| writings: the diaries of otto dix |
| At the whore house. What am I doing at this place? It was a spur of the moment thing. I was in the neighborhood and it occurred to me to pay a visit. I was curious to see if this establishment still existed. It did. I went in. The whorehouse still exits and so does Frau Sauckel. She looks good. I check out the girls. Now an amazing thing happens. I see a familiar face. Is it Gerta--the redhead? No. Its Sally--my old model! Unbelievable! We embrace. We sit on the couch. I have some questions for her. We go upstairs. In the room we talk. Its the usual. She needed money. She got mixed up with some guy--another painter. She got pregnant and decided to have the baby. The boyfriend took a powder. Now she had this baby on her hands. She needed a job. There were no jobs. The one thing she said she would never do is sell her body. But here she is. She says--what about you? I fill her in on the teaching. She says: what about that woman--the one married to the doctor who was fucking the sister/in/law. She is still married to the doctor and he is still fucking the sister/in/law. Pause. Now what. She says: are you game? I am game. This is a first for me: fucking a whore I had previously fucked in an amateur capacity. Is there a difference? Not that I can see. After she refuses payment. I insist. She says no. We go back and forth with this. Then I give in. 1927-1929 Dix continued to teach at the Academie in Dresden. The situation with Martha gradually resolved itself. Hans Koch decided to marry Eva. There was a divorce that was settled amicably enough. A joint custody arrangement was drawn up regarding Hans jr. Martha kept the house. Hans continued to work downstairs. Now Dix and Martha had a decision to make. There were many trips back and forth between Dresden and Berlin. They decided to marry. The political situation had somewhat stabilized. The Nazis were in limbo.The Nazis fortunes rose and fell according to the economic situation. This was showing signs of recovery. A new minister of finance--Schact--had managed to stablize the mark. (Schact was later to become Finance Minister under Hitler and play a key role in Nazi affairs) Some of the restrictions of Versailles had been withdrawn and the army was gradually rebuilding. In 1923 the Munich Putsch occurred. Goering was shot in the leg but managed to escape and flee to Sweden. He spent the next 5 years in exile in Sweden dabbling in a series of business ventures. He also battled a drug addiction problem--a side effect of the leg wound and a nagging affliction that plagued him off and on for years. Every writer on Nazi Germany has a different version of two things: Hitlers sex life and the scope of Goering drug addiction. They all agree He was putting on weight. He was becoming obese. But one thing is clear: none of this affected his energy or his abilities as a salesman. In this he was a natural--the equal--or nearly--of Hitler. Together they made a formidable combination. In 1928 Goering returned to Germany. This was a significant event. Once back in Germany he wasted little time. He was soon in the thick of things. He met an industrialist named Fritz Thyssen. The problem facing people like Thyssen was where to put the money. It was Goerings job to convince these people that the Nazis--despite some nagging doubts about the violence and unsavory character of a few peripheral types--would pay the biggest dividend. Hitler was elated to have Goering back. In addition to his fund raising chores he was also installed as chief of the SA--the Storm Troopers. He became "Hitlers fist". In 1924 Goebbels had joined the party. This was another turning point. Goebbels was a journalist. He was well educated. He had a doctorate in Philosophy. He could speak. In this he was surpassed only by Hitler in his ability to lather up a crowd and whip them into a rabid Nazi intoxicated state. But his real gift was for propaganda--the transformation of Hitlers ideas into simple concepts the average working stiff could digest and to plaster it all up on billboards and install into various party controlled magazines, journals, newspapers. He was the great Media Master. If he hadnt gone into politics he would have had a brilliant career in advertising. In 1929 the New York stock exchange suddenly self- destructed throwing the country--and the rest of the world--into a panic. The fortunes of Hitler and the Nazi party were about to enter a new phase. 1929 Yesterday I got married. The wedding occurred at my parents. Present were: the bride and groom, Marthas children, Hans and Eva, Mother Ey, F, Tony and assorted friends, students and family members. Marthas mother was there. She is still a little wobbly from all the swapping of mates back and forth among siblings. My brother Robert was best man. Eva was not maid of honor. I think I am ready for this. Living alone is hard. There are all these chores--laundry and dry cleaning, yardwork, auto repair, gift purchasing, banking, etc. You need help with all this. We get along. We both like clothes. The sex is good. She laughs at my jokes. When they stop laughing at your jokes you can be sure the relationship is doomed. There are some trade offs. I admit the thought of never fucking another woman is a formidable concept. Its like telling an alcoholic he can never have another drink. It was a beautiful day. There was food, food, food and wine to go with. There was a band. There was a performance of magic courtesy of Tony. There was Martha and I who danced up a storm. F gave a speech: Ive known Otto for 15 years. We went to art school together. At first I didnt like him. I hated him. Why? It was the way he drew. He was too good. But I was able to overcome my jealousy and we became friends. Later we shared a studio. This left scars. There are similarities to marriage here. You find yourself spending vast amounts of time in the company of this other person at close range conveniently placed to observe certain obsessive acts of behaviour. Otto is neat. The studio was divided in half. Otto had his half and I had mine. Im not a pig. But compared to Otto my space looked like a movie set from the laboratory scene in Dr Frankenstein. We shared a kitchenette and utility sink area for cleanup and I frequently had the feeling while making coffee or scrubbing out my brushes and washing paint jars and rinsing rags and so forth that I was being watched. Martha is a lucky woman. She is not only getting a husband but a great cleaning lady. But this is a quibble. There are more profound qualities to this man. He has a gift for friendship. He is loyal, generous, sympathetic. He has compassion. He is funny. You can put the arm on him for a small loan. Also: his mother is a great cook. These two are a good match. There is love, there is lust and a deep sense of mutual respect. So for all these reasons lets wish the bride and groom well and drink a joyous toast to a long life of health and happiness. Salud! On my honeymoon. We are in New York. I have taken Mother Eys advice to visit the United States. The plan is this: New York, Niagara Falls, Chicago and Los Angeles. In New York we walked. We walked, we walked, we walked. The first day we toured the Brooklyn Bridge, saw a play and visited 3 night clubs. The second day we went to an amusement park called Coney Island. The third day we shopped. We went to a store called Bloomingdales. Bloomingdales is the Hammersteins of New York. I bought some shoes and a hat. Martha bought shoes, a coat, a suit, gloves and jewelry. The fourth day we did nothing. We were exhausted. Mother Ey was right. The city is dazzling. I would love to live here for a couple years. I think 2 years is the limit. Then you would drop dead. We called on a man named Marcel Duchamp. I was given his name by Mother Ey. I have heard of this man. He is a painter--or used to be. In 1912 he painted a picture called Nude Descending a Staircase. Ive seen this painting. Its a beautiful piece. He painted the picture and--at age 25--decided to retire. A few years later he was invited to participate in a big show in New York and he agreed. His submission was a urinal packed in a shipping crate. He decided there was no way he could ever top this piece and retired for the second time. But life is strange. MD became famous. He became famous as the artist who does no art. And the less art he produced the more famous he became. He became famous for being Marcel DuChamp. He doesnt paint, draw, write or speak. He plays chess. He lives in a small apt near Washington Square. This is a man you would never peg for an artist. He is completely non-descript. He is a small man in a suit. You look at him and nothing registers. He is a man in whom the body is superfluous. If you destroyed the body and left only the brain nothing would change. You would be doing him a favor. The apt is neat and filled with books. There are several chess boards on small tables with games in progress. I played chess as a child. Its a dangerous game. You can get seduced by this game and spend the next 70 years of your life holed up in your apt playing chess by mail. We go out for lunch. Lunch occurs at a neighborhood delicatessen. We check out the menu. Like everything in New York the menu is excessive. It all looks good. MD says: do you like pastrami? The answer is yes. He suggests the 88: pastrami with chopped liver and Russian dressing. Martha has a "Reuben"--corned beef, swiss cheese and sauerkraut on grilled rye . We order. MD says: Try one of these pickles. The pickles are great. This is how you rate a deli--by the pickles. If the pickles are good the food will be good. We chat. This is an interesting man. I like him. He is smart but he doesnt make an issue of it. He leaves you to figure it out for yourself. Its called modesty. He asks about Mother Ey. Mother Ey is fine. He says: I love that woman. She is hilarious. I was laughing so hard I was crying. I said: this is better than the movies. And its free! He says: I gave up art because I got bored. Maybe that was a reflection on myself. Perhaps I lacked imagination. But there it was: I was bored. And the more I worked at it the more bored I became. There was nothing to be done. Also there was the business side to contend with--the dealers, the critics, the museums and so forth. There are openings and parties you are obliged to attend and talk to people. This I cannot do. I am not a hustler. I hate social functions. I would rather have my dentist perform root canal work. I found chess more interesting. I always loved this game. There was an endless amount of time to be spent in idle thought here. There was an element of play that was missing for me in painting. Chess was fun. The more I studied it the more fascinated I became. You didnt even need an opponent. You could do it by mail. The food arrives. Now this I call a sandwich. Its gigantic. How does one eat this thing? You need the jaws of a horse. We finish lunch and walk over to Washington Square. How to describe Washington Square? If Breughel lived in New York he would paint Washington Square. Every conceivable human activity occurs here on a daily basis. There is recreation, medication, copulation, desperation. Its a favored rendezvous for chess players. Duchamp is a familiar figure. To them he is just another chess bum. There are some good games. Everyone has a different style. MD says: its like painting. Out of 10,000 maybe one is the real article. On to Niagara Falls. Niagara Falls is a huge tourist attraction. It has a particular appeal for honeymooners. We were repeatedly told to visit this sight. What do you do in Niagara Falls? You look at the Falls. We are looking at the Falls. The Falls are great. There are no words to effectively describe this sublime display of the crushing power of nature. Words like stupendous, tremendous, prodigious etc fall miserably short. There is one problem. They are only good for 10 minutes. Then you are ready to do something else. We return to Buffalo. We are staying in Buffalo. This is a city about 30 Km from Niagara Falls. The bartender at our hotel in New York was a native of this city. We were told by this man to stay in Buffalo and not Niagara Falls because in Niagara Falls there was nothing. The action was in Buffalo. In this he was correct. We were eating in a cafeteria near the hotel. At a nearby table were 4 gangsters. I knew they were gangsters because of the clothes. In Germany I had read magazines and seen the newsreels and the gangsters all dressed the same: they wore suits and hats and double breasted overcoats and alligator shoes. Buffalo was a big Mafia town. The boss was Steve Magadino. The Mafia is a criminal organization specializing in gambling, prostitution, extortion, loansharking, drugs and bootleg whisky. Also hijacking. This is where the clothes come from. One of the gangsters was studying me from time to time. He stood and tippy-toed over. To me he says: where did you get those shoes? Martha translated. She said the shoes were from Berlin. We went back and forth about the shoes for a bit and then introductions were made and we invited him to join us. Thats how we met Phil Spiegelman. Phil was not in the Mafia. He was a jew. The Mafia was for Sicilians only. Even Italians were excluded. There is a difference between the two. Phil explained: if you have an Italian and a Sicilian and you pick up a stone and smash it aginst the head of one or the other and the stone breaks--that is the Sicilian. He knew this to be true from experience: his wife was Sicilian. I understand. Martha also has some of this in her. Later we wound up at this mans house for dinner. We meet the wife--the Sicilian. This is Ann. Ann has energy. Phil has energy but Ann has more energy. She is a waitress. We had dinner which was followed by a tour of Phils wardrobe. This guy is doing all right for someone who works as an upholsterers assistant making $20 a week. He has some fine threads. This is a man I can relate to. There are suits, suits, suits. There are some beautiful shirts with a collar style I have not seen--a narrow spread palming the tie with these long points. Very nice. He asks my size. I am a 15 1/2 34. He is the same--a perfect medium. He lays a couple shirts on me. I protest this. He insists. Now he gives me a suit--a gorgeous double/breasted gabardine in this window pane pattern with deep pleats and a baggy knee dipping to a narrow cuff. Phil--I cant take this. We go back and forth. Take it! I take it. I say to Martha: I like this country. We are still in Buffalo. This is a great town. The people are friendly. They were friendly in New York. Its a friendly country. This guy Phil has been showing us around. He picks us up in the morning at the hotel. He is always early. This is a man with a lot of time on his hands. Buffalo reminds me in some ways of Paris. There are some beautiful parks and residential neighborhoods. The architecture is substantial. There is serious money in circulation here. Parts of the city have been designed according to the bicycle wheel concept in which wide boulevards divided by a grassy median converge on a hub or redondo. You drive your car in at one angle to engage the redondo and do a couple of spins and kick out at another angle. We were told by Phil Spiegelman that these circulation patterns and the entire park system was the work of a landscape architect named Frederick Olmstead who also designed Central Park in New York. Mostly we eat. We eat, buy hijacked merchandise and visit nightclubs. Here we met a guy named Mezz Mezzrow. He knows Phil. Mezz Mezzrow is a musician. He lives in Chicago. He plays clarinet and sells drugs. He is well known for the quality of his marijuana. Mezzrow is one of those people who became obsessed by another culture--in his case the negro culture. He is white but wants to be black. He loves black people. He loves the music and the jive form of speech and the attitude. They are happy. They live life. He lives in a black neighborhood and is married to a black woman. The wife says: last week he woke up and went into the bathroom and looked into the mirror and he said to me: I think I am starting to look more black. I said: you have been smoking too much of your own shit. Now this other guy comes over and sits down. This was Joe DeCarlo. There was something about this man. It was the eyes. There was nothing there. Phil said: Ottos a painter. Joe DeCarlo said: no kidding. This was the high point of the conversation. Joe DeCarlo had a drink and left. We continued to drink and dance and then signalled for the check to leave. There was no check. Joe DeCarlo had picked up the tab. Phil said: Joes a class guy. We are in Chicago. This is what happened in Chicago. We were enjoying dinner at a restaurant called Lunas that had been recommended by our good friend from Buffalo Joe DeCarlo. It was a non-descript neighborhood type place with a dozen tables and small bar up front. The food was delicious. I ordered the linguine with baby squid. Martha ordered the lobster con aglio doppio (lobster with garlic two/times). The food arrived and we began to eat. Two guys with machine guns entered the restaurant and opened fire. They pumped 15 or 20 rounds into 2 other guys sitting at the next table over by one. I speak the truth. The torpedoes left the restaurant. I was on top of Martha under the table. We were OK. We retrieved ourselves from beneath the table and stood and dusted off. We left the restaurant. There was no bill. Out on the street I said: thats what I like about Americans: they are friendly. Chicago is a larger version of Buffalo. Its on a lake. There are some beautiful parks and sparkling neighborhoods. There are some good Italian restaurants patronized by gangsters (see above). Chicago is the place to get a good steak. The cattle are raised in the midwest. The major states are: Oklahoma, Kansas, Missouri and some others. From here they go to Chicago--to the stockyards. Here the meat is processed. I have seen this done--in Germany. The cattle are transferred from the trains into pens and from there driven into these narrow chutes and prodded along one by one until their head is guided into a hole in a partition on the other side of which a huge iron pulverizing weapon is driven down onto the animals head with sufficient force to stun or kill the beast. The head is cut off. The carcass is dumped into a huge vat of formaldehyde to boil off the hide and hair. It is plucked from the vat by this giant dangling claw and plopped onto a conveyer type apparatus that feeds it into the teeth of a giant circular saw that cuts it in half. The insides are removed. Some misc cleanup and trimming follows. Another giant saw called a band saw performs more specialized cuts to divide the carcass into shank, loin, rib and misc body parts. From there it goes to the butcher and onto your plate. These are the things that interest me. We visited the Chicago Art Institute. I tend to agree with Mother Ey that the Americans are not in our league. They have some good painters. Sargent is a great painter. But he was trained in Europe and lived there 20 years. He took his cue from the post-impressionists. Whistler was the same. He went to Europe and never came back. Marcel Duchamp is a Frenchman who no longer paints. There are some painters like Bellows and other members of the Ashcan school that show signs of shedding this influence. I also like Thomas Hart Benton. He falls into the cornball mode from time to time but he has good instincts that do not betray him. He is a stone American. There is a woman called Alice Neel that is a very fine painter. She has a loose energetic style that reminds me somewhat of Ludwig Meidner. Not that I give a fart about any of this. I am only saying the country has a unique energy and drive. The material is here. They can start by eating dinner at Lunas. We wander around. We enter the modern European wing. Its the usual. Here is a Bonnard, here is a Vuillard, here is a Monet, a Manet, a Marquet. Here is an Otto Dix. Say what? I remember this painting. Its a portrait of a woman--a journalist named Slyvia van Harden. Its a masterpiece. Its such a masterpiece Sylvia van Harden refused to pay me. I sold it to Mother Ey for a sum I no longer recall. I wouldnt mind knowing what this painting is doing at the Chicago Art Instutute. Or how much it was sold for. I know nothing of all this. I am little pissed. I am steaming. Mother Ey never mentioned this to me. Not that she was obliged to. I sold the painting thereby waiving all claims to it. This is a subject I regularly discuss with my students. But I am steaming. Martha calms me down. What is the point here? There is nothing to be done. I will only further aggravate myself. Its our honeymoon. Etc, etc. She is right. En route to Los Angeles. We go via train. This is a famous train. Its called the Super Chief. I love this train. There is a bar car and a fabulous restuarant. This is the life. We eat and drink and watch the scenery roll by. We have a private compartment. At nite the seats fold up into beds. Its said train travel is an aphrodisiac. Its true. We are banging like monkeys. En route to LA We ride and ride. This is a big country. We are traveling thru an area called the Great Plains. This is exciting. This is where the great Indian wars occurred. I have seen many movies dealing with this subject. They are called "westerns". It started with something called "manifest destiny". According to the concept of manifest destiny an implicit authority was given white people--or "palefaces"--to displace Indians from the land in order to populate and develop the country to the west-- beyond the Mississippi River and across the Great Plains and over the Rocky Mountains and thru the desert all the way to Los Angeles and the Pacific Ocean. The Indians were pushed further and further west. From time to time they resisted this act of aggression and retaliated by massacring settlers. The Indian in battle had a preference for mutilation. There was something called "scalping" --performing a circular cut around the head just above the ear and removing the top of the head. The scalp was dried out and shrunk and worn looped from the belt by the warrior--or "brave"--during ceremonial dances. Also arms and legs and other body parts were routinely chopped off and scattered about. The victims included women and children. Eyes were gouged and ears and noses hacked off and teeth yanked out and the mouths filled with dirt. Heads were split open via "tomahawks"--a crude version of the hatchet. It was savage behavior that at times seemed to suggest not war but sport. I saw the same thing during the war. It occurs when people have been driven beyond their limit. So the army was called in. The Indian revolt was subdued. They were killed or bundled off to worthless pieces of real estate the whites had no use for. These were called reservations. They still exist. The Indians sit around and drink and recall their vanished past. They live by making beaded trinkets they sell to tourists. We ride and ride. The scenery is fabulous. I once painted a landscape. One was enough. In this I agree with Picasso. Picasso said: all landscape painting looks the same--like a plate of spinach. The Great Plains are behind us. Now we are in the mountains--the Rockies. We go up one side and down the other. Now we are in the desert. We arrive at the Grand Canyon. This is a huge tourist attraction. They put us on buses and drive us to the site. We stand on the edge of this precipice and stare down into a gigantic hole in the ground with a river at the bottom--the Colorado. The GC is like Niagara Falls. Words fail to describe. Its incredible, unbelievable, unimaginable. But it is only good for 10 minutes. Los Angeles. I know somebody in Los Angles. His name is Billy Wilder. I know Billy Wilder from Berlin. He is a writer. He started out as an art critic. Then he became a drama critic. Then he became a movie critic and wrote some scripts. He took a trip to Hollywood. He never returned to Germany. He says: America is the greatest country in the world and this is the greatest city in the country. Its paradise. You have the ocean, you have the mountains, you have the desert. You have the weather. The weather is fabulous. There is pussy, pussy, pussy. Also: you are free. People leave you alone. They dont give a piss. They are in a world of their own. They are all writing a script in which they play the featured role. I speak the truth. The waitress in the restaurant is writing a script. The mailman is writing a script. The librarian, the gynecologist, the paralegal--they are all writing scripts. I took my dog to the vet the other day. The dog has a bladder infection. He cant pee. The poor thing is in pain. We talked about the dog for 5 minutes and spent 40 minutes talking about a script the veterinarian is writing. Billy will do well here. He has all the ingredients. He is obsessive. He is a hustler. He works, works, works. He has Hollywood figured out. There is a pecking order. Its a business that operates on power. The power is concentrated in the hands of the producer. The writer is hired help. The writer is the lowest of the low. Billy says: do you know what a Polish joke is? We dont have the Polish joke in Germany. We have the Bavarian joke. The idea is the same. The origin is obscure. We only know the joke depends for its effect on the assumed crippled or dimly inspired mentality of a particular enthnic group. The Polish joke follows the same precept. I was told a few by Phil Spiegleman in Buffalo which has a sizable Polish population. Billys joke is this: In Hollywood the classic way in which an actress scores for a part is by fucking the producer. Sometimes they fuck the director. They can also fuck the studio chief. Then a Polish actress came to town and fucked the writer. We attended an art function. The artist is a German--Senor Feldstein. How to describe this event. He cut his dick off with a mat knife. A mat knife is a knife found at the art supply store. Its used to cut mats for framing prints or watercolors. It has a short retractable blade that can be discarded and replaced. This man has a different idea: he stands there announcing his intention to perform dick amputation surgery. There was a doctor present and a fotog with a movie camera and outside an ambulance with the motor running. Senor Feldstein said: some of you with a weak stomach may wish to excuse yourselves. Now is the time. Martha said: I cant watch this. She left. I stayed. I had to see this. Billy said for this guys last show he laid down in the street and invited someone to run him over with a car. We have Marcel Duchamp to thank for all this. It all started when he dreamed up the idea of insisting on a urinal as a piece of art. This was a concept that revealed many possiblitites. The potential was huge. It meant you could be an artist right now. There was no need to spend ten years learning to draw. Senor Feldstein begins. He says he is not going to amputate the entire penis but a piece of the tip. He stands there with the mat knife. He has by way of props a small table with a chopping block and glass of orange juice and pint jar of formaldehyde. He takes his dick out and slaps it down on the chopping block. He is uncircumcised and has to peel back the foreskin. He stands holding the mat knife. He perspires. He is sweating like a pig. His face loses color. He takes a sip of orange juice. He holds his dick in one hand and with the other slices off a half inch of pecker. Now there is blood. Its spurting about. He is staggering. He looks faint. He loses more color. He is white as a sheet. He drinks some orange juice. The doctor springs into action. He bandages the dick and picks up the severed tip and plunks it into the jar of formaldehyde. The artist is led off with his bandaged dick hanging out the front of his pants into the ambulance. The lights flash and the siren howls and the ambulance roars off. The fotog follows in another car. What do I think of all this? My first thought is: why does this guy have to be German? Otherwise I think nothing. If some mental case wants to cut off his dick its OK with me. Tennis with Billy Wilder. In Los Angeles they do two things: make movies and play tennis. Billys game is revealing. He reminds me in some ways of Picasso. If he found his grandmother across from him on the other side of the net he would drill a volley right between her eyes. Billy has no natural ability. He is graceful as a frog. But he has some weapons. He plays with his mouth. The idea is to bait, provoke or otherwise produce a rise out of the opponent and in this way compromise his game. He screams and sobs and whimpers and whines and taunts and teases. This is the verbal garbage. There is more garbage in the shots he chooses to offer up: the dink, the lob, the chip, the little half-assed angled forehand chop viciously loaded with backspin. It isnt tennis--its trench warefare. The word sportsmanship is an alien concept. All close calls are decided in his favor. He is pathetic. We visited a movie set. We were told this was a boring thing. We were told true. I have been more stimulated standing in line at the DMV waiting to apply for plates. It takes 4 hours to put two people into a kitchen so that one can say to the other: you burnt the toast! We met a movie star--a man named Clark Gable. Clark Gable is a big star. What is the appeal of this man? He has ears like stop signs. I could do something with these ears. We spent a week in Los Angeles. We played tennis and went to the beach. I am always happy at the beach. The job in Los Angeles is to be a weather forecaster. Every day is the same. Its hot, dry, clear. The sun is like a giant light bulb. The sky is white. I do 3 hours on one side, then turn over. A week of this and we are black as arabs. There are some great bodies at the beach. And yours would be too if you lavished upon it a similar amount of time and thought. In the lives of these people the purchase of sun tan lotion is a major issue. Its a strange town. Billy Wilder was right when he said no one gives a piss. I prefer New York--or Buffalo. It was time to go home. *for previous installments and an intro to the book go to: archives/dix |
nude descending
a staircase
a staircase
phil spiegelman
billy wilder
| next month: vera, adam trott, deChirico |
| *installment 11: marriage and a honeymoon in america |
duchamp plays chess
