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Editors Note
A haggard youth with glittering eye
Into our presence sped;
He placed these verses on our desk,
A pistol at our head.
Well, we didn’t much want to be bored with his
lead.
So our readers we bore with his verses instead.
Montague Horatio Mostyn Turtle Pigott
(1865–1927)
Editors Note (Poem)
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More in: Archive O-P, Archive O-P, Mostyn Turtle Pigott
Begegnung
Dein Gehen lächelt in mich über
Und
Reißt das Herz.
Das Nicken hakt und spannt.
Im Schatten deines Rocks
Verhaspelt
Schlingern
Schleudert
Klatscht!
Du wiegst und wiegst.
Mein Greifen haschet blind.
Die Sonne lacht!
Und
Blödes Zagen lahmet fort
Beraubt beraubt!
August Stramm
(1874-1915)
Begegnung, 1914
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The Land Of Love
Hail! voyagers, hail!
Whence e’er ye come, where’er ye rove,
No calmer strand,
No sweeter land,
Will e’er ye view, than the Land of Love!
Hail! voyagers, hail!
To these, our shores, soft gales invite:
The palm plumes wave,
The billows lave,
And hither point fix’d stars of light!
Hail! voyagers, hail!
Think not our groves wide brood with gloom;
In this, our isle,
Bright flowers smile:
Full urns, rose-heaped, these valleys bloom.
Hail! voyagers, hail!
Be not deceived; renounce vain things;
Ye may not find
A tranquil mind,
Though hence ye sail with swiftest wings.
Hail! voyagers, hail!
Time flies full fast; life soon is o’er;
And ye may mourn,
That hither borne,
Ye left behind our pleasant shore.
Herman Melville
(1819 – 1891)
The Land Of Love
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Zu Neujahr
Will das Glück nach seinem Sinn
Dir was Gutes schenken,
Sage Dank und nimm es hin
Ohne viel Bedenken.
Jede Gabe sei begrüßt,
Doch vor allen Dingen:
Das, worum du dich bemühst,
Möge dir gelingen.
Wilhelm Busch
(1832 – 1908)
Deutscher Zeichner, Maler und Schriftsteller
(Quelle: Wilhelm Busch Gedichte. Schein und Sein, 1909)
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An investigation of the irrational and the unconventional currents swirling behind the Bauhaus’s signature sleek surfaces and austere structures.
The Bauhaus (1919–1933) is widely regarded as the twentieth century’s most influential art, architecture, and design school, celebrated as the archetypal movement of rational modernism and famous for bringing functional and elegant design to the masses. In Haunted Bauhaus, art historian Elizabeth Otto liberates Bauhaus history, uncovering a movement that is vastly more diverse and paradoxical than previously assumed. Otto traces the surprising trajectories of the school’s engagement with occult spirituality, gender fluidity, queer identities, and radical politics. The Bauhaus, she shows us, is haunted by these untold stories.
The Bauhaus is most often associated with a handful of famous artists, architects, and designers—notably Paul Klee, Walter Gropius, László Moholy-Nagy, and Marcel Breuer. Otto enlarges this narrow focus by reclaiming the historically marginalized lives and accomplishments of many of the more than 1,200 Bauhaus teachers and students (the so-called Bauhäusler), arguing that they are central to our understanding of this movement. Otto reveals Bauhaus members’ spiritual experimentation, expressed in double-exposed “spirit photographs” and enacted in breathing exercises and nude gymnastics; their explorations of the dark sides of masculinity and emerging female identities; the “queer hauntology” of certain Bauhaus works; and the role of radical politics on both the left and the right—during the school’s Communist period, when some of the Bauhäusler put their skills to work for the revolution, and, later, into the service of the Nazis.
With Haunted Bauhaus, Otto not only expands our knowledge of a foundational movement of modern art, architecture, and design, she also provides the first sustained investigation of the irrational and the unconventional currents swirling behind the Bauhaus’s signature sleek surfaces and austere structures. This is a fresh, wild ride through the Bauhaus you thought you knew.
Elizabeth Otto is an art historian and the author of Tempo, Tempo! The Bauhaus Photomontages of Marianne Brandt, the coauthor of Bauhaus Women: A Global Perspective, and the coeditor of five books including Bauhaus Bodies: Gender, Sexuality, and Body Culture in Modernism’s Legendary Art School. She is Associate Professor at the University at Buffalo (SUNY), where she has also served as the Executive Director of the Humanities Institute. Her work has been supported by numerous organizations including the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation, the Center for Advanced Study in the Visual Arts, the National Humanities Center, and the University at Pittsburgh’s Humanities Center.
Elizabeth Otto
Haunted Bauhaus:
Occult Spirituality, Gender Fluidity,
Queer Identities, and Radical Politics
Hardcover
$34.95 T | £28.00
ISBN: 9780262043298
296 pp.
55 color photos
26 b&w illus.
September 2019
The MIT Press
# new books
Haunted Bauhaus
Elizabeth Otto
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More in: - Book News, - Book Stories, Archive O-P, Art & Literature News, Bauhaus, Klee, Paul
Music on Christmas Morning
‘Music I love – but never strain
Could kindle raptures so divine,
So grief assuage, so conquer pain,
And rouse this pensive heart of mine –
As that we hear on Christmas morn,
Upon the wintry breezes born.
Though Darkness still her empire keep,
And hours must pass, ere morning break;
From troubled dreams, or slumbers deep,
That music kindly bids us wake:
It calls us, with an angel’s voice,
To wake, and worship, and rejoice;
To greet with joy the glorious morn,
Which angels welcomed long ago,
When our redeeming Lord was born,
To bring the light of Heaven below;
The Powers of Darkness to dispel,
And rescue Earth from Death and Hell.
While listening to that sacred strain,
My raptured spirit soars on high;
I seem to hear those songs again
Resounding through the open sky,
That kindled such divine delight,
In those who watched their flocks by night.
With them – I celebrate His birth –
Glory to God, in highest Heaven,
Good will to men, and peace on Earth,
To us a saviour-king is given;
Our God is come to claim His own,
And Satan’s power is overthrown!
A sinless God, for sinful men,
Descends to suffer and to bleed;
Hell must renounce its empire then;
The price is paid, the world is freed.
And Satan’s self must now confess,
That Christ has earned a Right to bless:
Now holy Peace may smile from heaven,
And heavenly Truth from earth shall spring:
The captive’s galling bonds are riven,
For our Redeemer is our king;
And He that gave his blood for men
Will lead us home to God again.’
Anne Brontë
(1820 – 1849)
Music on Christmas Morning (1843)
Anne Brontë (1820 – 1849) was an English novelist and poet, the youngest member of the Brontë literary family. Charlotte (1816–1855) and Emily Brontë (1818–1848) were her sisters.
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Op 19 december 2019 is – na een zeer kort ziekbed – overleden dichter J.A. (Jules) Deelder. De dichter werd volgens zijn familie “tot zijn eigen verbazing” 75 jaar oud.
Jules Deelder (Rotterdam, 1944 – 2019) was een opvallende verschijning en erg geliefd als schrijver, dichter, muzikant en performer. Hij was zijn leven lang een groot liefhebber van Jazz en fan van de Rotterdamse voetbalclub Sparta. De club riep hem, kort voor zijn dood, nog uit tot lid van verdienste. Verder stond Deelder bekend als ‘De nachtburgemeester van Rotterdam’.
Jules Deelder werd gerekend tot de ‘performance poets’ ( of ‘popdichters’) een beweging die aansloot bij de ‘Beat Generation’ van Amerikaanse dichters als Allen Ginsberg en Jack Kerouac.
De familie van Deelder en uitgeverij De Bezige Bij, staan met dit gedicht stil bij zijn overlijden:
Zijn gaan is
een komen
Zijn komen
een gaan
Hij houdt niet
van zitten
Hij blijft
liever staan
Zichzelf
en de wereld
een raadsel
(Uit: De Zwarte Jager – J.A. Deelder, 1973)
I.M.
Jules Deelder
(1944 – 2019)
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De verminkte.
De borst
verscheurd.
Het been
in gruis.
Hoera!
Lang leev’
het krijgs-
gedruisch!
Dat hinkt.
Dat kermt.
Dat stuipt.
Dat bloedt.
Hoera!
Hoera!
Die moord
is goed!
Agnita Feis
(1881 – 1944)
Uit: Oorlog. Verzen in Staccato (1916).
De verminkte
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Vigil strange I kept on the field one night
Vigil strange I kept on the field one night;
When you my son and my comrade dropt at my side that day,
One look I but gave which your dear eyes return’d with a look I shall never forget,
One touch of your hand to mine O boy, reach’d up as you lay on the ground,
Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle,
Till late in the night reliev’d to the place at last again I made my way,
Found you in death so cold dear comrade, found your body son of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,)
Bared your face in the starlight, curious the scene, cool blew the moderate night-wind,
Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the battle-field spreading,
Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet there in the fragrant silent night,
But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh, long, long I gazed,
Then on the earth partially reclining sat by your side leaning my chin in my hands,
Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you dearest comrade–not a tear, not a word,
Vigil of silence, love and death, vigil for you my son and my soldier,
As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole,
Vigil final for you brave boy, (I could not save you, swift was your death,
I faithfully loved you and cared for you living, I think we shall surely meet again,)
Till at latest lingering of the night, indeed just as the dawn appear’d,
My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, envelop’d well his form,
Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head and carefully under feet,
And there and then and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his grave, in his rude-dug grave I deposited,
Ending my vigil strange with that, vigil of night and battle-field dim,
Vigil for boy of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,)
Vigil for comrade swiftly slain, vigil I never forget, how as day brighten’d,
I rose from the chill ground and folded my soldier well in his blanket,
And buried him where he fell.
Walt Whitman
(1819 – 1892)
Vigil strange I kept on the field one night
From: Leaves of grass
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L’ombre visqueuse emplit…
L’ombre visqueuse emplit jusqu’au fond la chambrée,
Des moucherons gluants couvrent la planche à pain.
Deux soldats ronflent sous leur couverte cabrée:
C’est un bleu de tringlot avec son vieux copain.
Le long de la muraille écailleuse et sabrée
Par de grands crachats noirs, tourbillonne un lopin
De mouchoir instructif, à la teinte marbrée,
Coiffant le shako neuf d’oreilles de lapin.
Le brigadier, entrant, heurte, sous ses semelles,
La carcasse sonore et vide des gamelles:
Les hommes réveillés murmurent dans leur lit.
Il tâte de ses mains le bât-flanc et se couche
Puis dort, de-ci de-là, comme une souche,
Et sous son corps pesant fait craquer le châlit.
Marcel Schwob
(1867-1905)
L’ombre visqueuse emplit…
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A Lament
They beat me black; they beat me blue,
Until my rue-
-ful visage would not bear inspection;
They broke me, too,
Though ’twas I who
Was once considered quite perfection.
How things are changed ! I once was great,
But yet of late
IVe fallen from my proud position ;
Hard is my fate,
I’m out of date ;
How altered now is my condition !
How will it end? What’s Fate’s decree?
Perchance Til be
Hung high as Haman by a neck-cord ;
Oh ! pity me,
For here you see
A broken, battered, shattered record.
Montague Horatio Mostyn Turtle Pigott
(1865–1927)
A Lament (Poem)
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Drowning is not so pitiful
Drowning is not so pitiful
As the attempt to rise.
Three times, ’t is said, a sinking man
Comes up to face the skies,
And then declines forever
To that abhorred abode
Where hope and he part company, —
For he is grasped of God.
The Maker’s cordial visage,
However good to see,
Is shunned, we must admit it,
Like an adversity.
Emily Dickinson
(1830-1886)
Drowning is not so pitiful
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