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Vienna Journal: an Auslander Fidgets - Hitler as Artist, Dreamer, and Low Life
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Hitler as Artist, Dreamer, and Low Life
In his Vienna days, Hitler lived for a time at 31 Stumpergasse (and not "29", as it's often asserted.) Hitlerites by the dozen (surely there can't be any more of them) have been taking snapshots of this other place for years and swearing that the place in the picture is where the evil maniac-to-be lived in his earlier days.
Well, it's more the myth than the reality that counts anyway. Or, rather say: close enough!
Hitler was a sort of remittance man, living on a small inheritance from his mother, who passed away at forty-seven from something that would be easily treatable today, though it doesn't sound like much fun. He came to Vienna with a letter of introduction to a famous opera designer, one Alfred Roller, whom he did not meet until he, Hitler, was somewhat more advanced in rank and more important to Rollen's career than Rollen could have ever been to his. But Hitler seemed to have shied away from the meeting, as if to ensure the harsh and unforgiving climate that would motivate him to quit painting and start making somewhat irresponsible accusations against the Jews - though slanderous sentiments of this sort were hardly rare in Europe at this time. But for a great while, Hitler - sans introduction - stuck to painting, or at least the IDEA of painting while he dressed up for the opera or read every newspaper he could get his mitts on. As his fortunes declined, he enlisted the help of Jews to see that his artwork got sold so that he, Adolph, might scrape up enough money for rent and opera tickets.
Eventually, of course, Hitler wound up, not on the streets, but in a home for the indigent, developed by far-seeing planners and funded by at least one Jew.
It was an interesting place to be, particularly for a proud young man who scorned the idea of taking a regular job because he was, after all, more educated than the average worker. It was here that he began to evolve into the lovable newsreel chap who exhorted an entire people to stay the course, as it were, and be unified as one nation under Wagner, with not a whole lot of liberty - but lots of kitschy rallies - for all. He was assisted in his development, so to say, by the example of Mayor Lueger, who didn't mind stooping to the sort of anti-Semitic attacks that must have made Jewish intellectuals both shrug their shoulders and wet their pants. It took almost thirty years from the time Hitler found himself in such dire straits till the moment the Reich chancellor strode into the Heldenplatz in triumph. It must've been worth the wait; Hitler was so happy about it he found it in his heart to welcome his adopted city - which had spurned his talent - into the National Socialist fold.
Hitler was not a particularly happy young man - which, to the psychologically-oriented, should come as no surprise. His amours were affairs of the imagination only. In his small hometown, he conceived of an epic attraction for a beautiful girl who was possibly above his station, but theoretically available. Did he tell her about it? Nein! He just sat around, moped, and watched her move about in beauty. He was dead set on marrying her, but, once again, thought and action failed to coalesce, and she, of course, took the hand of somebody else without ever knowing that he, Hitler, yearned passionately to offer his own. Yet in dreaming grandiosely of her, he set himself up for his future metier: dreaming grandiosely for millions. His dream-life was, in fact, his strongest suit, being something that was not only indelibly his, but a thing that was self-enlarging at a time when he probably felt very small indeed.
Hitler was very good at vicarious affections. I doubt whether a real person would have actually measured up to his ideals.
While he was at 31 Stumpergasse, he reveled in dreams of himself as a great artist, though he failed his exams at the art academy not once, but twice. He was told, point-blank, that his skills didn't cut the mustard and not to come back. That must've hurt. The tremendous pride and overweening pretensions of the young man were thus thwarted, not just in life, but in a sphere he thought he'd eventually conquer - and to which he felt he most indubitably belonged. Yes, a very, very bad thing to happen, this. It's one of those turning points in world history that make the study and analysis of men and events so horribly
captivating.
Hitler is said to have worked jobs now and then, but apparently this is not true. He never thought of taking a job, even as his money dwindled and, finally, ran out completely. He even took to begging - at which he was not particularly successful. Begging is something for which proud and arrogant people are not eminently qualified.
But he always managed to have well-wishing friends who saw something salvageable in him and offered to help him. Such a man stepped forward at the house in Meidling, Hitler's final tour of duty before he enlisted - ecstatically - in the Bavarian Army at the outbreak of WWI.
His name was Reinhold Hanisch and he made himself go-between for the shy, but irascible young man who couldn't bear to be contradicted, and whose thumping monologues were not merely annoying, but had a somewhat mesmerizing quality about them. If you liked to listen to a good rant, Hitler was definitely your man. But you didn't want to send him to a frame-shop with a portfolio under his arm!
Hitler's subjects were almost invariably architectural, as befits a young man who strolled in awe along the Ringstrasse, marvelling at the Royal Opera House (now the "Statsoper"), the Kuntshistorisches Museums, not to mention the majestic sweep of the great avenue itself, which began in splendor and kept right on going. He'd not seen much of that in his little old hometown and he was more than hooked: he was crazy about the place. He astonished his Nazi colleagues in later years by his accurate recall of the Ring and its various architectural properties, which he could draw from memory. One might, however, agree with his professors in condemning many of his efforts, which are awkward, but painstaking. Yet from time to time Hitler manages to nail his subject and it has a brooding majesty, a palpable presence. Hitler was a bad artist most of the time, but he had his moments. His picture of the Royal Opera House is decent enough, but he outdid himself with a painting of an old waterworks, done apparently in gouache, which run parallel across the foreground in front of a streetscape they effectively cut off from the viewer. It is a stirring piece of work and holds up very well. If I had just seen the
picture somewhere, I would asked who'd done it.
Yet his erratic production in art would, of course, haunt him later in life, when he made the disastrous military decisions that would eventually cost him and his Thousand Year Reich the war. A damned good thing for us, of course. Unfortunately, Hitler had his good days too.
It would, obviously, have been better for almost everybody had Hitler the artist kept at it. Apart from its obvious effect on world affairs, it might have also given us a Vienna we have never seen: one in which the visual potency of a great imperial city might have been at glorious odds with a deeply manic-depressive, not to say hysterical, personality.
Shiele was active at the time, as was Klimt. They were obviously innocent of the young Hitler living in his doss-house over in Meidling, and had they seen his worst stuff - and of this there is no dearth - they wouldn't have been impressed. Hitler was, in fact, lucky to have Hanisch looking out for him because a lot of the crap he did was hardly even worthy of the venues chosen for it. Yet, given time, Hitler might have actually turned into a creditable, if uneven, talent whom the academy might have ultimately embraced.
Of course, if you look at most of the stuff he was doing, you'd have to share the verdict of the old professors who gave him the boot and started him off in his other, more infamous direction. I'm sure the moral of this story has been discussed at tremendous length among Hitler Studies' enthusiasts, but it seems that whenever an artist is lost to the world, he or she does something a helluva lot worse - as if to be an artist scorned is one of the most wicked human scourges imaginable. Could be. I can't stand having my pictures misunderstood, disliked, or (needless to
say) rejected. I always understand the context within which these things happen. I know that this person simply can't "relate" to the work at hand. This other person might be highly emotional and can't help but reacting, not only to my work, but to everything in this way. And this juror. . .well, this juror is so completely captivated, not to say smothered, by his or her prejudices that it is simply impossible for him or her to step out and away from them. If I'm a victim of these prejudices, I should simply acknowledge that they can do harm now and then and try to find a more receptive audience. And I do. I do every single one of these things.
And yet I still want to kill the juror.
Author: Brett Busang | 0 Comments
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