writings: the diaries
of otto dix
We are in Paris.

Mother Ey is giving me a show. The children are
with us  and Ursula. Is it possible to travel with
two small children and  enjoy yourself? The
answer is no. We could have left them with
Hans and Eva. But Martha insisted they come
along. We do our best.


We had lunch with Arno Breker.

Breker is a sculptor.  He is a friend of Tonys.  
They both studied with Maillol. He tells a few
Mailliol stories. There are a lot of Maillol stories.
 They are all the same. He had a harping wife
and a vicious addiction for the banging of
models. We dont know which ocurred first.  
Towards the end  pushing 80  he left the wife
and took off for Venice with a 16 year old.

Breker is living in Paris.  He has been here 10
years. He is thinking of moving back to
Germany. He has been getting some work
from the Nazis. Breker is a problem for the
Nazis. The Nazis are trying to nail down some
sort of formula to resolve this art situation.

There are  2 categories: pro/German art and
anti/German art. They dont want a 3rd
category. But there is a third category. The
third category is Breker. Also Tony. This
category will always be with us. For the
moment they have decided that Breker does
pro/German art. He can be put in category one.
Now they have him designing two statues--
male nudes  for the new Olympic stadium.

Breker is a decent sort.  He is like Speer --
Marthas boss. He has a gift for becoming tight
with Nazis.


Last nite I had my show.

The show was a hit.  Mother Ey was right. Paris
is the place. They oohed and ahhed. Now they
have to buy. I showed the usual: some
paintings, prints, drawing, lithos and a few
watercolors. What is it about watercolors?  
They always sell.  I should do more of these.

I also showed the big city triptych. I wouldnt
mind selling this painting. I am getting a little
tired of dragging this beast with me all over
Europe.

We were introduced to a man named Henry
Miller. Miller is a writer--a novelist. I have not
heard of this man but Mother Ey assures me he
is a genuis. He is an American  from New York.
He also paints.

He says: if I had to do it over I would be a
painter.

And I said: and I would be a writer.

This is life. We are square pegs in a round hole.

Miller is with another man  also American  and
a young girl. The girl is French. She is 14. She
is wearing heels, orange lipstick and a skirt that
looks like it was made from 2 potholders. Who
is this girl and what are they doing with her?

She is the housekeepers daughter and they
are trying to fuck her.


Lunch with Henry Miller.

There are 9 people. There is myself, Martha,
Nelly, Mother Ey, Henry Miller and his friend
Perles, Violet the  housekeepers 14 year old
and a woman named Anais Nin and her
husband.

Anais Nin is a patroness of Miller. She gives him
money to live on in a minimal way. This frees
him from the evils of work in order to
concentrate full time on his writing.  This is a
noble creature. Or maybe not so noble.
Something tells me he is banging this woman  
and the husband knows.

This guy Miller interests me.  For a 43 year old
bum who has written one book no one has read
he seems amazingly well known. He is short,
bald and likes to smoke. He has a cigarette
dangling from his chops at all times.

I like Miller. He lives by his wits. He is a
hustler. But he is an entertaining hustler. He
has charisma. This is unusual in a writer.

Lunch gradually breaks up. Martha leaves with
the children to shop. Violet tags along. Perles
disappears. Mother Ey drags Anais Nin and her
husband back to the gallery to look at paintings.

I go for a walk with Miller. This is what he does.
He walks. He walks, walks, walks. He knows
Paris inside out.  He knows the city better than
people who have lived here their entire life.

We walk and he points out the sights. This is
the house where Balzac lived. This is the bridge
Courbet considered jumping from when
threatened with jail by his creditors. This is
the alley where Edgar Allen Poe was assaulted
while drunk.

There is something about this man. He is free.  
He has nothing but he is happy. He doesnt give
a piss. The word future is not in his vocabulary.
He prefers to concentrate on what is occurring
in his life at that moment. I am told this is a
Zen Buddhist concept.  It is also the concept of
a child.

Also: there is no malice here. He doesnt have a
mean bone in his body.

We walk. More tourist attractions. Here is a
whore house.

He says: Ive been to this place. The girls arent
bad.

Pause

He says: Can you loan me 200 francs?

The word loan coming from this mans mouth is
like a white man promising to return land to an
Indian.


In we go.

Its the typical parlor/ sitting room situation with
bedrooms upstairs. Its on the shabby  or
decrepit side. There is a small bar in the corner.

There are are four girls.  They all know Miller.
They jump on him like flies on poop. I have one
on my lap. She plays with my dick. She isnt
bad.

Miller disappears. The whore plays with my
dick. I retreat to the bar. The whore follows.
She squeezes my dick.

She says: your dick is hard  monsieur.

How can I fuck this woman with my wife  and 2
children   in the same city. Fortunately she isnt
a redhead. I manage to resist.

Miller returns. He has the look on his face of a
man who has adequately satisfied his lust for
the time being--a few hours perhaps.


We leave and visit a cafe. I buy him a drink.

He says: This is my philosophy. It came to me
when I was 33. I was working for the telephone
company  in New York.  I was in charge of the
personnel dept. I hired and fired. I had a big
office with a secretary. It wasnt a bad job. It
was a great job. There was pussy, pussy,
pussy. The woman came at me like flies.

I met all these people. I met the young and the
old and the funny and the sad and the sane and
the insane and the good, the bad and the ugly.
They would come in and sit down and tell me
their stories.  I heard amazing stories.

One day I was  sitting in my office looking out
the window. The thought occurred to me that
my life was over. I was trapped like a rat. I had
this job that I would continue to work at for the
next 40 years and then I would drop dead.

I continued to dwell on this thought and then I
got up from my chair and went in to see my
boss and told him I was quitting.

I was married at the time and had a child. I
went home and my wife said: what are you
doing here?  I told her.  There followed a long
conversation. But I had made up my mind.

Thats how I became a writer. I dont know if I
quit my job first and then decided to be a writer
or vice versa.  But the minute I thought of it it
was something that seemed to make perfect
sense.

Later I met a woman who was as crazy as I
was.  We came to Paris together.  Then she
went back to NY. Then she came back to
Paris. Then back to NY.  But I stayed. And here
I am.


We leave the cafe and meet up with Martha and
my daughter at the only bookstore in Paris  or
the world  where you can buy a copy of Millers
book. The title of the book is Tropic of Cancer.   
I ask about this title. He explains. Its a long
story I dont quite follow. There is an
astrological connection here.

Martha asks him to inscribe.

He writes:  For Martha and Otto Dix: Id rather
be painting!



Letter from Vera:

Dear Otto:
Adam Trott is here for a visit. He said he met
you in Berlin. it got me to thinking about
Dresden and the more I thought about it it
occured to me to write a letter.

So here it is. I am fine. I am enjoying life. I like
Frankfort. Its a beautiful city.  I am living with
my sister and her husband and their two
children. They have a big house that is very
comfortable. The children are wonderful. They
are so much fun.

I am studying with Max Beckmann. Its a small
private class  of 5 students that meets once a
week at his studio. It is a much different class
than yours. This one is serious  (I am kidding).

I miss our old class. But I am enjoying this
work.  He is a good teacher. The subject of
drawing is a real issue with him. He is
constantly badgering us about this. I seem to
recall some violent opinions of your own on this
subject.

He also takes us ice skating. He loves this
sport. Its an obsession. Yours was tennis  his is
ice skating. He says physical activity is good for
the mind.

How is your family? I would like to have
children some day. They tell me for this to
occur sex with a male partner is required. I
meet these men and have even found one or
two I like  but it is always something. They are
labor intensive. This one drinks and that one
doesnt wear underwear and the  other one cant
keep his fly zipped. Everything must somehow
relate to what interests them. I get a little
bored with it. Maybe I need an older man. They
are more appreciative I think. Plus they usually
have money which never hurts.

I have some disturbing news.  There is a rumor
--that seems  credible enough--that a show is
being organized to advertise the work of certain
painters and scupltors the Nazis have chosen to
discredit in the eyes of the German people.
They are calling it Degenerate Art. There will be
a catalogue with an essay by Adolph Ziegler
that develops this theme  in case anyone fails
to get the point.

Its a shocking thing to me--very discouraging.
Have you heard anything of this?

Well  I will close for now. My regards to you
and your family.

Love, Vera


I have heard of this project.

I am one of the participants. Where are these
paintings coming from. They are coming from
the museums. The authorities draw up an
order  which is signed by some Nazi and the
paintings confiscated. There are no complaints.
Complaints go into the circular file. They wind
up on the desk of Goebbels who has
masterminded the whole thing to begin with.

I know this Ziegler character. The Nazis are
doing themselves a disservice here. The one
thing  these people cannot be accused of
is lacking in energy. Yet in Ziegler you have a
painter whose work is 100% lifeless. His
specialty is the Nazi portrait. He has painted
Hitler, Goring, Ribbontrop, etc. He also painted
Hitlers niece  Geli Raubel.  Then she killed
herself. I speak the truth.

He also does nudes. They are as erotic as tofu.
I have been more aroused flossing my teeth.



Martha is reading Henry Millers book. The
meaning of the title continues to elude us. Miller
said there was a metaphysical suggestion here.
Martha says its a metaphysical pussy
suggestion. The book is about pussy. Its about
pussy, food and sponging.

Its set in Paris  with some flashbacks to NY. The
descriptions of Paris are great. Martha is having
her problems here and there with the language.
Its riddled with slang. But there is something
else going on here--a particular way the words
rub and bump up against each other to color
and shade the meaning--to skew or manipulate
it in a certain way. Its called style. The effect is
beatific  or ecstatic. There are strong rythyms
to the writing that have the effect of scooping
you up and sailing you along in this dizzying
way. Or so I am told by Martha. My feeling is
this: the book is too American. Only an
American  born in Brooklyn  can understand this
writing  and to appreciate the flavor of the style
here.

But she plugs gamely along.

She says: we must get Miller to visit us.  I have
many questions for him!
home
next month: the degenerate art show
billy wilder
archives
*installment 14: meeting henry miller
miller in
paris 1932