Dix in Stuttgart

Stuttgart is not known as a major destination on the global art map.  It cannot compare to Berlin among German art centers, nor even to Munich, Frankfurt, Cologne, and Kassel.  Still, it deserves more recognition.  Among its masterpieces, the city hosts one of the most impressive collections of paintings by Otto Dix.  Dix moved to the area after he was ousted from his Dresden professorship by the Nazis.  His house has been made into a small museum, but the real treasures live at the Kunstmuseum, a cubical building with a glass exoskeleton and several floors of galleries showing modern and contemporary art.  Before Dix died, Stuttgart negotiated to be granted the right to purchase any of his works that come on the market.  They have used this privilege well, amassing a collection of paintings that represent the artist's remarkable career.

Dix was born in 1891 and was en route to becoming a significant expressionist painter when the First World War broke out.  At that time, his subjects were often tame, even bucolic, but his years on the front lines would change all that.  Dix enlisted in the army and eventually became an officer in a machine-gun battalion, fighting on both the Eastern front and in Flanders.  Dix earned promotions and a medal for valor, and he sustained five injuries before being discharged.  While at battle, he documented what he saw, and it wasn't pretty.  His drawings, paintings, and prints of the period are among of the most chilling artistic representations of the horrors of war (see example above).  They rank second, perhaps, to Goya's Disasters of War.

Dix's depictions of war brought him fame and notoriety.  In 1923 a Cologne museum purchased a large painting called The Trench (reproduced above), which was condemned as unpatriotic by conservative critics.  The museum director bowed under pressure, returning the work to Dix's dealer.  It subsequently disappeared and is presumed to have been destroyed along with some 250 other works by the Nazis.  Dix was undaunted by the scandal and proceeded to paint comparable scenes of anihilation.  Two examples, The War and Flanders appear below. The War closely resembles The Trench and was intended as a deliberate rebuttal to Dix's critics.  The dead soldier hanging at the top of the canvas alludes more explicitly to the Christ figure in Grünewald's Isenheim altarpiece, universally recognized as one of the most important works in the history of German art.  I was lucky to see the other painting, Flanders, while visiting Stuttgart.  It was on display at the Kunsthalle Würth in nearby Schwäbish Hall, which I visited with a carload of art-loving philosophers.  The sky in that painting shows two phases: blood red and tranquil blue, as if Dix is reminding Germans that there are two paths to choose from when moving past the tragedies of the Western front.

In the years immediately after the war, Dix fell in with members of the Dada movement, and this is reflected in his work.  One painting in Stuttgart, Pragerstrasse (1920), bears this out.   with a composition that resembles the anarchy of a dada montage (think Heartfield or early Höch).  Dix even experiments with three-dimensional collage elements as revealed in the detail below.

Pragerstrasse also contains what would soon become a Dix staple: images of war veterans with missing limbs.  Another image of war veterans was prominently displayed in the famous International Dada Fair in Berlin, 1920 (pictured below--Dix's painting can be see on left, with Höch seated below).  It too is believed to have been destroyed.

The experience of war was traumatic for Dix.  He was haunted by nightmares and he returns again and again to military themes in his work.  He also acquired a more cynical view of civilian life.  He painted prostitutes, the poor, the aged, and the oblivious bourgeoisie.  Though coming from humble means, he was himself something of a dandy and an amateur dancer, who immersed himself in the Weimar Republic's hedonistic night life.  Here young people sought parties and pearls as an escape from ugly memories of the past.  This was also the jazz age and the age of women's suffrage.  Women dressed in androgynous clothing, cut their hair short, and pursued open lesbian relationships.  Dix presents this world as only an insider could.  The most impressive painting in Stuttgart--perhaps his best work--is a monumental tryptic called Metropolis (or Großstadt), pictured below.  I also reproduced his sketch for the work, which is not on display there.

Dix paints with eviscerating accuracy (see the zoomable version here).  His tryptic is full of contrasts and contradictions.  Poverty and decadence, gyrating dancers and bodies broken by war, youth and age, hope and despair.  The left panel shows (below) a dog barking at a disabled veteran, surrounded by prostitutes.  The center shows fashionably attired revelers dancing to a jazz band.  A stereotyped African American drummer might be an alter ego for Dix, as suggested by his superb self-portrait Beauty, in which he stands in front of a drummer and wears an American suit.  The right panel (below) shows another war victim, with head clasped in hand, seated helplessly below a parade of fashionistas.

It is easy to see this work as satyrical and unforgiving.  But Dix is something of a visual journalist.  His paintings, unlike those of his contemporary Georg Grosz, do not so much as pass judgment on their subjects but rather expose them, as artists had rarely done before.  Other modernists had painted beggars and sex workers, but often in a highly romanticized way.  Here humanity is laid bare, and these anonymous people, living on society's margins gain a kind of dignity in their ugliness.  They are given flesh and blood for the first time.

This journalistic approach to painting was called the New Objectivity (Neue Sachlichkeit).  Dix was one of its pioneers and arguably its best practitioner.  He also developed new methods of painting--or rather old methods, reverting to the use of tempera with oil washes, which had been used by renaissance masters.  For many European modernists, the interwar period marked a return to more traditional techniques, but that usually signaled nostalgia for classical order.  In Dix's hands, traditional methods are used to deliver a world of disorder.  One might liken his works to the Flemish primitives.  LIke van Eyck, Bouts, and the German-born Memling, his figures are distorted, thinner or fatter than prevailing norms, hunched, angular and awkward.  The Metropolis brings to mind Memling's 15th century St. John the Baptist triptychs.  Like Dix's masterpiece, there is fallen figure on the left; a main panel with a female figure centered beneath a rectangular form;  and a constellation of colorful images on the right, which receded upward into the distance.  There are also arched ceilings, marble columns, and a floor that slants downward inviting viewers in.

Allusions to older art can also be found in Dix's Three Wenches, a study in anatomical variation among prostitutes.  The twisting body of the standing figure pays homage to the Flemish primitives again, and it also forecasts recent work by John Currin, such as the Dane, depicted below.  The round woman on the right evokes a more ancient source: neolithic venus figures, such as the wonderful Venus of Hohle, which lives in Stuttgart.  I reproduced both below.

Like the Flemish primitives, Dix was also skilled at portraiture (see the comparison here).  Though trending towards caricature, his portraits are undoubtedly his kindest works.  Dix portrays art dealers, industrialists, doctors, journalists, and other Weimar personalities with loving detail and refreshing honesty.  Several of these can be found in Stuttgart.  The most renowned is his portrait of the dancer, Anita Berber.

A celebrity at the time, Berber was known for he nude perfomances, her erotic films, and her seduction of many prominent male and female residents of Berlin including, allegedly Marlene Dietrich.  Berber was also a substance abuser and she died of tuberculosis surrounded by morphine needles at the age of 29.  I included a photograph alongside the Dix painting for comparison.  One wouldn't call his portrayal flattering, and his color scheme emphasizes her identity as a femme fatale.  On the other hand, he saw her an an embodiment of the time, and captures her strength in a way that brings eminence to her salaciously configured physique.

Equally compelling are some Dix's family portraits.  He painted his three children with adoration, but without saccharine idealization.   Dix's eye for the odd is as evident here as elsewhere.  His children stare blankly and stand with fixed doll-like postures (see the Nelly detail above and compare it to the more expressive photo of her by Hugo Erfurth on the right).  Dix plays with the cliché of innocence.  The portrait of Urus below is at once untarnished and strange.   Will these plump, wide-eyed creatures devolve into the misshapen adults that populate Dix's multi-figure compositions?  Born after one violent conflict, these kids are heading unknowingly into another; they will see their world torn apart by war.

The question of destiny is also brought out poignantly by Dix's portrait of a newborn child.  He captures better than any other artist the creepy, worm-like form of the neonate.  The one from the Stuttgart collection (below) is the best of several versions he produced at the time.  I also included a study for the work, which shows the child emerging from womb.  The style evokes Dix's war series.  Nelly, who is depicted here, would become a writer and artist, before dying at 31, during a botched abortion.

Dix probably didn't forecast the hell that was coming, but his early paintings can be read as a desperate plea.  Dix knew the ravages of war, and he was also sensitive to societal forces that could lead back in that direction.  This dark trajectory presumably made itself even more apparent when the Nazi's ousted him from his Dresden post.  Dix was labelled a degenerate artist and his paintings were features in the degenerate art exhibitions that travelled around Germany.  A tribute to those artists is currently on display at the Neue Galerie in New York, which also mounted an excellent Dix show a few years ago.

The Nazi campaign against degenerate art came with a positive agenda as well.  Art would henceforth glorify the Third Reich.  Under these conditions, artists who wished to continue painting had to conform.  Dix's work took a dramatic turn.  His figurative works took on more classical proportions and traditional themes, including as Biblical stories.  There is a disturbing example at Stuttgart from 1934, called the Triumph of Death.  In the foreground a baby is tenderly rendered, with a intertwined couple on the right.  To the left, a German soldier stands, with the scythe of Death--who lurches across the top of the canvas--curling around his neck.  There is also a woman farming and a dismembered man, suggesting, again, two options for Germany.

In the years that followed, Dix also began painting landscapes.  These efforts seem benign at first, and they capitulate to State-sanctioned aesthetic conventions.  Yet, they are also subtly continuous with Dix's earlier work in that they remain grimly foreboding.  The style has changed, but the message is thinly veiled: bad things are coming.  One shows a snowy village with dark birds looming overhead.  Another shows an apocalyptic storm brewing over the spires of a city.  The latter painting looks unmistakably similar to some of the war paintings that Dix's early detractors had condemned as unpatriotic.

After the war, Dix continued to paint until his death in 1969.  The Stuttgart collection includes one post-war painting, a 1969 image of Christ, which typifies his later style: religious allegories executed in an expressionist style.  The influence of cubism can also be seen, and little is left of the Neue Sachlichkeit, which Dix had spearheaded.  I must say I dislike these later paintings, and I find the Christian iconography distressingly opaque. Still, they are interesting.  A very good sampling is now on display at a spectacular show, which I caught in Munich a couple months back.  The show compares Dix to Max Beckmann and traces their parallels throughout their long careers.  Rather than ending with the colorful Christ, let me close with a juxtaposition from the Munich show: Dix and Beckman each giving their own version of a nude model in an art studio.   I prefer Beckman in general to Dix (a story for another day), but Dix wins in this head-to-head comparison.

In Dix's painting, there is an empty easel, and through it we see a capsized dummy (perhaps an artist's tool for anatomical accuracy).  Behind the dummy sits a corpulent model, with a hand raised with graceful irony (or is it an ominous salute?).  The work can be read as an allegory for Dix's art: the idealization of the anatomic dummy is abandoned, and usurped by a real human being, who poses proudly with all her imperfections in plain view.  The model appears through the easel, as if to say that Dix's paintings are a transparent window into the world as it really is.  This is an exaggeration, of course, but Dix can be celebrated for presenting things with a kind of unflinching directness, which those who seek only beauty are bound to miss.

Futurism's Pasts

"[A] roaring motor car which seems to run on machine-gun fire, is more beautiful than the Victory of Samothrace."  So proclaims F.T. Marinetti in the 1909 manifesto that launched futurism as a major force in the artworld.  Outside Italy, art history texts imply that futurism came to an end just a few years later, with the death of Umberto Boccioni, who was thrown from a horse during a WWI training exercise in 1916.  No one doubts futurism's enduring international influence, but, as a movement, it is said to have been short lived.  This history is being rewritten by the Guggenheim Museum, which has mounted an exhibit tracing Italian futurism's history from 1909-1944.  Well-known masterpieces from the early years are on display, along with three decades of later work less known in the United States.  Futurism's forgotten years deserve this high profile revisitation, but one can also see why the later work has been ignored--the answer is partly political.

Marinetti published his manifesto in a 1909 french newspaper, Le Figaro, which would soon feature frequently in cubist collages.  Futurism and cubism appear at the same moment of history, and they develop in parallel, borrowing from each other, but also in mutual contempt.  Picasso began experimenting with cubist techniques in 1907 in Les Demoiselles D'Avignon, which was not exhibited until 1916.  Futurism began as a literary movement, but takes graphic form in 1910, with Boccioni's monumental The City Rises (above), on display at the exhibition.  In that year, both cubism and futurism realized their canonical visual forms.  Cubists, tradition has it, were concerned with space, and futurists were concerned with time.  This way of drawing the distinction is a bit artificial, however, since cubists had an interest in the temporal construct of spontaneity: presenting a subject from multiple positions at once.  Futurists, for their part, relied on space to depict time.  The real difference is that futurists were preoccupied with dynamism.

The interest in dynamic painting predates Boccioni's 1910 canvas.  For example, Giacomo Balla had painted an electric street lamp in 1909 that seems to resonate with dynamic light, and a year earlier he painted a realist canvas of a spiral staircase (Stairwell of Farewells), which foreshadows his interest in depicting movement through repetitive forms (both above).  Balla was no doubt familiar with chronophotography, which has been around since Victorian times.  Eadweard Muybridge developed a chronophotophic technique in 1878, followed shortly by Etienne-Jules Marey in 1882 (below).  

Marey also created highly abstracted geometric chronophotogrpahs by photographing a model in a black suit with white lines running down his limbs (below). 

Such images inspired visual artists to move beyond that static image, and create spatial representations of the passage of time.  By 1910, Balla was drawing on Marey's techniques.  His Young Girl Running on a Balcony (below) predates Duchamp's Nude Descending a Stair by two years.  Here he combines futurism with pointillism like the early experiments by Boccioni, but he later combined this technique with realism and abstraction (also below).  The last example, of birds in flight, shows Marey's influence most directly.

Another early star on the futurist scene was Carlos Carrà.  His imposing Funeral for the Anarchist Galli is on display at the Guggenheim (note the red coffin in the reproduction bellow).  Carrà later went on to join Giorgio de Chirico in a movement called metaphysical art, which emphasized dreamy stillness rather than dynamism.  An example for contrast is reproduced here.

The exhibit also profiles the superb stylist, Gino Severini.  Severini's paintings often hover on the border between cubism and futurism.  Unlike many cubists, however, he uses a strong palette.  Both aspects of his work can be seen in his painting, War Train (below), one of many excellent works on loan from the Museum of Modern Art.  I've paired it with another war-themed work: Soldiers in the Fog, by Luigi Russolo, who was also a composer, known mostly for inventing futurist "noise boxes."

 

War is a central preoccupation in futurist art, and a key source of futurist notoriety.  Carrà began as an anarchist, but soon adopted fascism as his utopian vision, following the lead of Marinetti.  Likewise for Boccioni, Severini and many others.  Marinetti saw fascism as a way to usher in a new society, based on the power of technology.  He was an early supporter of Mussolini, who welcomed enthusiasm from the artworld, but later distanced himself from the movement, having no taste for the avant garde.  Below is a portrait of Mussolini by futurist, Alfredo Ambrosini.

According to the standard narrative, futurists flirted with fascism and militantism, and then disappeared or disbanded after the devastation of WWI.  But that is a myth.  Futurism continued after WWI and continued through the next world war, with a more or less unflinching support for fascist ideals.  The Guggenheim exhibition downplays Marinetti's role (strangely), and draws attention to some political diversity, but it also italicizes that ways in which militant iconography remain central to futurist art.  For example, the show includes a fascinating series of aeropittura--paintings inspired by flight.  In an era of air raids, these are unsettling.  Like much futurist work, they aestheticism domination.  Examples by Tullio Crali, Guglielmo, and Gerardo Dottori are presented here (dates range from 1931-42).

Gerardo Dottori was a revelation for me.  An early member of the group, he fought in WWII and continued to paint for decades after.  Some fine examples are included below, including this Tryptic of Speed, 1927. 

Another revelation was Benedetta Cappa Marinetti.  A student of Balla, she married F.T. Marinetti in 1923.  Futurism was less welcoming to women than some other avant garde movement of the time (especially dada and surrealism, which were male dominated but not exclusively male).  F.T. Marinetti was overtly misogynist in some of this writing.   Despite these obstacles, Bernadetta Marinetti earned a place in the futurist movement.  In terms of graphic impact, her contributions compare with the best futurist painters, and the Guggenheim exhibition concludes with a group of monumental canvases that she created for the post office in Polermo, 1933-4 (below).

In addition to establishing futurism's longevity, the exhibition does much to show how futurism pervaded Italian arts.  On display are futurist housewares, set designs for the theater, book illustrations, children's toys, liquor advertisements, and clothing.  The show also presents of the two known futurist films: Thaïs by Anton Bragaglia (on youtube below). 

In addition, the Guggenheim has included a generous sampling of futurist architectural designs, which hold up well against the paintings in the show.  I reproduce examples by Antonio Sant'Elia and Mario Chiattone.  Interestingly, Frank Lloyd Wright's museum begins to look decidedly futurist with these works on display, making it a rare case where that museum complements the art, rather than competing with it.

The architectural designs show an Italy bursting with optimism.  Long associated with its glorious past (Ancient Rome and the Renaissance), Italy entered the 20th century by looking forward.  In place of amphitheaters and basilicas, Italian modernists imagined vaulting skyscrapers that would better express values of the machine age.  These hopeful sentiments may reveal why the Italians were so vulnerable to the rhetoric of fascism.  The futurists were not the only fascist modernists (think of Wyndham Lewis, Emil Nolde, Ezra Pound, Le Corbusier, or the young Philip Johnson).  But no other modernist movement made fascism as central to its aesthetic philosophy.  In the image below (owned by MoMA, but not in the exhibit), Marinetti depicts a dirigible dropping bombs.  "War is beautiful," Marinetti declared, "because it enriches a flowering meadow with the fiery orchids of machine guns."

In the first decade of futurism, the enthusiasm for fascism seems excusable, if dangerously naive.  But many futurists remained dedicated to the cause long after these early years, and that, no doubt, plays a role in the obscurity of futurism's second wave.  One might say that futurism has two pasts.  At first, it was a revolutionary movement that challenged prevailing aesthetic and cultural norms. Then it became part of mainstream Italian visual culture, and, in this capacity, it served as an instrument of nationalism and the far right.  It is the latter history that we'd like to forget.  The work, however, holds up and leaves us with questions about whether we should bracket off politics when evaluating art.  With this in mind, I end with an image of Vittorio Emanuele III, Italy's fascist king, at a 1939 futurist exhibition (source).  Note the Ambrosini portrait of Mussolini in the background.  4 years later, the Italian dictator would be killed.  That same year futurism came to a grinding halt.