served as the creative director of the Opera Ball since 2023 and also runs a successful local event production company, conceded that the ball “has its price.” She compared it to a major sporting event: Some fans will save up to attend, but many more will watch from home. (By comparison, the average ticket price to attend an NFL football game in the United States was $377 in 2023.) It is precisely because ordinary people “save up to be in this room” that Yeganehfar said she aims to make the Opera Ball so memorable.

“This is the most beautiful event in the entire country,” she said. “We should put it on a pedestal.”

The ball unfurled throughout the entire opera house—onstage, in the wings, in the basement, and in the many gilded bars and cafes—lending a night-at-the-museum giddiness to the evening. From a lobby erupting with Pink Floyd roses, arriving parties filtered through linoleum hallways and past dressing rooms usually reserved for singers and ballerinas. The dancing took place on the stage itself, which had been extended over the orchestra pit.

To debut at the Opera Ball, one breathless young debutante told me, is to occupy the same stage where the “the greatest singers in history” have performed.

The idea that the Opera Ball is something “you should see once in your life” is a sentiment that I heard from guests again and again. A couple from Berlin—a retired secretary and the manager of a hydrogen firm—said they were in attendance because Vienna is “the city of music.” Eight middle-aged women from Kyrgyzstan had arrived in matching pastel gowns after discovering the Opera Ball on the internet. Two Austrian students—a couple studying education and social anthropology, whose gelled hair and all-black palette gave the requisite dress code a punk twist—told me that they are usually at the leftist demonstration outside. This year, they’d saved up to attend the ball itself, saying, “[o]nce at the Opera Ball, the rest of the time at the protest!”

Onstage, I was asked to participate in a disastrous waltz. A ball veteran leading me through the polka, a step I do not know, insisted that the point of the Opera Ball is to escape reality. “For one night,” he said, “you don’t think about war or poverty. You just celebrate.”

But we were thinking about these issues—he mentioned them without my prompting. Awareness of the world outside was inscribed in the price of concessions, 10 percent of whose revenues were earmarked for an Austrian charity initiative in addition to the $38 earmarked from the ticket price. I saw three young men pass around a flask of liquor, a common workaround to the exorbitantly priced drinks. Exiting the stage, I dodged waiters rushing into private opera boxes with trays of petits fours and canapés.

This is about “tradition,” guests told me. It’s about prestige. It’s about attending the same ball as celebrities. (Later, I discovered that Italian actor Franco Nero was also in attendance.) It’s about “seeing and being seen.” It is, above all, about the illicit, dreamworld feeling of being where we’re not supposed to be: backstage at the Vienna Opera House and also, possibly, in the 19th century.

In the lobby, VIPs were being interviewed on live television. The sense that I’d fallen through the looking glass became more overwhelming when I stumbled into the basement, which had been transformed into a club. On a velvet sofa adjacent to the writhing dance floor lay a tulle hoopskirt, evidence of someone’s late-night costume change.

Like a hypnotist’s signal, it was my cue to head out and catch my early morning train.

Out in the real world, Yeganehfar’s comment lingered with me the most: “Why is enjoyment always framed as decadence?”

The taxi driver who picked me up outside of the opera house was originally from Poland. Our conversation drifted to the rise of right-wing politics in his native country. “History is turning back on itself,” he concluded, a reference to the ascendence of the far-right Law and Justice party in Poland and the accompanying decline in German-Polish relations. The observation compounded my sense of being drawn through multiple timelines at once.

By the time we arrived at the hostel apartment where I was staying, it was dawn. I exited onto the sidewalk and tipped my driver everything I had. Teetering in the sunrise in a pair of borrowed heels, I wondered if ball critics’ hand-wringing over decadence speaks less to a distrust of pleasure than to a profound sense of dissonance. Europeans still enjoy a quality of life that is the envy of much of the world, yet populists have managed to create—and spread—a narrative of a continent in imminent decline.

“Let us hope the future will be better!” the taxi driver said in parting. I found myself a little too eager to agree.

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gasthausnostalgie · 5 months ago

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'Mr. Opernball' Ing. Richard Lugner ist am 12.8.2024 verstorben.

Richard Lugner wurde am 11. Oktober 1932 als Sohn des Rechtsanwaltes Richard Lugner senior und dessen Ehefrau Leopoldine in Wien geboren.

Vier Jahre vor der Geburt seines Sohnes wurde Richard Lugner Senior im Jahr 1928 in die Rechtsanwaltsliste eingetragen, nachdem er im November 1928 eine eigene Rechtsanwaltskanzlei auf der Adresse Mariahilfer Straße 180 eröffnet hatte. Im November 1931 übernahm Lugner die Kanzlei des Josef Schorr, der auf die Ausübung der Rechtsanwaltspraxis verzichtet hatte. Richard Lugner senior war ein begeisterter Teilnehmer von Automobil-Gymkhanas.Um 1933/34 verlegte er den Sitz seiner Anwaltskanzlei an die noch renommiertere Adresse Tuchlauben 14 im 1. Wiener Gemeindebezirk. In den beiden letzten Tagen des Amtlichen Teils der Wiener Zeitung im Februar 1940 und in dem daraufhin vom Völkischen Beobachter übernommenen Amtlichen Teil schien Lugner in den Jahren 1940 bis 1943 oftmals als Kurator auf. Am 1. April 1948 veröffentlichte die Wiener Zeitung, dass zu dem seit März 1944 in Russland als Hauptmann nach der Kriegsgefangenschaft verschollenen Richard Lugner senior auf Ansuchen der Ehefrau ein Verfahren zur Todeserklärung kriegsvermisster Personen eingeleitet worden sein. Laut Verfahren war Lugner, ein Angehöriger der ehemaligen Wehrmacht, seit den Kämpfen bei Nowy Bug im März 1944 bei der Beresnegowatoje-Snigirjower Operation vermisst. Die Familie – dazu gehörte auch der 1934 geborene Sohn Roland († 2022) – lebte zum Zeitpunkt des Verschwindens des Familienvaters auf der Adresse Obere Donaustraße im 2. Wiener Gemeindebezirk.

Nach Absolvierung seiner allgemeinen Schulausbildung legte Richard Lugner junior 1953 an der Technisch-Gewerblichen Bundeslehranstalt, Fachrichtung Hochbau, in der Schellinggasse im 1. Wiener Gemeindebezirk seine Matura ab.[15] Die ersten Jahre seiner Berufslaufbahn absolvierte der als schüchtern bezeichnete Lugner bei einer Wiener Baufirma und wechselte dann in die Bauabteilung des Mineralölunternehmens Mobil Oil Austria, die zum US-Konzern Mobil Oil gehörte. Am 26. April 1962 erhielt er die Baumeisterkonzession und stellte noch im selben Jahr zwei Arbeiter und zwei Angestellte in seinem eigenen Unternehmen ein. Zwei Jahre später wurde am 19. September 1964 die Theresianische Akademie, an der Lugner mit seinem Unternehmen mitgearbeitet hatte, vom damaligen Bundespräsidenten Adolf Schärf im Beisein von Außenminister Bruno Kreisky eröffnet.

Zu diesem Zeitpunkt hatte sich Lugner bereits zwei Standbeine aufgebaut; so spezialisierte er sich auf die Renovierung von Altbauten und die Errichtung von Tankstellen und Service-Stationen. Während sich der Großteil der Konkurrenz in dieser Zeit um die zahlreichen Großaufträge der Wiederaufbauzeit und der Wirtschaftsexpansion bemühte, konnte sich Lugner mit seinem Unternehmen mit verhältnismäßig kleinen Aufträgen durchsetzen. Als die Revitalisierung die Neubauten auf der Grünen Wiese ablösten, konnte Lugner mit seinem Team zum Marktführer im Bereich der Revitalisierung und zugleich zum größten gewerblichen Bauunternehmer in Wien avancieren. Für Aufsehen sorgten der Bau der Wiener Moschee und die Renovierung des Stadttempels der jüdischen Kultusgemeinde Wien. Im Laufe der Jahre erhielt er zahlreiche Revitalisierungsaufträge diverser Banken und Sparkassen und war in den 1980er Jahren auch an der Revitalisierung des Deutschmeister-Palais für den OPEC Fund (OFID) hauptbeteiligt. In dieser Zeit arbeitete er mit zahlreichen namhaften Architekten – darunter etwa Georg Lippert oder Wilhelm Holzbauer – zusammen. 1982 wurde eine steirische Filiale der Baufirma Lugner in Graz eröffnet.[15] Diese kümmerte sich vorrangig um den österreichweiten Tankstellenausbau sowie um Innenstadtrevitalisierungsprojekte. In den auftragsschwachen Jahren weitete er seine Bautätigkeit auf Bürohäuser mit angeschlossenen Tiefgaragen aus, während sein Unternehmen in dieser Zeit auf rund 600 Mitarbeiter anwuchs. Im Jahr der Grazer Filialeröffnung wurde der Baufirma Lugner das Recht zur Führung des Staatswappens von Handelsminister Josef Staribacher verliehen.

Im September 1990 eröffnete er mit Eröffnungsgast Dagmar Koller die Lugner City, das damals siebtgrößte Einkaufszentrum in Österreich.

Ab 1997 zog sich Lugner sukzessive aus dem operativen Baugeschäft zurück und übergab die Leitung des Bauunternehmens, das jedoch weiterhin zu 100 % in seinem Eigentum blieb, an seine Söhne. 2003 wurde die Lugner City mittels einer Sale-Lease-Back-Variante der Volksbanken-Immoconsult übereignet. Zehn Jahre später erfolgte zum vertraglich frühestmöglichen Zeitpunkt, im Wege eines Share Deals, der Rückkauf. Im September 2005 wurde die Lugner Kino City eröffnet, ein Multiplex-Kino, das in elf Sälen Platz für 1840 Besucher bietet.

Seit 2007 wird jedes Jahr bei einem Casting in der Lugner City eine „Opernball Prinzessin“ von einer Jury gekürt.

Mehrmals versuchte Lugner, gemeinsam mit seinem Hausanwalt Adrian Hollaender, für seine Lugner City die Begrenzungen der Ladenöffnungszeiten zu kippen. Er wandte sich als Nichtraucher gegen das Rauchverbot in Lokalen.

Lugner heiratete 1961 seine Jugendliebe Christine Gmeiner. 1963 und 1966 kamen seine zwei Söhne zur Welt. Nach 17-jähriger Ehe trennte sich das Ehepaar, blieb aber beruflich miteinander verbunden. 1979 heiratete er ein zweites Mal und wurde vier Jahre später geschieden. Seine dritte Ehefrau Susanne Dietrich fiel kurz nach der Scheidung nach einer Schönheitsoperation ins Koma und starb. Aus einer außerehelichen Beziehung mit Sonja Jeannine hat Lugner eine Tochter. Seit 13. Juli 1991 war er mit seiner vierten Frau Christina „Mausi“ Lugner verheiratet, 1993 kam die gemeinsame Tochter namens Jacqueline zur Welt, am 2. August 2007 ließ sich das Ehepaar scheiden. Danach folgte eine Reihe von Beziehungen; mit Bettina „Hasi“ Kofler (2008), Sonja „Käfer“ Schönanger (2008–2009), Nina „Bambi“ Bruckner (2009), Anastasia „Katzi“ Sokol (2009–2013), Bahati „Kolibri“ Venus (2013–2014). Am 13. September 2014 heiratete Lugner – in seiner fünften Eheschließung – im Wiener Schloss Schönbrunn die aus Wittlich (Eifel) stammende 57 Jahre jüngere Cathy „Spatzi“ Schmitz. Am 30. November 2016 folgte die Scheidung. Im Juli 2021 wurde die Beziehung zur 49 Jahre jüngeren, stellvertretenden Baumarkt-Filialleiterin Simone „Bienchen“ Reiländer bekanntgegeben[36], mit der er sich im Oktober verlobte. Am 1. Juni 2024 heiratete sie Lugner im Wiener Rathaus. Unter den Gästen war auch der Dritte Nationalratspräsident, Ex-FPÖ-Chef und Präsidentschaftskandidat Norbert Hofer (FPÖ).

Cathy Schmitz hat nach ihrer Ehe bestätigt, dass sie von Lugner monatlich finanzielle Zuwendungen im Sinne eines Einkommens erhielt.

Bei der Partnerwahl ließ sich Lugner häufig von der Astrologin Gerda Rogers beraten.

Lugner macht jährlich seit über 30 Jahren die F.-X.-Mayr-Kur und unterzieht sich Blutwäschen. 2016 wurde bei ihm Prostatakrebs festgestellt, den er aber durch mehrmonatige Strahlentherapie im Frühjahr 2017 für besiegt erklärte. Nachdem er sich 2020 bei einem Urlaub auf den Malediven verletzt hatte, folgte kurz danach durch den Schönheitschirurgen Artur Worseg die Diagnose Hautkrebs. In weiterer Folge wurde er operiert und für krebsfrei befunden; 2021 kehrte die Erkrankung zurück, was eine abermalige Operation nach sich zog. Dem vorausgegangen war ein schwerer Sturz mit Operation und wochenlangem Krankenhausaufenthalt.

Seinen Spitznamen „Mörtel“ bekam er bereits als arrivierter Baumeister vom österreichischen Boulevardjournalisten Michael Jeannée. 2024 heiratete seine Tochter Jacqueline den FPÖ-Politiker Leo Kohlbauer, der den Nachnamen Lugner annahm.

1998 kandidierte Lugner bei der Bundespräsidentenwahl und wurde mit 9,91 Prozent der Wählerstimmen vierter von fünf Kandidaten. Bei der Nationalratswahl 1999 erhielt er mit „Die Unabhängigen“ 1,02 Prozent der Stimmen.

Im Februar 2016 bestätigte er seine Kandidatur zur Bundespräsidentenwahl 2016. Er erzielte rechtzeitig 6000 Unterstützerstimmen, um zur Wahl zugelassen zu werden, und erhielt im ersten Wahlgang 2,26 Prozent.

Lugner, der bei der Wahl der älteste Kandidat der Zweiten Republik war, schloss für die Zukunft eine weitere Kandidatur aus.

Am 16. Februar 2024 besuchte Richard Lugner in Begleitung des Ex-FPÖ-Chefs Norbert Hofer den Wiener Akademikerball.

Lugner wird der sogenannten Seitenblickegesellschaft zugerechnet. In den Medien wird er zuweilen auch als „Society-Löwe“ bezeichnet.

Seit 2003 strahlt der österreichische Privatsender ATV die Reality-Soap Die Lugners nach dem Vorbild der US-Serie The Osbournes aus. In der seit 2007 ausgestrahlten Satiresendung Wir sind Kaiser bittet Lugner seit seiner ersten Audienz am 3. Jänner 2008 als Running Gag jede Woche um eine Vorlassung zum Kaiser, wird aber immer wieder abgewiesen. 2010 spielte er bei den Karl-May-Festspielen in Gföhl die Rolle des Mr. Buttler. 2016 war er mit seiner damaligen Frau Cathy in der RTL-II-Doku-Soap Lugner und Cathy – Der Millionär und das Bunny zu sehen.

Anfang 2019 war er in zwei Werbespots der Möbelhauskette XXXLutz zu sehen, welche seine Opernballbesuche thematisierten. Bei der alljährlichen Pressekonferenz, in der er seinen Stargast bekannt gab,[70] war auch die Familie Putz anwesend, die er mit zum Opernball einlud.

Als Begleitung für seinen jährlichen Besuch des Wiener Opernballs engagiert Lugner seit 1992 üblicherweise einen prominenten Gast und nimmt diesen in seine Loge mit. Der einzige Stargast, den er trotz mehrerer Versuche nicht bekommen konnte, war Liz Taylor. Am 13. November 2023 teilte er dem Standard mit, dass die Auswahl der Gäste von seiner Tochter Jacqueline getroffen werde.

1992 Harry Belafonte

1993 Joan Collins

1994 Ivana Trump

1995 Sophia Loren

1996 Grace Jones

1997 Sarah Ferguson

1998 Raquel Welch

1999 Faye Dunaway

2000 Jacqueline Bisset, Nadja Abd el Farrag

2001 Farrah Fawcett

2002 Claudia Cardinale

2003 Pamela Anderson

2004 Andie MacDowell

2005 Geri Halliwell

2006 Carmen Electra

2007 Paris Hilton

2008 Dita Von Teese

2009 Nicollette Sheridan

2010 Dieter Bohlen

2011 Karima „Ruby“ el-Mahroug, Larry Hagman, Zachi Noy

2012 Brigitte Nielsen, Roger Moore

2013 Mira Sorvino, Gina Lollobrigida

2014 Kim Kardashian

2015 Elisabetta Canalis

2016 Brooke Shields

2017 Goldie Hawn

2018 Melanie Griffith

2019 Elle Macpherson

2020 Ornella Muti

2023 Jane Fonda

2024 Priscilla Presley

Im Wiener Wachsfigurenkabinett von Madame Tussauds enthüllte er am 10. Oktober 2019 sein Ebenbild aus Wachs. Die ausgestellte Figur trägt seine typische Opernball-Kleidung mit Frack und Zylinder.

Danke für deine Bereicherung der Wiener Society und deine Lebensleistung, Ruhe in Frieden Richard!

#vienna old #richardlugner

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