*installment three: meeting meidner
next month: hitler speaks
Art school.

What am I doing in this place?  Collecting a

The model is Joyce--again. I hate this woman. I
would like to stab her with my palette knife. How
many times do I have to draw those lifeless tits
and those androgynous hips and that lumpy ass
and--above all--the vacant look on that dizzy puss.

But it isnt the body.  Its the attitude. She stands
there like she is waiting for a bus. She is dead
meat. There is no energy or enthusiasm.  She has
the enthusiasm of a snail.

Only the mouth works. She  enters the room with
the mouth flapping  and the flapping continues for
3 hours. It is like wash drying in the wind.

What does she talk about for 3 hours? About
nothing. It is the pointless chatter of a mindless
human being. It is maddening.

Then we break. Now something happens.  She
comes to life. She is in a coma during the pose
but during the breaks she comes to life. She skips
and prances around like a goat. She does this
naked. She walks around fondling her pussy while
pestering the students for drawings.  

She has 2000  drawings of herself.  The quality of
the work is unimportant. It need only be a drawing
of Joyce. But from me she gets nothing. Always I
say no. She stands there massaging me with her
crotch  and I am obliged to look into this vacant
puss and patiently endure this intolerable whining.

I think she wants to bang me. But I have no eyes.
It is embarrassing. I have complained to Prof Koch
but it is no dice. Koch likes her. People are

Art school

We have a new student--Meidner. This is a
strange creature.

He is small with a large head. He has
glasses and ears like door handles. He has
some grooming problems. He looks like he
spent the nite in the gutter. He looks like a
rat. He is shy. Getting him to speak is
painful. But he has some redeeming
qualitites. He can draw. He draws like a
saint. This man is an artist. He draws like a
saint and paints like a child. There is no
hamstringing of thought. It is pure
aggression.  He paints with this hit or miss
quality. But the anatomy is there. There is
a juicy frontal bone  rising up from the  
supercilliary arch and an axiomasseter
muscle twitching behind that cheek and a
perfect pocket carved into the philtrum. The
philtrum is the scooped out part of the
upper lip below the nose. I can never get
this detail right. But Meidner slaps down a
single brushstroke and nails this thing

He is a Van Gogh type. He even looks like
Van Gogh. I am a little jealous. But this is
good. It will be competition for me.Art is
like sports.  You must test yourself.

We go for coffee.

We discuss the current situation. This
doesnt take long. Meidner is like myself--he
agrees that artists should stick to painting.

He was in the war--another ambulance
driver. He met Beckmann in the hospital
where they had both been sent to recover
from nervous hysteria.

He says Beckmanns work at this time had a
long way to go. He was doing thrift store
paintings. The war had a tremendous effect
on his style.  He entered the war a
mediocrity and emerged a genuis.

We discuss Cezanne. He is a great admirer
of Cezanne--esp the early portraits.

We talk about Corinth.  For him Corinth is
the master.

We discuss dealers.  He has a dealer who
has sold one painting in 3 years for $35.

He says: dealers are the scum of the earth.

He also writes poetry. A painter and a poet.
This is a man ill-equipped to survive in the
modern world.

We discuss women. He likes women.  But
women dont like him.

I say no. Women like men who are
confident. Confidence is interpreted in
specific ways.  What are these ways? A
well-groomed appearence. A neat
apartment. A steady job.

This is a sad case. He is in desperate need
of some pussy. I invite him to  visit with me
the establishment of Frau Sauckel. I offer to
spring for this diversion.

The idea appalls him. He visited a prostitute
once. He couldnt get it up.  Why not?
Because he compounds sex with love. He
cant dissociate the one from the other. He
must feel a deep emotional connection with
the woman. Sex is a holy thing. Etc, etc.
Here we disagree. With me it is fucking.

*for previous installments and an intro to
the book go to
ludwig meidner
self portrait