British Museum blog

Käthe Kollwitz, a Berlin story

Frances Carey, art historian

Statue of Käthe Kollwitz, Kollwitzplatz, Berlin. Photo by Rae Allen, licensed under Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic (CC BY 2.0)

Statue of Käthe Kollwitz, Kollwitzplatz, Berlin. Photo by Rae Allen, licensed under Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic (CC BY 2.0)

The seated figure of an elderly woman cast in bronze presides over a square in a part of north east Berlin known as Kollwitzkiez, the ‘Kollwitz district’, where Käthe Schmidt (1867-1945) came to live in 1891 on her marriage to Dr Karl Kollwitz. The sculpture by Gustav Seitz, installed in 1960, was commissioned under the DDR (German Democratic Republic) just as the renaming of Wörtherplatz and Weissenburger Strasse had been done in her honour in 1947. The nearest U-Bahn station is Senefelderplatz opened in 1923 and named after another notable figure in the history of printmaking, Alois Senefelder, who is credited with the discovery of lithography in 1796. When I stayed on Kollwitzstraße in the summer of 2009, the formerly bohemian neighbourhood of the 1990s after Die Wende (‘The Change’, i.e. including the fall of the Berlin Wall and reunification) was fast shedding its down-at-heel appearance. All the familiar signs of rising property values and gentrification were plain to see, much more so now: handsome, well-buffed apartment buildings, smart shops, cafés such as Anne Blume (called after Kurt Schwitters’s subversive poem of 1919), and nearby parks and playgrounds with brightly coloured equipment for children. TripAdvisor waxes lyrical about the area as a tourist destination.

Käthe Kollwitz, Selbstbildnis nach links (Self-portrait facing left), 1901 © DACS, 2014

Käthe Kollwitz, Selbstbildnis nach links (Self-portrait facing left), 1901, lithograph, 269 x 204 mm © DACS, 2014 (1951,0501.81)

It is a far cry from the surroundings where Käthe and Karl (d.1940) were to spend almost the whole of their adult lives. Prenzlauer Berg, the larger district in which Kollwitzkiez is situated, was developed as a working-class neighbourhood to cope with the great surge in population after 1871 when Berlin became the capital of a united Germany; by 1900 the population had grown from around 800,000 to 1.9 million. Street after street of Mietskasernen or tenements (literally ‘rental barracks’) were built where conditions were dire. The Frauenkunstverband (Organisation of Women Artists), co-founded by Käthe Kollwitz in 1913, protested that 600,000 Berliners lived in dwellings with five or more people to a room while 100,000 children had nowhere to play. The title of the polemic by Werner Hegemann published in 1930, Das steinerne Berlin: Geschichte der grössten Mietskasernenstadt der Welt (Stony Berlin: History of the Largest Tenement City in the World) captures the impact of this remorseless urbanization. Prenzlauer Berg was dominated by these tenements and the breweries that were the major employers.

Käthe Kollwitz, Arbeitslosigkeit (Unemployment) © DACS 2014 (1949,0411.3945)

Käthe Kollwitz, Arbeitslosigkeit (Unemployment) 1909, 6th state, etching and engraving 382 x 530 mm. © DACS 2014 (1949,0411.3945)

Kollwitz was rooted in the nineteenth century, drawing much of her inspiration from the narrative realism and emotive power of writers such as Dickens, Ibsen and Zola. She grafted her reading of fiction, whether it dealt with near contemporary circumstances or ostensibly historical ones, onto the direct experience of ‘the lives of others’ who were beset by the uncertainties of casual employment, deprivation, high maternal and child mortality, and often domestic violence. In this challenging environment she found a beauty and a grandeur that became her mainspring as an artist. It was a largely black-and-white world, but with many gradations of tone and texture. For the realization of its expressive potential she turned to drawing and printmaking, above all to the example of Max Klinger (1857-1920) and his championing of graphic art as having an important status of its own. His series of ten etchings and aquatints called Dramen, Opus IX (1883) comprised six tragedies set in Berlin among the different echelons of society. Two dramas – Eine Mutter (A Mother) and Märztage (March Days) – unfold over three plates each, while the other four have just a single sheet apiece. Märztage seemed to refer to the failed liberal revolution of March 1848, but Klinger made it clear that he had in mind the contemporary context of Germany’s Social Democratic movement in 1883.

Max Klinger, Eine Mutter I

Max Klinger, Eine Mutter I (A Mother I), Dramen, Opus IX 1883, etching and aquatint, 453 x 318 mm (1981,1107.23)

Max Klinger, Mârztage I

Max Klinger, Mârztage I (March Days I), Dramen, Opus IX 1883, etching and aquatint, 453 x 358 mm (1981,1107.28)

Käthe Kollwitz was similarly inspired by Gerhart Hauptmann’s play Die Weber (The Weavers, 1892), which she saw at its first performance in 1893, to create a print series that was more about the conditions of the poor around her, than Silesia in 1844. Her second graphic cycle Der Bauernkrieg (Peasants’ War) executed from 1902-7 and published the year after, used the religious and economic conflict of 1524-5 as yet another vehicle through which to express the heroism of the working class. This series along with her later work after the First World War in woodcut and lithography, earned her significant influence on the development of printmaking in Russia and China in the 1920s-40s and beyond.

Within a few years of commencing printmaking in 1890-91 Käthe Kollwitz had demonstrated considerable artistry and technical competence. Ein Weberaufstand (A Weavers’ Revolt) – three etchings and three lithographs completed in 1897 – propelled her to the front rank of artists in Germany. When she went to Paris in 1904 she was given a glowing testimonial for Rodin from Hugo von Tschudi, Director of the Berlin Nationalgalerie. Her greatest champion was Max Lehrs, Director of the Dresden Print Room who both acquired her work for the collection and published the first catalogue of her prints in 1902. He likewise encouraged a curator, later Keeper of Prints and Drawings at the British Museum, Campbell Dodgson (1867-1948). Dodgson bequeathed to the British Museum (which was not then permitted to buy the work of living artists) a remarkably fine body of impressions from the most innovative phase of Kollwitz’s career: none more so than a sequence of three states of the harrowing subject of Frau mit totem Kind (Woman with dead Child) of 1903, which shows Kollwitz’s mastery in every aspect of its accomplishment. The artist and her younger son Peter (b.1896) were the models at a time when her elder son Hans (b.1892) had narrowly escaped dying of diphtheria. The sculptural quality of her treatment of the motif anticipates her later interest in working with a three-dimensional medium which was one of her objects of study in Paris.

Käthe Kollwitz, Frau mit totem Kind (Woman with dead child)

Käthe Kollwitz, Frau mit totem Kind (Woman with dead child) 1903, 7th state, soft-ground etching and engraving with green and gold wash, 415 x 480 mm. © DACS 2014 (1949,0411.3928)

Frau mit totem Kind has none of the resignation of her later sculpture (1937) of a mother and her dead son, ‘something like a Piéta’, of which the artist said ‘There is no longer pain, only reflection.’ In the 1903 print there is only pain, but however much she drew upon personal experience and observation, it is nonetheless a carefully contrived artistic composition.

Käthe Kollwitz, Selbstbildnis (Self-portrait), woodcut, 1924, © DACS, 2014 (1980,0126.85)

Käthe Kollwitz, Selbstbildnis (Self-portrait) 1924, 6th state, woodcut, 209 x 301 mm © DACS, 2014 (1980,0126.85)

Kollwitz’s most unwavering commitment was to being an artist: ‘It alone is always stimulating, rejuvenating, exciting and satisfying.’ (New Year’s Day, 1912). Her intensely examined life as expressed in all her work, not just the many self-portraits, her journals and correspondence, is humbling to recall amidst the middle-class comforts of modern Kollwitzkiez. I admire her because she succeeded in doing what a great contemporary artist has advocated: ‘I thought women as artists should focus on how to start, lead, and sustain a creative life. It’s not a question of style or a break with tradition.’ (Bridget Riley, 2004).

The exhibition Germany: memories of a nation is at the British Museum from 16 October 2014 to 25 January 2015. Sponsored by Betsy and Jack Ryan, with support from Salomon Oppenheimer Philanthropic Foundation.

Accompanying the exhibition is a 30-part BBC Radio 4 series written and presented by Neil MacGregor. In the episode Kathe Kollwitz: Suffering Witness, Neil MacGregor focuses on the art of Käthe Kollwitz, who expresses the loss and suffering of war, especially after the death of her younger son Peter at the front in 1914.

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The Holy Roman Empire: from Charlemagne to Napoleon


Joachim Whaley, Professor of German History and Thought, University of Cambridge

Replica crown of the Holy Roman Empire, 1913. © Anne Gold, Städtische Museen for the City Hall, Aachen

Replica crown of the Holy Roman Empire, 1913. © Anne Gold, Städtische Museen for the City Hall, Aachen

The object labelled Charlemagne’s crown in the British Museum’s exhibition Germany: memories of a nation reminds us of a long history that ended over a century before the Third Reich began, but which nonetheless continues to shape Germany and German-speaking Europe even today. Like the polity which it recalls, the crown has a complex history. The object itself is a replica made in 1913 of the imperial crown which was once kept in Nuremberg and has been in Vienna since 1796. This crown almost certainly originated around AD 960, made by a Lower Rhineland workshop, perhaps in Cologne. Whether Charlemagne himself was actually crowned is unclear and while we know that he crowned his son at Aachen in 813 we do not know what crown was used.

Gold solidus of Emperor Charlemagne. France, AD 768-814

Gold solidus of Emperor Charlemagne. France, AD 768-814

Even so, the crown has come to stand for the Holy Roman Empire which originated in Charlemagne’s Frankish realm, which comprised much of what we know as France and Germany. It was in the eastern part of this kingdom that a German monarchy became established in the 9th and 10th centuries. The legitimacy and special status of this monarchy derived substantially from its presumed descent from Charlemagne and from the inheritance of his role as protector of the papacy and guardian of the Church. This was implicit in the title Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation, as the German polity formally became known around 1500.

The special nature of the empire was also reflected in its election and coronation procedures. German rulers were elected as kings by their German peers. They were crowned at Aachen and then again at Rome by the pope. The first made them German kings; the second made them Roman emperors. The place of coronation moved to Frankfurt in the sixteenth century and the Roman coronation was discontinued. The German king now assumed the title of ‘elected Roman emperor’ when he was crowned at Frankfurt, which reflected a more distant relationship with the papacy in the early modern period.

From the outset the German monarchy inherited the interest in Italy that Charlemagne had developed by virtue of his protectorate over the papacy. In the time of the Hohenstaufen dynasty from 1138 to 1254 this became an overriding obsession and Frederick II even lived exclusively in Sicily and southern Italy. Thereafter, however, the significance of Italy for the empire declined, though Tuscany, Modena, Parma, Milan and Savoy remained fiefdoms of the emperors until the nineteenth century.

The main territories of the empire were German, and these were the only ones that came to have votes in the assemblies of prince and cities, known as the Reichstag or imperial diet from the fifteenth century. They included bishops and other ecclesiastical dignitaries, secular princes and free cities, all of whom enjoyed significant independence in the regulation of their domestic affairs within the framework of the empire. At first they were subject only to their feudal obligations to the emperor, and later to legislation agreed by them at the diet.
The most important fiefs were those ecclesiastical and secular princes who actually elected the kings and emperors. In 1356 the Golden Bull, which codified the election arrangements in a fundamental law that remained valid until 1806, formally designated seven princes as electors. They enjoyed particular prestige but their rights were otherwise identical to those of the other princes and by the imperial cities.

The elective system and the retention of significant rights by the German princes and towns, often referred to as the ‘old German liberty’, meant that the German polity developed as a vast decentralised federation. Despite having a designated place of coronation, it never had a capital city. The imperial diet came to be held at the free city of Regensburg and other key institutions were located at Wetzlar, Vienna and elsewhere. This ensured the survival of a proliferation of courts and cities which each sponsored culture and the arts; first the visual arts, architecture and literature, then music as well. But in the later Middle Ages it also led to disorder and lawlessness.

Albrecht Dürer, Portrait of Emperor Maximilian I,  wearing the collar of the Golden Fleece over a brocaded mantle, and a fur-trimmed hat with an oval medallion of the Virgin and Child attached to the brim. Woodcut, 1518.

Albrecht Dürer, Portrait of Emperor Maximilian I, wearing the collar of the Golden Fleece over a brocaded mantle, and a fur-trimmed hat with an oval medallion of the Virgin and Child attached to the brim. Woodcut, 1518.

The solution to the inner instability of the empire in the fifteenth century came in the form of a series of agreements reached in the reign of Maximilian I (1493-1519). These set up a supreme court to resolve disputes and a series of regional organisations to implement its decisions. The assemblies of the princes and cities now also formally became the Reichstag (diet), which was designated co-ruler of the empire alongside the emperor.

No sooner established, this system was challenged by the Reformation. The church reform movement which swept through the empire following Luther’s rejection of papal authority in 1517 represented an acute threat to stability. Charles V (1519-1556) wanted to stamp out Lutheranism, but many princes saw this as an infringement of their rights. Indeed many viewed the Lutheran reform movement as a welcome opportunity to reform the church in their lands and to extend their authority over them. Since the Reichstag could not agree, it was decided in 1526 that each prince or city should have the right to determine whether they embraced reform or remained loyal to the Catholic Church. Despite many subsequent disputes, some of them escalating into military conflict, this principle remained fundamental to the empire until 1806.

The last attempt by an emperor – Ferdinand II (1619-37) – to reassert Catholicism in the empire precipitated the Thirty Years War. He failed to achieve his ambition and in 1648 the Peace of Westphalia reaffirmed the rights of the princes and cities and affirmed Catholicism, Lutheranism and Calvinism as the three equally privileged confessions of the empire. It also added safeguards for the rights of subjects who did not share the official faith of the territory in which they lived.

Bronze medal with portraits of Charlemagne and Napoleon, designed by Bertrand Andrieu, 1806

Bronze medal with portraits of Charlemagne and Napoleon, designed by Bertrand Andrieu, 1806

As a system which both guaranteed the liberties of the princes and cities and secured the rights of their subjects the Holy Roman Empire existed until it was destroyed by Napoleon. It remains the longest lived political system in German history. And it was unquestionably better than many that succeeded it.

The exhibition Germany: memories of a nation is at the British Museum from 16 October 2014 to 25 January 2015. Sponsored by Betsy and Jack Ryan, with support from Salomon Oppenheimer Philanthropic Foundation.

Accompanying the exhibition is a 30-part BBC Radio 4 series written and presented by Neil MacGregor.

In the episode Fragments of Power, Neil MacGregor discovers how coins reveal the range and diversity of the Holy Roman Empire, with around 200 different currencies struck in the different territories of Germany.

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Dinggedicht poetry competition

Godela Weiss-Sussex, Senior Lecturer and Convenor of German Studies, Institute of Modern Languages Research (IMLR)

It all started when I attended a lecture given by Neil MacGregor about the British Museum’s forthcoming exhibition Germany: memories of a nation in January at Queen Mary College, University of London. I was inspired by his bold and perceptive approach to exhibiting German history and by the clarity of vision achieved by relying on the narrative power of objects. As soon as I came home, I sat down to write a long letter to him, suggesting that we at the Institute of Modern Languages Research could set up an event to complement the exhibition. I was convinced that language, and in particular literary texts, should have a place in this exhibition project, not only to complement the objects presented, but also to enhance their narratives.

Refugee cart from East Pomerania, probably early 20th century. © Deutsches Historisches Museum

Refugee cart from East Pomerania, probably early 20th century. © Deutsches Historisches Museum

Neil MacGregor put me in touch with the Museum’s Learning team, and we started to discuss how best to represent Dinggedichte within the exhibition public programme. Should we just collect existing texts on the exhibition’s themes and offer them as a reading? An extract from Goethe’s play Iphigenie auf Tauris might complement the Goethe portrait by Johann Heinrich Wilhelm Tischbein in the exhibition: both emphasise the writer’s place in the classical tradition. Bertolt Brecht’s exile play Mother Courage and Her Children (1939) could add a further dimension to the significance of the refugee’s cart lent for the exhibition by the Deutsches Historisches Museum in Berlin.

Ernst Barlach, Der Schwebende  (Gustrow Cathedral) © Archiv Ernst Barlach Stiftung Güstrow (Foto: Uwe Seemann)

Ernst Barlach, Der Schwebende (Gustrow Cathedral) © Archiv Ernst Barlach Stiftung Güstrow (Foto: Uwe Seemann)

Of course, some of the exhibits coming to London this autumn have directly elicited literary texts: notably Ernst Barlach’s sculpture Der Schwebende, a bronze memorial to the dead of the First World War. The beautiful stark expressionist bronze sculpture, which hovers over the altar in the cathedral of the North German town of Güstrow (and in another copy in the Antoniterkirche in Cologne), has inspired numerous texts, poetic and discursive, including a ballad by the legendary East German singer Wolf Biermann. Banned from songwriting because of his oppositional stance, Biermann illegally recorded the ‘Barlach song‘ in the late 1960s, in which he refers to the climate of political repression as a time when ‘the angels fall to their death’.

All of these are fascinating texts – and they would lend themselves beautifully to a reading accompanying the exhibition. In the end, however, we decided that best of all would be to hear a whole variety of fresh, original and individual responses to the objects coming together for Germany: memories of a nation. This is when Cecile Reese of the German Academic Exchange Service (DAAD) joined me to devise a Dinggedicht poetry-writing competition.

Dinggedichte (‘thing poems’), a particularly German form of poetry, are texts that zoom in on particular objects. The genre was pioneered by writers such as Conrad Ferdinand Meyer and others in the late 19th century, and then developed further in modernist writing of the early 20th century, most famously by Rainer Maria Rilke. The Dinggedicht writer attempts to recreate the object in the medium of language and poetic form, and by doing so creates a new work of art. The poet may aim for an objective, distanced presentation of the object, or he/she may attempt to express the object’s essential nature by finding the language that is specific to the object and letting it ‘speak’ for itself. Of course, the writing of a Dinggedicht also implies a personal, subjective interpretation or reaction, and the object may spark off reflections that go well beyond its own particular shape or meaning.

This is what the competition is trying to do: to trigger these personal responses. All you need to do is choose an object featured in the exhibition and write a Dinggedicht of up to 250 words. Entries are accepted in either English or German, and there are some special prizes to be won. Please note that the deadline for entries is 14 November 2014. If you are unable to come to the British Museum and see the exhibition itself, you can still participate in the competition. Simply use one of the images shown on the British Museum website and exhibition blog, and let yourself be inspired. We would love to see as many poems as possible!

And finally, please save the date! On Friday 12 December, the Museum is hosting an exciting BM/PM evening of festivities inspired by German folk and folklore. As part of the programme, the winning entries will be read out and celebrated. In addition, Berlin author Annett Gröschner, whose work combines literary and historical approaches to German history and to iconic objects representing it, will read her own response to one of the objects in the exhibition.

So, get writing!

Full competition brief and further information

The German Academic Exchange Service (DAAD) is a German national agency for the support of international academic cooperation. DAAD supports students, researchers, and academics worldwide and plays a major role in promoting the German language at higher education level.

The Institute of Modern Languages Research (IMLR) is part of the School of Advanced Study at the University of London. Its remit is to facilitate, initiate and promote dialogue and research for the Modern Languages Community.

Germany: memories of a nation (16 October 2014 – 25 January 2015) is sponsored by Betsy and Jack Ryan, with support from Salomon Oppenheimer Philanthropic Foundation.

Accompanying the exhibition is a 30-part BBC Radio 4 series written and presented by Neil MacGregor. Starts Monday 29 September.

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Luther, language and faith

Alexander Weber, Department of Cultures and Languages, Birkbeck, University of London

Martin Luther (1483-1546), portrait by Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472-1553), 1529. Oil on wood. © Deutsches Historisches Museum

Martin Luther (1483-1546), portrait by Lucas Cranach the Elder (1472-1553), 1529. Oil on wood. © Deutsches Historisches Museum

What attracted me – to be honest, a reluctant blogger – to contribute to the British Museum’s blog, is the historical connection between Martin Luther’s translation of the Bible, the British Museum and my own profession as an academic teacher of German in England. Long before the universities discovered my discipline, German grammars and textbooks had been produced by generations of curators and librarians at the British Museum. From the eighteenth century onwards, German protestant pastors preached to emerging German communities in London on Sundays and during the week catalogued the great treasures of ancient Biblical manuscripts (such as the Codex Alexandrinus) still in the British Library today. They were leading experts on the textual history of the Old and New Testament mainly because they followed in the footsteps of Martin Luther. Luther believed in the authority of scripture and not the dogma of the Roman church and to prove his point he immersed himself in careful critical study of the best original sources available to him in Greek and Hebrew. His formula of restoring the freshness of the original and then expressing it in the spoken language of ordinary Germans of his time brought the great stories of the Bible to life.

The opening of the Book of Genesis from the Gutenberg Bible, 1455. © The British Library Board C.9.d.3, 4v-5

The opening of the Book of Genesis from the Gutenberg Bible, 1455. © The British Library Board C.9.d.3, 4v-5

It was Gutenberg’s invention of the printing press, however, which disseminated Luther’s writings to a mass audience. One of the best places in the world to study the link between the media revolution of the printing press and the Reformation is the British Library. The German pastors in London were also involved in building up the great collection of Luther editions. They had inherited the enthusiasm for studying and cultivating their own language from Luther and fostered it in Britain through private lessons. They taught German in the royal household.

The front end paper of Luther's 1541 Bible with portraits of Luther and Johannes Bugenhagen and Luther's transcription from the 21st psalm and signature. Biblia, das ist, die gantze Heilige Schrift: Deudsch auffs new zugericht. D. Mart. Luth., etc. (Wittemberg, 1541). © British Library 679.i.15.

The front end paper of Luther’s 1541 Bible with portraits of Luther and Johannes Bugenhagen and Luther’s transcription from the 21st psalm and signature. Biblia, das ist, die gantze Heilige Schrift: Deudsch auffs new zugericht. D. Mart. Luth., etc. (Wittemberg, 1541). © British Library 679.i.15.

Before Luther the German language was regarded as too crude and fragmented into provincial rough dialects to be used in any cultivated discourse. In learned circles, Latin was used – both in writing and speech. The Lutheran Bible changed all this, becoming the benchmark of modern German. An unprecedented number of authorized copies and countless pirated editions were circulated in Germany. It is estimated that a very large proportion of literate households possessed a copy, and in many cases it remained the only or at least the most treasured book in the house for several generations. Even the tide of polemics against Luther had to use his language in order to reach the huge readership which the new medium had created.

How did Luther overcome the strong regional differences which had emerged through waves of sound shifts during the long history of the German language? Since his childhood he had moved across these linguistic borders and managed to balance the extremes of dialect in his own speech. He also built on a common language of officialdom, the chancelleries which issued decrees which had to be understood across the whole of Germany. He looked towards areas where the population had mixed through migration and where a more common version of the German language was beginning to emerge. I am not persuaded, though, by the argument that these developments would have happened anyway. What intrigues me most about this story is that an individual can change something as universal as a whole language. In fact, we all leave linguistic traces behind through mannerisms and idiosyncrasies of our speech, our individual linguistic fingerprint, if you like. The historical circumstances may have been favourable, but Luther was a character of greatness and literary genius, possessing a truly exceptional power to coin phrases and expressions which have become the nuts and bolts of the modern German idiom. In my view, Luther was a giant, a figure of supreme confidence in the power of the thinking self to turn the tables against lazy dogma and sophistry.

The two cornerstones of Luther’s theology are two existential faculties of the self: the use of logos, i.e. language, and faith; logos and faith alone can redeem us. His emphasis on the individual was so strong that Protestantism became increasingly subjective, which resulted in modern relativism. History gained a lot through Luther, especially because he encouraged ordinary people to get involved in serious matters of public life. This defining shift also fostered the German idea of nationhood. The republicans who gave this movement its direction often referred to Luther as their ideological starting point. Historically there was a loss, too. The universality of the Latin world of education and the church was undermined. The supranational identity of European Christianity was diminished and replaced by German, English and other national concepts of God. Very little was left to mediate between these fronts. Luther was a German, not a cosmopolitan figure compared to the broad-minded humanist Erasmus of Rotterdam, for example. He was also a master of polemics in a period which one could call the golden age of mud-slinging. He inspired noble democrats but also nasty nationalists.

Luther’s cult of the word benefited the growth of standard German, but it also encouraged the attacks on treasures of visual art and sacred objects during the Reformation. It should not be overlooked that ordinary, illiterate people before Luther had access to the Bible through the so-called biblia pauperum (Paupers’ Bible), which was essentially a picture book. I find it fascinating to observe that the image is once again favoured in today’s digital media, just as the era of the printing press gave power to the word. Today the text no longer rules over the image. This exhibition, Germany: memories of a nation, focusing as it does on objects and making them speak, is a good example of the re-balancing of image and word. It would make Luther shudder, though, just as the relics and images of saints of his time did. In his youth he was a very stern Augustinian friar on the radical fringes of the Roman church, and he never lost his suspicion of the senses, especially the eyes as an inroad of sin into our souls. The word was abstract, an expression of the spirit, the same stuff that God was made of. Images and objects would pull us away from this, Luther thought. As a linguist I admire the greatness of Luther, the sheer might of his words, both pious and polemical, but many things which he dismissed have regained an unexpected importance again and probably for a good reason.

Germany: memories of a nation (16 October 2014 – 25 January 2015) is sponsored by Betsy and Jack Ryan, with support from Salomon Oppenheimer Philanthropic Foundation.

Accompanying the exhibition is a 30-part BBC Radio 4 series written and presented by Neil MacGregor. Starts Monday 29 September.  The episode Luther and a Language for all Germans is available to listen to on the BBC website.

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A personal history in 190 objects: from Germany to the British Museum and back again

Paul Kobrak, series producer, Germany: memories of a nation, BBC Radio 4

To say that it was a life-changing moment would be to seriously over-egg it. But being made the second producer on a then unheard-of project in September 2009 gave my BBC career a much-needed shot in the arm. By then I’d already celebrated my 21st ‘radio’ birthday (I started working at the BBC in 1988) and I’d been making documentaries for more than 10 years. I was beginning to wonder where I could possibly go next.

Four months later A History of the World in 100 Objects began its life on Radio 4. I doubt I’ll ever work on another project that has the same impact. Not because others would not be equally good, or just as fascinating and challenging; rather that none would break new ground in the same way nor match the scope. And its popularity has been astounding, as sales of the accompanying book and the download figures for the series (37,693,121 and still counting) attest.

Since then I have worked on both follow-up partnership projects: 2012’s Shakespeare’s Restless World and this year’s Germany: memories of a nation. You could say that working on a series that brings together the British Museum and the BBC is like dancing with an elephant – but in truth it’s more like dancing with two. And with each project their complexity has increased.

Even a hundred programmes about objects all of which are in the British Museum were less of a challenge than twenty based on artefacts from around the UK, with our series on Shakespeare. Finding time to get to the objects and interact with them (in the unique way that Neil does) is no easy task. But aiming to do the same with thirty programmes and some 70 objects – all German in origin and the majority of them still in different parts of Germany – well, that’s just asking for trouble.

Paul Kobrak, being photobombed by Kathe Kollwitz in Kollwitz Platz, Prenzlauer Berg district, Berlin.

Paul Kobrak, being photobombed by Kathe Kollwitz in Kollwitz Platz, Prenzlauer Berg district, Berlin.

My job in all this is a bit of everything… and anything. It’s my responsibility to ensure that the programmes are made: so, ensuring the scripts are written (and to the right length), the interviews are done (and cut to the required succinctness), the locations and objects sufficiently represented (recording the ‘noise’ a delicate object makes is a challenge in itself, often helped by the tissue paper it may well be wrapped up in) and that the finished product hangs together, makes sense and – in the dictum of Lord Reith – informs, educates and entertains. But above all, it’s to ensure that the presenter is able to play the roles required of him, which is basically all of the above.

And, given the pressures on Neil MacGregor – running one of the largest and most comprehensive museums in the world (with some 8 million works in its permanent collection) – his time is incredibly precious. Nevertheless, we’ve made seven trips to Germany and one each to France, Czech Republic and Russia, visiting 15 different cities, interrogating objects and people along the way, and it’s been an education.

Neil MacGregor, working on the script, next to the crown of the Holy Roman Empire, Suermondt Ludwig Museum, Aachen

Neil MacGregor, working on the script, next to the crown of the Holy Roman Empire, Suermondt Ludwig Museum, Aachen

Replica crown of the Holy Roman Empire, 1913. © Anne Gold, Städtische Museen for the City Hall, Aachen

Replica crown of the Holy Roman Empire, 1913. © Anne Gold, Städtische Museen for the City Hall, Aachen

We’ve been to places and seen things that mere mortals – as I am when on holiday or away from work – would not get to see. Neil and I were left on our own with the crown of the Holy Roman Emperor (that features in programme 11); handled the unused wetsuit involved in a failed escape from East Germany to West (programme 2); picked up the vase that Goebbels personally declared as degenerate (programme 24); turned the page to Luther’s handwritten inscription in his 1541 translation of the Bible into German (programme 6); compared Dürer’s original monogram with the knock-offs that he pursued in the courts of Venice (programme 17); stood on a manhole cover in Kaliningrad, one of the few things you will find in that Russian city still marked with the original German name of Konigsberg (programme 3), and visited one of the first Synagogues to be built in Germany after World War II (programme 28).

Manhole cover, Kaliningrad, Russia, dated 1935.

Manhole cover, Kaliningrad, Russia, dated 1935.

In fact, on a personal note, it’s been more than an education; it has changed my own personal views of the country. Despite the fact that I have a German passport (a legacy of my German father, who left the country as a child over 75 years ago), I have never had a close affinity to the country that I have always viewed through the prism of 12 years of Nazi rule. In that regard, having never lived in Germany and rarely visited it, I am probably not very different from many British people. However, having spent much of the past nine months working on this series, I realised how limited my knowledge (and views) of Germany are – hat I need to broaden my own outlook and try to better understand the rich history behind it.

Radio programmes don’t change the world. They can’t. But if we can change the view of one person, then it’s a job well done. In that regard, I suppose the series is already a success. I can only hope that it doesn’t stop there.

The exhibition Germany: memories of a nation is at the British Museum from 16 October 2014 to 25 January 2015. Sponsored by Betsy and Jack Ryan, with support from Salomon Oppenheimer Philanthropic Foundation.

Accompanying the exhibition is a 30-part BBC Radio 4 series written and presented by Neil MacGregor. Starts Monday 29 September 2014.

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Exhibiting Germany

Barrie Cook, exhibition curator, British Museum

Some exhibitions almost create themselves: the subject is distinctive and circumscribed, the narrative is relatively straightforward, the star objects practically move themselves into place. There is plenty of work, of course, but curatorially there is a clear vision. However, the exhibition that I have recently been working on, Germany: memories of a nation (16 October 2014 – 25 January 2015), has been very different. The project of using objects to present the story of a modern European nation, how it views its present and its past, and how those views came to be formed, would always be a challenging one, but to attempt it for Germany, of all countries, could easily be thought impossible. Maybe ridiculous.

It is, of course impossible in the strictest sense. There are entire museums in Germany today devoted to telling the story of the nation, notably the German Historical Museum in Berlin (a generous lender to the exhibition) and the German National Museum in Nuremberg. How can one attempt the same thing in a single exhibition? Nevertheless, on the assumption that all such attempts are partial, a specific approach and a different perspective might perhaps offer something worthwhile. Whether this exhibition achieves this, is for course for the visitor to decide.

Wir sind ein Volk placard © Deutsches Historische Museum

Wir sind ein Volk placard © Deutsches Historische Museum

Our approach has been to take a cue from one of the many Germany-related anniversaries that have punctuated public awareness in 2014. The 100th anniversary of the start of the First World War has dominated, of course, with a reasonable amount of attention also on the impact of 1714, the Hanoverian succession. However, Germany: memories of a nation will begin with the anniversary of a much more recent event, one which many of us, if prodded, will remember. In November 1989, after weeks of protests, the East German government permitted free access to the West for its citizens and set Germany on the swift road to a unification that would be in place by the following October. The first object the visitor will see inside the exhibition itself will be a home-made placard from a demonstration in East Berlin: cut in the shape of the united Germany, coloured like the German flag and carrying the text: Wir sind ein Volk – we are one people.

The Strasbourg clock, Isaac Habrecht, 1589

The Strasbourg clock, Isaac Habrecht, 1589

The Germany on this placard, the one unification created in 1990, was a new Germany with new borders, a silhouette previously unknown to any historical atlas. How this Germany reflects, echoes and remembers older Germanies is the focus of the exhibition. Its geography is therefore much wider than that of modern Germany, in acknowledgement of centuries of frontier changes and the cultural consequences of these. The exhibition visits Basel and Strasbourg, Königsberg and Prague, when they were partly or wholly German cities. We look at the Strasbourg clock, a German speciality object made by a German craftsman working in a German-speaking city that plays – on the hour – a German hymn by Martin Luther. Could anything be more German?

Despite its geographic breadth, we still had to impose limits on the scope of the exhibition. We accepted early on that the coverage would go back no further than the 15th century, the age of Gutenberg, a man who arguably changed the world more than any other German. The oldest objects in the exhibition, therefore, are printed ones: a copy of the Gutenberg Bible among them, loaned by the British Library. Despite this chronological limitation, the range is still vast. Material produced by Martin Luther, Dürer, Goethe, Caspar David Friedrich and Käthe Kollwitz sits alongside the exquisite decorative and mechanical work of a host of engravers, goldsmiths and print-makers in materials that range from amber and gold to iron and paper.

Replica crown of the Holy Roman Empire, 1913. © Anne Gold, Städtische Museen for the City Hall, Aachen

Replica crown of the Holy Roman Empire, 1913. © Anne Gold, Städtische Museen for the City Hall, Aachen

The object selection in general was based on an assumption that most objects would be doing double duty, being attractive – or at least interesting – in themselves, but also making an additional point about German history, German culture and German identity. Sometimes a replica of an original object, rather than the original itself, could make an important contribution. The ancient crown of the Holy Roman Empire cannot by law leave Austria, but we were able to borrow a copy from Aachen made by order of Kaiser Wilhelm II in 1913 for an exhibition that was never held, an object that perhaps encapsulates modern Germany’s complex legacy.

The Four Evangelists (Luke), Tilman Riemenschneider, 1490–2 © Antje Voijt-SMB-Skulpturensammlung

The Four Evangelists (Luke), Tilman Riemenschneider, 1490–2 © Antje Voijt-SMB-Skulpturensammlung

Postcard advertising the Bauhaus exhibition Kunst und Technik, eine neue Einheit (Art and Technology, a new union), Paul Klee (1879–1940)

Postcard advertising the Bauhaus exhibition Kunst und Technik, eine neue Einheit (Art and Technology, a new union), Paul Klee (1879–1940)

Loans from Germany make a huge contribution to the exhibition. Not that the British Museum lacks material of its own: the German collections of Prints and Drawings and Coins and Medals are unrivalled outside Germany, while the Department of Britain, Europe and Prehistory also holds a wealth of material. The British Museum objects we will use are only the tip of one iceberg. However, the great individual treasures being loaned to us, some of them leaving Germany for the first time, will give a scope to the exhibition it would otherwise lack. Paintings from Berlin, Brunswick and Dresden allow us to address the role played by the German landscape in its sense of national identity; great wooden sculptures by Tilman Riemenschneider offer an opportunity to think about religious and political life in Germany on the eve of the Protestant Reformation ; a porcelain rhinoceros from Dresden links Albrecht Dürer with German practical chemistry; evocative curiosities from the German Historical Museum give an unexpected view of Otto von Bismarck. Loans will bring us to the city of Weimar: to the study of Goethe, the classrooms of the Bauhaus – and to the gate of Buchenwald concentration camp.

Using objects to place the events of the early and mid-20th century in the context of this longer vista was always part of the project and was always going to be the hardest to achieve. How can there be balance in the face of genocide, crime and barbarism? Attempting this as an outsider has demonstrated to me just how hard it must be for a German.

Germany: memories of a nation (16 October 2014 – 25 January 2015) is sponsored by Betsy and Jack Ryan, with support from Salomon Oppenheimer Philanthropic Foundation.

Accompanying the exhibition is a 30-part BBC Radio 4 series written and presented by Neil MacGregor. Starts Monday 29 September.

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Through time: the history behind your watch

detail of watchDavid Thompson, former Curator of Horology, British Museum

Do you own a watch? What does your watch look like? Is it a traditional mechanical watch made by one of the leading Swiss watch manufacturers or is it perhaps a cheap everyday item which you use just to tell the time? There is no doubt that even today, where smartphones have become a popular way of keeping time; watches are still very personal items. For many they are birthday, Christmas or anniversary presents. For others they have been specifically chosen as suitable for the owner to wear and to show to others. A person’s watch might equally have been chosen to suit a particular fashion, or in time-honoured tradition might be a retirement gift donated by work colleagues. For everyone they are an elegant combination of technology, design and decoration.

MS Gilt-brass tambour cased watch

MS Gilt-brass tambour cased watch. South Germany, around 1560

Anonymous gold and niello cased cylinder watch with digital dial and en-suite chain and key

Anonymous gold and niello cased cylinder watch with digital dial and en-suite chain and key, Geneva, Switzerland, around 1830

Louis Vautier gold and enamel cased verge watch. Blois, France, around 1630–38

Louis Vautier gold and enamel cased verge watch. Blois, France, around 1630–38

How many people, however, have any knowledge of the history behind the watch they wear? Few people probably realise that this innocent machine has a history of more than five hundred years since its first appearance at the beginning of the 16th century in South Germany. At the beginning, and for the first two centuries, watches were inaccurate timekeepers worn as items of fashion or as demonstrations of wealth. Just as today, fashions changed and watches became obsolete unless they were handed down as heirlooms from generation to generation. Then, in about 1660, the pocket in clothing came into existence and the pocket watch became an item of everyday wear. Just a little later, the introduction of the balance spring or hair spring made the watch a far more accurate and reliable machine making it an essential asset for organising the day. That is for those who could afford them, for it was not until the last years of the 19th century that cheap affordable watches became available for those with less money to spend – this thanks to the ingenious efforts in America and Switzerland which enabled watches to be machine manufactured in huge numbers at low cost.

Robert H. Ingersoll & Bro wristwatch. USA, 1915

Robert H. Ingersoll & Bro wristwatch. USA, 1915

Over the centuries, fashions changed and the technology in the watch improved making it ever more accurate and reliable. Towards the end of the 19th century, the wrist watch appeared and following the First World War, became the normal way for the watch to be worn, although to this day, there are still a few stalwarts who insist on wearing a pocket watch. In more recent times, the introduction of quartz technology has made the watch a very precise machine. Today, a radio-controlled watch has, in theory, the same accuracy as the atomic clocks used to determine the international time standard – one second in 300 million years – assuming the batteries last that long.

An interesting reference to opulent watches comes from the inventories of Queen Elizabeth I:

Item. A watch of agate made like an egg garnished with gold. Item. a little watch of crystal slightly garnished with gold with her majesty’s picture in it.
Item. a little watch of gold enamelled with sundry colours on both sides alike.

Sadly no examples of these jewelled watches are known to survive today, but there is no doubt that someone somewhere is wearing a modern watch which might have a similar description.

If you own a watch, make sure you look after it, as it will serve you well, and when you look at it bear in mind the amazing history behind it.

Ingersoll Ltd pin pallet lever watch. Ystradgynlais and London, 1952

Ingersoll Ltd pin pallet lever watch. Ystradgynlais and London, 1952

A new edition of David Thompsons’ Watches is available online from the British Museum shop at £16.99, Members’ price £15.29. The book explores the history of watches, based on the British Museum’s extensive watch collection which spans over 500 years. All the major makers of Europe and America are represented. Examples included range from 16th-century early stackfreed watches to modern 19th- and 20th-century watches made by companies such as Waterbury and Ingersoll.

Clocks and Watches (Room 38–39), The Sir Harry and Lady Djanogly Gallery

Animation: How does a mechanical watch work?

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The sinking of the Lusitania: medals as war propaganda

medalHenry Flynn, Project Curator, British Museum

The Money and Medals Network is an Arts Council England-funded project that exists to build and develop relationships between UK museums that have numismatic collections. As the project curator, I travel to these museums to meet the members of staff who care for such collections. One object that I have seen time and again in museums all over the country is the Lusitania medal by Karl Goetz.

RMS Lusitania coming into port, possibly in New York, 1907-13, Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division, Detroit Publishing Company Collection.

RMS Lusitania coming into port, possibly in New York, 1907-13, Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division, Detroit Publishing Company Collection.

The sinking of RMS Lusitania on 7 May 1915 was a hugely significant event during the First World War. The ship was sunk by a torpedo, a fact indicative of the increased use of submarines in marine warfare, which helped it become even more dangerous than it had been previously. The tragedy of the loss of life that included civilian passengers had global repercussions that contributed to the eventual decision taken by the United States to enter the conflict. It also sparked something of a medallic propaganda war.

Bronze Lusitania medal, by Karl Goetz (1916,0707.9), obverse

Bronze Lusitania medal, by Karl Goetz (1916,0707.9), obverse

The German artist Karl Goetz was so incensed by the mere idea that a passenger liner might have been used for military purposes that he decided to produce a medal satirising the subject. He mistakenly stated on the medal that the date of the sinking was 5 May – two days earlier than the actual event. This caused an outcry in Britain and accusations that the sinking had been premeditated by the Germans. This use of the wrong date was in fact a mistake, but copies of the medal were made and distributed in Britain in protest against the Germans’ use of medallic art to effectively celebrate a tragedy. The British copy had its own presentation box that also included a document detailing the reasons behind its production. Many of these medals have since found their way into the collections of museums across the country and will be featuring in commemorative displays this year and in 2015. The British Museum has an example of the German original and the British copy and both will be displayed in the new exhibition The other side of the medal: how Germany saw the First World War. Alongside my work on the Money and Medals Network, I have had some curatorial input into this exhibition curated by my colleague Tom Hockenhull.

Bronze Lusitania medal, by Karl Goetz (1916,0707.9), reverse

Bronze Lusitania medal, by Karl Goetz (1916,0707.9), reverse

The medal itself is a fascinating object that is laced with satirical symbolism. On the obverse, the ship is depicted sinking under the waves. Weapons appear on the deck, a direct accusation that the ship had been carrying munitions, thus putting the lives of its passengers at risk, the notion that had so infuriated Goetz. The reverse shows unsuspecting passengers queuing up to buy their tickets from a personification of Death who sits inside the ticket booth. The warnings of a German man stood in the background and the ‘U-Boat Danger’ headline on a newspaper go unnoticed by the crowd. The inscription above the scene means ‘business above all’ and makes the message of the medal doubly clear. The presence of Death playing an active and malevolent role in the events is a theme that pervaded German medallic art during the First World War and this will be explored in the exhibition.

Propeller from RMS Lusitania, National Museums Liverpool, author’s photo.

Propeller from RMS Lusitania, National Museums Liverpool, author’s photo.

In 1982 one of the four propellers from the vessel was salvaged from the wreck and subsequently acquired by National Museums Liverpool. The Lusitania has a strong link with Liverpool and the propeller, now part of the collection of the Merseyside Maritime Museum, is displayed on the quayside at the Albert Dock. Services of remembrance are held next to it every year on the anniversary of the sinking of the ship.

The other side of the medal: how Germany saw the First World War is on display in Room 69a (admission free) from 9 May to 23 November 2014

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The lives of others in runic inscriptions

gold finger ring with runic inscription
Martin Findell, Research Associate, University of Leicester

Gold finger-ring, engraved with a runic inscription. Late Anglo-Saxon, found in Cumbria, England. OA.10262

Gold finger-ring, engraved with a runic inscription. Late Anglo-Saxon, found in Cumbria, England. OA.10262

Call it perversity, but in my own research I’ve always had a taste for the unfashionable and the unglamorous areas of runic writing. I get more excited about a name scratched onto the back of a brooch than about a large and richly decorated runestone; and as a historical linguist, I take more pleasure in trying to work out problems of the relationship between spelling, speech and the changing structure of language than in broader questions of cultural history and society. Of course the two are interdependent, and while I concern myself with the troublesome nuts-and-bolts details of language, language is an aspect of culture and must be studied alongside other aspects of culture. Even the briefest and most unattractive inscription is an instance of language use by real people who belonged to a community in which the act of writing had some purpose. Rather than regale you with tales of unstressed vowels, I thought it would be more interesting to share my interest in some of the texts we find written in runes, and what they might tell us about the people who produced them.

One of the most impressive objects in the Vikings exhibition (if somewhat overshadowed by the great Roskilde ship) is a replica of the Jelling stone. The original is at the large royal complex at Jelling in southern Denmark, and was commissioned by Harald Bluetooth to honour his parents and boast of his own achievements. The inscription says “King Harald ordered this monument made in memory of Gorm his father and Þorvi his mother; that Harald who won for himself all of Denmark and Norway, and who made the Danes Christian” (translation based on that in the Samnordisk rundatabas).

The memorial text is formulaic, and similar to inscriptions found all over Viking-Age Scandinavia (with a particular concentration in the Uppland region of Sweden, where several thousand have been found). The stone is probably best seen as a political statement, particularly when it comes to Harald’s display of his Christian credentials; lest the viewer be left in any doubt, one face of the stone is carved with an image of the Crucifixion.

The Jelling stone is an inscription made for a king, but not by him. The people who did the actual work – and importantly for linguists, these were probably also the people who made decisions about things like spelling – were craftsmen, possibly attached to Harald’s court, who remain silent in the historical record.

One of my favourite inscriptions lies at the other end of the scale: a short, personal message, informally scratched on the back of a brooch found in a sixth-century woman’s grave at Bad Krozingen in Baden-Württemberg, Germany. The inscription reads boba:leub agirike, “Bōba, dear to Agirik”. Bōba is the name of a woman, perhaps that of the woman buried with the brooch (although not necessarily – valuable pieces of jewellery like this could be passed on as heirlooms, or looted and given to someone other than the original owner), and Agirik is a man. It is likely that he wrote the inscription himself – it is not a work of professional craftsmanship (which the brooch certainly is), and the fact that the message is on the back of the brooch means that it would not have been visible when worn. We have no way of knowing what the relationship between these two people was. They might have been husband and wife, father and daughter, brother and sister, or related in some other way; but this slender piece of evidence helps to remind us that these were real people, people who knew and cared for one another. It might not tell us much about the large-scale political and religious trends of the society in which they lived, but it brings both the words and objects of the past to life as something familiar, human and all too short-lived.

Martin Findell, Research Associate, University of Leicester. His particular interests are in the problems of understanding the relationship between spelling and sound change in the early Germanic languages, and in the uses and abuses of runes in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries.

This post was originally published on the British Museum Press blog. Martin’s book about runic inscriptions has been recently published by British Museum Press and can be found on our online shop.

The BP exhibition Vikings: life and legend is at the British Museum until 22 June 2014.
Supported by BP

Organised by the British Museum, the National Museum of Denmark, and the Museum für Vor- und Frühgeschichte, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin
Tweet using #VikingExhibition and @britishmuseum

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‘Exile is strangely compelling to think about but terrible to experience’

Detail of Ein neuer Type ('A New Type'), 1965, Georg Baselitz (b.1938), grey and yellow ochre watercolour, charcoal, graphite and white pastel on paper.
John-Paul Stonard, art historian

On 7 February, the great literary critic James Wood gave a lecture at the British Museum, part of the London Review of Books’ Winter Lecture series, titled ‘On Not Going Home’. He spoke about the condition of exile, of living one’s life away from home, and of the strange unreality of this experience.

His own compelling account is based on the experience of having lived for the last two decades in America (he was born and raised in Durham) – a sort of voluntary ‘homelessness’ that he is at pains to distinguish from the wrenching experience of exile. ‘Exile is strangely compelling to think about but terrible to experience’, he cites Edward Said, one of the great thinkers on the subject.

Wood’s brilliant lecture raised many questions that illuminate the works of art included in the book and exhibition Germany divided: Baselitz and his generation. The title might make you think of the Berlin Wall, and the political division that ended in 1989; but the sense of division is of something much deeper, much more personal and psychological.

All of the six artists included in the exhibition were born in eastern Germany, but sooner or later moved to make their lives in the West. Markus Lüpertz and Sigmar Polke were born in the eastern territories, lost to Germany in 1945, and were forced with their families west. Blinky Palermo moved with his foster family at the age of nine. Georg Baselitz transferred from East to West Berlin during his training (before the borders closed in 1961), just as Gerhard Richter completed his training as a Socialist Realist in Dresden, before moving to Düsseldorf and starting over again, working, as he (ironically) termed it, as a ‘Capitalist Realist’.

The most dramatic case was that of A.R. Penck, who crossed the East-West German border on foot in 1980, after years of working underground in opposition to the East German State. He had already made a career in the West, thanks to the dealer Michael Werner, who would smuggle his paintings out (by car), and showed them in his Cologne gallery. It seemed inevitable that one day Penck himself would follow.

The lives and works of all these artists were inflected in different ways by this experience of migration, and by the political division of Germany. I think of James Wood’s comment on his own experience of living in America, and the ‘light veil of alienation thrown over everything’. I wonder if this ‘veil of alienation’ might explain the way in which those such as Baselitz and Richter saw West Germany, somewhere apart from their ‘heimat’ – that untranslatable German word which suggests the intimate connection with the landscape in which one was born and raised.

For the philosopher and critic György Lúkacs (cited by Wood), the modern novel was an expression of the ‘transcendental homelessness’ of the modern age. Modern life was defined by the experience of exile, and the novel was the most direct expression of this experience. ‘Transcendental homelessness’ seems to float over the images created by Baselitz in his early series of drawings, prints and paintings of ‘heroes’, lonely figures walking through desolate landscapes. It is a feeling of restlessness that I also sense in the way Markus Lüpertz and A.R. Penck made drawings, producing vast quantities, as if constantly searching for something, some form of resolution. Sigmar Polke and Gerhard Richter’s early works are marked by a cool irony, and a feeling of keeping a distance from ‘art’ itself — Richter used photography, Polke an absurdist humour, as a way of avoiding ‘going home’ to older ideas of making art. And the myths that have gathered around the life and work of Blinky Palermo, whose name is itself a token of not-belonging (he was born Peter Stolle, and went through a number of change of surname, before alighting on the pseudonym as a student at the Düsseldorf Kunstakademie), make of him one of the most romantic, and elusive artists of all the ‘Baselitz generation’.

Listen to James Wood’s lecture via the London Review of Books website

Germany divided: Baselitz and his generation is on show at the British Museum until 31 August 2014.

Read more about this period of art and history in the beautifully illustrated catalogue which accompanies the exhibition, written by John-Paul Stonard.

This post was originally published on the British Museum Press books blog

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Some more #Halloween fun: this ‘unlucky mummy’ in the collection was thought to bring bad luck to anyone who owned it!
#mummy #curse Our free exhibition #WitchesAndWickedBodies is a #Halloween delight, examining the portrayal of #witches and #witchcraft from the Renaissance to the 19th century. Explore the exhibition in Room 90, until 11 Jan 2015. Happy #Halloween! Today we're sharing all things spooky and scary! Check out some Halloween #Pinspiration at 
www.pinterest.com/britishmuseum Room 8, Nimrud, is the next #MuseumOfTheFuture gallery in our series. It contains stone reliefs from Neo-Assyrian King Ashurnasirpal II’s magnificent Northwest Palace at Nimrud and two large Assyrian winged human-headed lions. The next gallery in our #MuseumOfTheFuture series is Room 7. It features a series of remarkable carved stone panels from the interior decoration of the Northwest Palace of the Neo-Assyrian King Ashurnasirpal II (883–859 BC). The panels depict the king and his subjects engaged in a variety of activities. Ashurnasirpal is shown leading military campaigns against his enemies, engaging in ritual scenes with protective demons and hunting, a royal sport in ancient Mesopotamia.
#museum #london #gallery Room 6, Assyrian sculpture and Balawat Gates, is the next gallery in our #MuseumOfTheFuture series. This room contains large stone sculptures and reliefs which were striking features of the palaces and temples of ancient Assyria (modern northern Iraq). Also in the gallery are two colossal winged human-headed lions, which flanked an entrance to the royal palace of King Ashurnasirpal II (883–859 BC) at Nimrud and replicas of the huge bronze gates of Shalmaneser III (858–824 BC) from Balawat.
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