| writings: the diaries of otto dix |
| preface In 1923 the diaries break off. They resume 2 years later. During this period Dix continued to study at the Academy of Fine Arts in Dresden. In 1924 he came to the attention of a dealer named Adolph Loos who decided to give him show. Loos is a strange case. He is largely forgotten. Harry Kessler--whose diaries provide a valuable account of the political and cultural life of the Weimar Republic--fails to mention him. Yet he had an influence on several important painters--including Dix, Ludwig Meidner and Oskar Kokoshka. He supported the surrealists--especially Max Ernst. Winston Churchill once spoke of the importance of going from failure to failure with great enthusiasm. He was referring to Adolph Loos. He was a failed architect, a failed dealer, a failed publisher. His personal life was dismal. He was an alcoholic. He was married to an actress--Tamara Dietrich--who suffered from nervous hysteria and didnt have a faithful bone in her body. The end came in 1934. He was in poor health, he was broke, his wife had left him. He decided there was no way out and shot himself. Dix continued to paint and have shows. He was acquiring a reputation. But there was little money. His personal life was erratic. He went back and forth with a few women. He was briefly involved with the model Sally. The romance fizzled but he continued to draw and paint her. Politically this was a critical period for Germany. The economy had virtually suffered a heart attack and dropped dead. The mark resembled Einsteins equation for the behavior of mass (much in the news at this time) as it approaches the speed of light and expands to infinity. It had gone through the roof--or fallen into a bottomless hole. It was worthless. The fall of the mark coincided with the rise of the Nazis. Hitler had by this time taken over leadership of the movement, begun in 1921 with 7 members and now up to 40,000, and contacts had been made among the business and industrial interests and a little money began to accumulate in the treasury. There was the nucleus of an army—the storm troopers--and at some point Hitler decided the time was ripe for a coup—the Munich putsch—but the putsch failed and Hitler was jailed. He served nine months— not bad for an attempt to overthrow the state. And he had learned something-- The road to power was via the elective process. The force could come afterwards. |
hitler in 1924
sweet greta
by otto dix
by otto dix
| With felixmuller. F is teaching me to do lithos. I have an idea for a suite of drawings of the war that would be perfect for this medium. I love the blacks I am getting. They are fabulous. Black is the greatest color. Beckmann also says this. I have been studying some of Goyas war drawings. These things are brutal--and they are drawn in a style to match. Goya may be the greatest of them all. If I possessed 1/10th of this mans genius I would be happy. F is a good teacher. He is patient. I like this man. He is simpatico. He doesnt have a jealous bone in his body. Most artists would pimp for their mother. We break for lunch. We speak of the situation. Things are heating up. Last night there was a street fight between a Freikorps brigade and some communist thugs. This was a mismatch. These Freikorps gangs are a formidable bunch. It is a mistake to tangle with these people. They have the experience and the weapons and the discipline. They also enjoy the work. The leader is Sepp Dietrich. I heard stories of this man during the war. He is a stone killer. F mentions a rally—a Hitler speech. This man is starting to attract attention. I know a little about him. He was in the war and won the Iron Cross first class. This is an honor not easily come by—almost never for an enlisted man. F was impressed--in spite of his pacifist views. The speeches are the usual bullshit but they are effectively delivered. He has a powerful style--and an amazing voice. It is the voice more than anything. He also knows how to manipulate an audience--how to begin in a chummy and intimate way and gradually suck them in and once he has them in his grip to effectively proceed to a climax. He presents a few simple ideas—we must renounce the curse of Versailles and to restore our honor as a nation, etc—that he hammers away at over and over. Its a performance. Basically he is an actor. He has charisma. He has charisma to burn. In the studio A new painting. The title is: Card Game With War Cripples. This one will open their eyes--or close them. The war cripples are a problem. They are everywhere. You are walking along the street on the way to lunch and here is this mutilee--a stump with rags and no face being dive-bombed by flies furiously pushing himself along on his cart. They are suffering bastards. What did these men get from the war--a pension eaten up by inflation and a lifetime pass to ride the underground. But who cares? The war is behind us. We want to forget this slaughter. The painting is this: three men are playing cards. Between them they can account for 2 legs and an arm. They are advertisements for an orthopedic supply catalogue. In fact I have acquired one of these publications for reference. One man has no face. One has a steel jaw. One has part of his brain showing. Inside the brain are a man and woman copulating. He can no longer fuck himself but he continues to be obsessed by fucking. But they can still play cards. They have the artificial limbs and so forth. One man has a foot propped upon the table holding the cards between his toes. One has a flexible metal tube inserted into he side of his head that attaches to a curious device designed in the shape of a miniature tuba perched at one corner of the table. Why am I painting this picture? Its unsalable. Would you buy it? But there is humor here. It is hideous and funny. This is my gift. Lunch with Felixmuller. He has a woman with him. She is huge. She is like a house. I know this woman. Her name is Mother Ey. She owns a gallery . She is called Mother Ey because she recognizes that artists are children. It isnt money they crave: its attention. So she gives them the attention and keeps the money for herself. Dont get me started on dealers. They are the scum of the earth. I once heard a dealer say: the best thing an artist can do is die. It creates an interest in the work and also limits the inventory which further inflates the value. This is the way they think. There is a famous story about Mother Ey. There was a businessman from New York who decided to assemble an art collection. An art historian was recommended to advise him in this. They sat down and devised a strategy that focused on the Post- Impressionists--Van Gogh, Gauguin, Matisse, Derain, Bonnard, etc. Also Picasso. The consultant got to work. He contacted some dealers. One dealer led to another which led to another and at some point Mother Ey became involved. Mother Ey knew a family in Paris that owned a fabulous Picasso--a large nude painted during his early years in the Bateau Lavoir when he was living with Fernande Olivier. She contacted this family. Was the painting for sale? It was not. That was too bad--said Mother Ey. She had a buyer from New York with money to burn who was desperate to own this painting. The painting was still not for sale but they would be willing to meet with Mother Ey. Mother Ey traveled to Paris. There was lunch and the painting was shown. The painting was in excellent condition. Mother Ey plucked a figure from her head: $500,000. The family would think about it. The answer was yes. Mother Ey returned to Germany. She wired the consultant. She said there was a fabulous Picasso for sale that was the perfect painting to form the nucleus of the collection and get it rolling. The consultant was interested. How much? Mother Ey plucked a figure from her head: $1,800,000. The consultant was interested. Now there was a problem. The painting had to be shown. Mother Ey preferred to do this on her own turf--in Berlin. The family was agreeable to this. But there existed in France a law prohibiting the sale and export of the work of certain artists from the country. This could be done only via a license issued by the French Ministry of Culture which had a strict policy against. Mother Ey returned to France. She obtained an interview with the man who supervised this office. She made the following proposal: there were actually two Picassos for sale. The one she intended to sell the American and another very fine painting by the master that--in return for the export license--she would be happy to buy and donate to the Ministry of Culture. The Minister of Culture thought this over. The answer was yes. Mother Ey insisted on one condition: Before she could buy Picasso #2 to donate to the French Ministry of Culture she first had to sell Picasso #1. So this was done. Mother Ey returned to Germany with the painting--Picasso #1. She met with the consultant. The client was with him. Mother Ey went into her act. And a very good act it was. She was born to hustle art. She showed them the sights and made the rounds of artists studios and museums and galleries and there was food, food, food and the visit climaxed with a huge party at the gallery and at some point the consultant and client were ushered into a back room and the painting was shown. They oohed and ahhed. Now for their edification she embroiders upon this painting as a watershed piece that cleared the way for the great primitive works of 1909 such as les Demoiselles d'Avignon that led directly to the collaboration with Braque and the unveiling to a stunned, bewildered and enraged public of the first cubist works, etc, etc. They oohed and ahhed An offer was made: $1,200,000 Back and forth it went. They settled on $1,600,000. And thats the story. She took the $1,100,000 she made from the sale of Picasso #1 and peeled from this sum the 200,000 required to buy Picasso #2 which she proceeded to donate to the French Minister of Culture and was left with a net profit of $900,000 to dwell upon without risking a dime of her own money. We drink coffee and chat. I like this woman. What can I tell you. I need someone like her. She is a hustler and a scum of the earth type and a ruthless opportunist and she is this, that and the other but she has the gift of gab and charisma to burn. I have noticed this about some fat people. They have tremendous energy. I suppose they are trying in some way to compensate for their ugliness. She has an idea for a group show featuring F, Meidner, myself and one other--perhaps Kirchner. She has never seen my work. But F has assured her I am a genius. *for previous installments and an into to the book go to: |
johanna ey
by otto dix
by otto dix
| next month: dix has a show |
| *installment four: enter Hitler |
| In the studio. I am drawing Greta--the whore. If you are a painter you have to draw a few whores. This woman gave me a good fuck--or what promised to be a good fuck. I have the occasional problem with premature ejaculation. They say this can sometimes be forestalled via the thinking of non-carnal thoughts such as playing chess or visualizing your stamp collection. But it was no dice. We stripped and got on the bed and thrashed around and I poked it in and out and in and out and it went on for 10 or 15 seconds and I came like that. I have better luck with the drawing. The drawing is starting to happen. I like this. I could stop right here. Its a crucial moment. A drawing can always be better. Or you can fuck it up. This is what separates the men from the boys: the balls to fiddle with something you like to make something you like better and achieve something you like less. I invite her to take a look. She oohs and aahs. She likes. I decide to leave as is. I will always consider the opinion of a person of modest--or zero— education. They look and something in their brain says yes or no. This a critic cannot do. He has too much shit flying around inside his head. The critics job is to tell you why a turd stinks. Now I am horny. I have a brutal hardon. She squeezes my cock. She says: youre very good looking. We fuck. I sit on the chair while she straddles me. I enjoy this position. Up and down she goes. Pussy! |
