| The Dix book begins with an authors note-- meaning me—to remind the reader that: although Otto Dix himself as a person was real enough the book is a novel, a work of fiction and there are no diaries of Otto Dix to ever exist. This authors note precedes another note—the translators note, the fake translator for a fake diary (Robert Hardy, from Buffalo where else) who serves to fill the reader in about the diaries and how they were discovered—moldering away in the attic of a cousin years after the war and no one even knew they existed. He adds a few more words, a short intro about Dix and his times and then its on with the book. I mention all this—and hope you are following it—because it’s the authors preface and the fake translators fake note/intro following that that is my favorite part of the book. |
| Authors note This is a work of fiction. Otto Dix was a real person. But there are no diaries of Otto Dix. I am not a historian. I am not an expert on Nazi Germany. I dont speak German and have never visited Germany. Many of the incidents recalled in this book did occur. But not always in the manner--or at the times--described. The same is true of the people. I have mostly used the names of real people--friends and family of Otto Dix, fellow painters and other colleagues and certain historical figures. But the behavior of these people--including Otto Dix--has been manipulated by the writer in arbitrary ways-- large, small and otherwise. Some of it is true, some isnt, the rest falls in between. Its all been done for one reason which is to serve the purpose of the writer. What is the purpose of the writer? To keep the reader reading. Why have I chosen Otto Dix to write about? There are 3 reasons: I like his paintings, he was an interesting man who led a full life, and he observed at first hand a tragic but fascinating period of history. Irony is not a word normally applied to the Third Reich but ironies there were and in this Otto Dix provides some choice examples. To repeat: the character of Otto Dix as he appears in this book possibly bears little resemblance to the man as he actually was. Any reader wishing to form a more independent opinion is advised to look at the paintings. Its all in the paintings. jack spiegelman Translators note The diaries of Otto Dix are incomplete. They cover the period 1922-1945. Even within this period there are substantial gaps of months and years in which no activities are accounted for. Dix either failed to record any entries at these times or the material has simply vanished. The turmoil and chaos of the war must certainly account for the disappearance or destruction of some of this material. I have taken the liberty of providing some fill— historical, cultural, autobiographical-- to somewhat restore the thread of the narrative. We are fortunate to have these diaries even in the fragmented state that survives. Dix was a major figure during the period of the Weimar Republic--a period that witnessed a tremendous creative explosion in the arts. There is an Otto Dix that reveals himself via the paintings and there is another Otto Dix revealed by the diaries. They are the same man--there is no confusion about this. But the diaries do serve to provide a view thru a different sort of lens--in some ways more penetrating and intimate. The diaries were discovered among the artists papers following his death. Martha Dix herself was unaware this material existed. When the Otto Dix foundation was established--in Vaduz, Germany in 1974--the diaries were excluded from the collection. They remained private property. Martha Dix died in 1978. The estate was handed down to the Dix children--Nelly and Harald Dix. We are grateful for permission to publish. As a writer Otto Dix displays a meticulous and scrupulous attention to detail--qualities that figure prominently in his painting. Also there is a chopped, punchy tone to the style. They are chatty and riddled with slang. They are a great pleasure to read. But they have presented some problems in the way of translation. I found myself obliged to do some improvising here. The diaries have been written one way and I have translated them another way. The translation is also riddled with slang. My concern was to capture the freshness and spirit of the writing. This frequently occurred at the expense of the German tongue. I dont know what Otto Dix would think of this translation. But he was a man of keen intelligence and a sense of humor to go with and it is in this spirit I have tried to render the work. Robert Hardy Buffalo, New York 1997 Introduction Otto Dix was born in 1895 in Leipzig, Germany. He was the second of 4 children. His father Hermann Dix was a foundry worker. His mother was a school teacher. Dix demonstrated a gift for drawing at an early age and following the completion of secondary education received a scholarship to study at the Fine Arts Academy in Dresden. He was 19 when World War 1 broke out. He had already begun to acquire a reputation as an artist and had several group shows. Dix enlisted in the army and was assigned to an artillery battalion. He spent the next 4 years on the front lines. He fought in France and also on the Russian front. He was gassed and twice wounded. He finished the war as a sergeant. Following the war Dix resumed his studies. He returned to Dresden. In 1922 he received a small grant to continue his studies and do some assistant teaching. The diaries begin at this point. |
| in the studio I have hired a model. I must have my own model. I need the intensity. I am using Sally. I have drawn her in class. Sally is a dish. I like a woman with big tits. Plus she has energy. She likes the work. Some of these women pose like they are on drugs. Its the same with modeling like anything else. The word is enthusiasm. There is a dynamic to the painter/model relationship. Its a collaborative effort. Some models understand this. We work for 40 minutes and take a break. I make tea. We drink tea and chat. She is a sweet thing. She has a good heart. She asks how I became a painter. I was always a painter. I could draw before I could read. Back to work. So far its not happening. I try this, that and the other. I whack out a few things that are not bad. I am not looking for not bad. Later I will sketch from the sketches. This sometimes produces results. Sooner or later it always happens. You need patience to be an artist. In the studio I putter doing this and that. I stretch some canvas, mix up size, add ground to the size, prepare medium and so forth. I tidy up. I like a neat studio. The chaos should occur on the canvas. I enjoy these little mindless chores. They serve to warm me up and postpone the agony of painting. Painting is agony. It can be exhilirating, energizing, ecstatic, etc. Then you look at it the next day and it is shit, shit, shit. Sally arrives. We get started. I am not happy with the pose. I pose her on her side, on her back, on her belly, I stand her up against the wall, bent over, straddling a chair backwards, etc. The chair pose isnt bad but it eliminates the breasts. I must paint those breasts. I plug along. I play some music--american jazz. I love this music. It gets the juices flowing. I can only paint with music. Now I am rolling. As the musicians say--I am in the pocket. I slash away in a fury. I love this part of the work. There is no thinking--it is mindless.There are no mistakes. Even the mistakes look good. You just draw. I draw, draw, draw. The charcoal is flying. I bang out a dozen sketches. I get one or two I like. We take a break. I make tea. We drink tea and chat. Her girlfriend is having problems. What are these problems? Men problems. The girlfriend is also a model. She is going out with a painter. I say: never get involved with an artist. Back to work. I have some new paper I want to try. Its heavy with a high rag content. With it I will use extra soft vine charcoal . I begin. I draw and wipe out, draw and wipe out, draw and wipe out. Everything goes on the one piece of paper. The results can be interesting. An energy is produced in this way. Each sketch in some way evolves or is driven by the image that has preceded it. The erased images remain present as ghost images. Its called the ghost technique. I was taught this technique by a former professor. He would sometimes spend a month on a single drawing in this way. He would work himself into a state of such fury he would grind holes thru the paper. I continue. I draw and wipe out, draw and wipe out, draw and wipe out. Once the drawing begins to happen you switch to a pencil with a harder lead and work in a little detail. I draw and erase and draw and erase. Its starting to happen. There is some energy. I slash away. I go back and forth from the soft stick to the hard pencil. I slash away. The charcoal is flying. I love this paper! I work in some heavier darks. I smudge and smear with my fingers and apply the eraser to lift off and establish highlights. I need heavier darks. I squeeze black paint out of a tube and apply with my thumb. I add a little turps. Black is the greatest color. Beckmann also says this. I step back for a look. Not bad. I turn my back to the drawing and view it thru a small hand mirror. This provides a reverse view of the drawing that serves to identify--we know not why--discrepancies in the composition and clarify the behaviour of values. Or you can turn the drawing on its side. Back to work. I slash away. I am enjoying this. Tomorrow it will be shit. This I know. But for now I am happy. |
| the diaries of otto dix reflections on sex, painting and nazi germany jack spiegelman |
| NEXT MONTH: AT THE CAFE |
the diaries of otto dix
| It was in 1994 that my business breathed its last. Business was bad, had been bad for some time, I was 54 and the enthusiasm required to reverse this situation was nowhere to be found. The time had come to make a tough call. So I made the call. I packed it in. I sold my tools and equipment and what I didn’t sell I gave to Armando my main guy. We had a last lunch at Dianas—the tortilla queen of Carson— and Mando said: what will you do now, boss? He called me boss. I always liked that. I said: I have no idea. My philosophy is: when in doubt—play golf. So I played golf, painted and did something else. I began to write. I hadnt written for years and never thought I would return to it but now , waiting for some brilliant insight to occur job- wise, I had all this time on my hands and I said to myself—why not? I started off with some short pieces— essay/story type pieces—operating on the theory that if the writing sucked I wouldnt have wasted too much time. But the writing didn’t suck. It went well. It went so well I stopped playing golf. I just wrote. I wrote, wrote, wrote. In 3 years I wrote three books—a collection of the short essay/story type pieces, a novel about Buffalo and the Otto Dix book. It was amazing. In the old days I put too much pressure on myself. I would sit down to write and it was like pulling teeth. But now was different. It just came out—like a bowel movement. And I knew why. Because I was 55 and over the years all this material had been feeding itself into the writing part of the brain and there to percolate until that moment arrived for it all to be gathered together and to set down as words on paper and now was that moment. |