| writings: the diaries of otto dix |
| Richard Gerstle is dead. He killed himself. They found him hanging in his room. This seems to be the preferred method among painters. I should draw this: hanging artist with easel. He was 26. It was a combination of poverty, loneliness and the Shoenberg woman. I dont blame the woman. We are responsible for our own happiness. It is unwise to depend for this on the behaviour of another. But she clearly displayed a feeble lack of sense. Here is a woman with 2 children married to a successful composer--with no intention of giving up either. She is as middle class as you can get. Then there is Gerstle--a Van Gogh type. He makes Van Gogh seem mature. When she broke it off it was too much for him. It served to confirm the sense of miserable self-worth. He turned it all inward. Its too bad. He was starting to hit his stride as a painter. He was painting with increasing confidence. He had arrived at that exhilirating stage where an assimilation of earlier influnces combined with his own formidable gifts was beginning to synthesize and ignite. I pay a visit to Hans Koch. He lives in the Kannenberg district. This is a nice house. It is amazing what you can do with money. There are 3 floors. He has an office below and lives above. We go upstairs. He has a nice house and the collection to go with it. He has Beckman, Kokoshka, Corinth, Nolde, Matisse--and very soon an Otto Dix! He offers a drink. We sit and chat. His wife joins us. Her name is Martha. What is it about this woman? A beautiful woman makes me edgy. There is always present this element of sexual conflict. But with this one I am relaxed. There is a special quality about her. The Spanish have a word: simpatica. It is like being on morphine: you are happy for no reason. It is a gift. I compliment her on the house. And it is true. It is a beautiful house. The style is eclectic--a little Baroque combined with Gothic mixed in with Art Nouveau added to Chinese Dynastic and finished off with Thrift Store Moderne. I am reminded of Matisse. I get from the house of this woman the same feeling of intense pleasure. We chat about this and that. Politics is not mentioned. People are tired of this subject. I like these two. They seem well matched. Koch has a dry wit. I suppose this is required when you spend part of each day with your finger up someones ass. I visit the office. I need to get the full picture before I paint someone. Here are the tools of the trade: the examining table with foot stirrups and trays of instruments of invasive design and jars and tubes of lubricants to facilitate the insertion therof. I can do something with all this. We discuss the painting. He has also commissioned Felixmuller to do a piece--an etching. I tell him how it works. I paint what I see--or what it occurs to me to see. This may not coincide with the image he has of himself. He understands this. Of course. This is what he wants also. I am an artist--in his opinion a great artist. He wants me to like the painting. We discuss the fee. My normal fee for this type of work is 2500 marks. But the show has given me some confidence. I tell him 4500 with 1000 up front that is non-refundable. Fine. I like this man! Lunch with Hermann-Neisse. He wants to write an essay. Karl Kraus is starting a new magazine. Every week three of these magazines begin publication. And every week three of them go down the toilet. They have the life expectancy of a fart. But so be it. I will never discourage an interest in my work. Plus I like Hermann-Neisse. He is a good writer. There will be a few drawings to go with. He insists on the existence of a new movement in the arts and in this I am considered an important figure. There is this theory and that theory and the other theory. The artist works-- the critic babbles. I dont subscribe to any of this garbage. I paint what I see and leave it to the viewer to draw his own conclusions. I have no conclusions. I am interested in one thing: drawing. We chat about this and that. He tells me a good story. The painter is Kokoshka. K as a youth had a love affair with Alma Mahler--married to Gustave Mahler. K was 20. Alma Mahler was 35. This woman was well known as a femme fatale. She certainly had this effect on K. It lasted for a couple years. This was circa 1912. She was also banging an architect--Walter Gropius. Mahler had the good fortune to be dead by this time. Kokoshka knew about Gropius and flew into a jealous rage at regular intervals. At some point Alma Mahler became bored or sufficiently agitated with this behaviour and broke it off. K was devastated. He took it hard. War broke out and he joined an officers cavalry regiment with the intention of dying a glorious death. He nearly got his wish. His unit was dispatched to the Russian front where they got into the thick of it. There was a skirmish that turned into a rout and K was shot in the head--causing him to fall from his horse. He lay on the ground with his eyes open the better to observe a Cossack cautiously approach and plant a bayonet in his chest. K was left for dead. But he didnt die. He lived to hear that Alma Mahler had married Gropius. But this is not the story. The story is this: He is still carrying a torch for Alma Mahler--now pushing 50. K is 35. He has had this doll made. It is a life size doll in the image of Alma Mahler. This is no casual aberration. Its a major project. Its taken a year. There have been drawings upon drawings upon drawings. There have been pages of specs to nail down specific materials for purpses of stuffing and the sheathing of this creation in such a way to most effectively duplicate the sponginess and tactility of human flesh, etc. Also: teeth, hair, lips, eyes, eyelashes, fingernails. Also: breasts, ass, pussy. What is Kokoshkas intention here? It is fucking. And it is no secret. He takes the doll out. He takes it to restaurants, openings, parties. He has also done paintings. I suggest to Meir-Grafe that the result of all this will be to increase Kokoshkas prices. |
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| In the studio. I am painting Hans Koch. He comes by for lunch. He is a good model. I enjoy drawing him. There is something to work with here. The features are rude; they jump out at you. The cheeks are like steak. The lips are juicy. There is a dueling scar. He has the arms of a gorilla--and the fur to go with. There is enough hair here to weave a rug. I draw and we chat. How did he become a doctor? His father was a doctor. Also the grandfather. There was never any doubt about the choice of profession. He likes the work. He meets people and helps them. The big problem is paperwork. Its the scumbag lawyers and the insurance companies and the malpractice suits. He is buried in paperwork. He started out to be a doctor and has become a clerk. We break for lunch. He takes me to Hortchers. This is a place I dine at infrequently. The reason is money. I could live for 2 weeks on what it costs to lunch at this place. I can take these places or leave them. Today I take. The need to self-indulge from time to time is natural enough. We order. Koch suggests the steak. This is amazing meat. You dont get meat like this. It has France written all over it. It is like eating butter. There is wine to go with. We eat and talk. He is political. He was in the war. There was plenty of work for the doctors. His view of the situation is this: we are determined to repeat this conflict. This is certain. It may come in one year, in 2 years, in ten years. The politicians have learned nothing. The French have backed us into a corner. By insisting on these brutal reparations they have reduced us to the status of vagrants. They have enslaved us. They have destroyed our self-respect. This is the issue. Etc, etc I let him ramble on. I am more interested in watching him eat. It is like watching a wild beast devour a kill. In the studio. Koch is here. I am still drawing. I have also done a few watercolors. I have a new light I am using. Koch gave it to me. I love this thing. Its a light used by dermatologists. It features a high intensity bulb developed specifically for clinical work. I am picking up these fabulous tints of green, purple, blue. Human flesh is amazing. I draw away. Felixmuller has finished his etching which I have seen. I have lifted a few things from this work. I draw away. I have drawings, drawings, drawings. Its beginning to happen. Sooner or later it always happens. Martha Koch pays a visit. She examines the drawings. She likes--very much. It doesnt hurt to please the wife. |
| I have heard an amazing story. Hans Koch is banging his sister-in-law! Who told me this? Felixmuller. He was out for a stroll that took him by Hortchers and he perchanced to look in the window and there is Koch at a table with the sister eating the black market steak while holding hands and the expressions on both faces suggested they had been dropped on their heads from a great height. I have not met the sister. She is a child. She is 20. Jesus Christ! Is this interesting? I cant figure it out. Yes I can. Young pussy! In the studio. I am alone. I am painting--the Koch picture. The drawing is done. So far so good. The concept is beginning to reveal itself. I have posed him in the office beside the examining table with foot stirrups. He wears his smock--freshly washed and starched with faded stains suggestive of splattered blood, pus, puke, poop, etc. I have painted the face with my usual pathologic attention to detail: the dueling scars, the bent nose, the fleshy cheeks, the pulpy lips, etc. On the wall an x-ray reveals a disturbing blockage of the ureter draining into the bladder. Koch stands there in his smock with the sleeves rolled up. Here is a hammy fist. In it he grips a vicious looking syringe loaded with a #5 square point needle. This is the right hand. In the left hand pinched between thumb and foregfinger is a piece of rubber tubing leading to an IV set up screwed into a bottle filled with green plasma. He stands there in this agressive way--thrusting forward--and wears a particular expression. What is this expression? Profound enthusiasm for the work. The idea is this: you dont feel well. You cant piss. Who do you visit? Hans Koch. Why? He is Mr Urology--thats why. He delivers the goods. The man is thorough. It wont be easy. It could be brutal. But when it is over you will know. In the studio. I am alone. I am painting the Koch. I am going back and forth with this thing. You have your good and bad days. Today started bad. There was no energy. I couldnt find the rythym. But I kept banging. You must bang, bang, bang. At some point something clicked and I was rolling. I paint away. The music is going full blast. I have a visitor. Martha Koch. She was in the neighborhood and decided to say hello. Is this a problem? It is no problem. We go for lunch. I take her to Cafe Bocklin. I prefer this to the Cafe Grunwald. There are no artists. Also the owner is a friend. He likes my work. I have given him some drawings which he has framed and displayed on the wall. We eat and chat. I enjoy being with this woman. I dont feel the need to impress. I can be myself. The conversation is casual. To myself I have two questions. Does she know Koch is fooling around? And who it is with whom he fools? But I can tell nothing. She seems the same. I learn some things about her. She has studied music. Her grandfather was a concert pianist. She adored this man. He was a true artist. He could do one thing and that only: play the piano. Otherwise he was hopeless. He couldnt cook a meal, pay a bill, replace a light bulb. He couldnt dress himself. He was dressed by the wife. What about her father? The father was never around. He was busy making money. This is a problem I dont have. I suggest a portrait to go with the one I am painting of Koch. The idea appeals to her. I have the feeling she can take it or leave it. This is a rare creature: a genuinely modest person. We talk about painting. Matisse is her favorite. Why? Because he is happy. At least this is the impression she receives from the work. This is true. I have met Mattise. He doesnt sparkle in social sitations. It was like addressing yourself to outer space. He was a million miles away. He is in front of his easel at all times. Well--so be it. At least in his work he produces satisfaction. This is the point. He suffered from the war as we all did but he has chosen to ignore this theme in his paintings. There are no mutilees dangling from flophouse closets strung up by their own (artificial) hand. Its nothing but nudes on oriental rugs with flowers, flowers, flowers, and still lifes of food and children playing the violin. Food, pussy, music. What else is there? |
| *for previous installments and an intro to the book go to archives/dix |
| next month: martha |
dr hans koch
by otto dix
by otto dix
| *installment six: painting hans |
| self-portrait with doll by oskar kokoschka |
odalisque in chair
by henri matisse
by henri matisse
self portrait
richard gerstle
richard gerstle
max hermann-neisse
by ludwig meidner
by ludwig meidner