All the Victoria & Albert Museum. Well, all the mediæval stuff. That I could find. Plus some renaissance stuff, and a couple of other nice pieces. Masses of art from a Sunday afternoon with the awesome Jennifer Evans for company. Shared hangover also. In the sun in the courtyard garden. Romping the halls and galleries.
I saw: half of Level 0; less than a third of Level 1; a bit under half of Level 2; not much more than a quarter of Level 3; nothing of Levels 4 and 5; dunno if Level 6 even exists. All that in five hours until I got kicked out. I get booted from museums at closing time like most people get booted from bars, pubs, and clubs.
I missed: The brilliant Würzburg St. Maurice wooden statue because … I dunno. Was the room closed? Did I think there was nothing in the next room? Like many museums, incompleteness is a reason to return, to the city and the museum.
Best thing: It’s free! Blimey! So was the National Gallery. What kind of witchcraft is that where museums are free? Other best thing: It’s organised by material as well as chronologically. Which is frankly awesome. Another best thing: It was packed. And I mean packed. They must get millions of visitors a year. Yay, art! (Good estimate based on a single day, Frances: 3.5 million in 2015.)
How many photos did you take, Frances? A shade over 300, including captions. And how many have you blogged? This is the bit that always embarrasses me when I’ve finished editing them all: 111. The number’s kinda like an objective remark on my tendency towards excessive fun. I mean it’s not like I’m banging heroin anymore, is it? Museums it is, then.
Speaking of massive altarpieces, here we go. Level 1 of Victoria & Albert Museum, the ground floor entrance, lofty, airy ceilings and art stretching up to them. It’s a bit like the Bode Museum for scale of art and architecture. Unlike the Bode, it’s packed. People are promenading like it’s life’s greatest accomplishment to wander around mediæval art. Which it is.
I’m first taken by The Troyes Altarpiece. We’re getting into very Late Mediæval / Early Renaissance here, and it’s not the most virtuoso altarpiece I’ve seen, it’s in limestone so the finesse possible in wood isn’t here, but it has a solidity and depth, like exaggerated perspective between the foreground and background figures. It’s not even especially large compared to The Brixen Altarpiece, which is so huge it’s impossible to look up at without seeing converging lines. Because photographs turn everything, no matter how big or small, into objects of the same dimension and all scale is lost, my head is about level with the heads of the four saints in the predella of The Brixen Altarpiece.
There were also several works I couldn’t or didn’t photograph, either because they were under glass, or I was too hasty. The Brixen Altarpiece was only one of many similarly gigantic altarpieces; The St Margaret Altarpiece was another. An especially fine Northern Germanic piece of a saint I rarely see, and certainly never with her life and torture so disturbingly depicted. This was made around the same time as The Brixen Altarpiece, yet shows the style that continued to develop north of the Alps, distinct from the Renaissance in Italy.
And then there’s Andrea della Robbia’s The Adoration of the Kings, also around the same time and from Italy, in tin-glazed terracotta, and very much committed to Renaissance and even anticipating the Baroque. I think this is one of the V&A’s more famous pieces, and it’s gorgeous in real life. It exemplifies the character of the V&A collections. They’re concerned with materiality; the works on display emphasise the diversity of choice of materials, of techniques, of aesthetics, making the museum as much a place of science and technology as art.
Last piece in these rooms, Perino del Vaga’s The Raising of Lazarus I mention because I realised I’m attracted to works like this fresco, or some of the preparatory sketches or unfinished works (I’m thinking of Pieter Brueghel’s De Aanbiddung der Wijzen here) where there’s a softness and visible exploratory process.
From there, I went into the Cast Courts, where I knew I had no hope; the V&A had been playing with me up to then. It wasn’t quite Louvre scale of tiny people in epic architecture, but for sure reminded me of it. So I got lost trying to find the sculpture corridors, completely missed the St. Mauritius sculpture in the last room (I still have no idea if I was inattentive or if it wasn’t open), turned around, got lost in acres of the Asian collection (Persian miniatures are my thing and I almost put the brakes on the rest of my mediævaling for this and the Islamic collection), found the Raphael rooms—he’s really not my thing, I think people like him because they confuse their fascination with a kind of seductive, transfixing blandness for the sublime, a lot like how people do over the Mona Lisa—the altarpiece was impressive the way the megalith is in 2001—also not Raphael but the ‘Master of the Centenar’ (possible German painter Andrès Marçal de Sas)—sometimes I wish museums put multi-level viewing platforms (with binoculars) in front of these towering pieces, but that’s just because I love smearing my nose right up against the art. Then I’m off up the stairs to Levels 2 and 3.
Enter via the Tube. Any city where you get off the subway and there’s a direct entrance into a museum is a proper city. The Victoria & Albert Museum, or V&A was on my, ‘probably worth a quick perv’ list, but I had no idea what I was in for. Six massive floors of art, pilfered from around the world? Oh, yes! I turned up on a very sunny Sunday with Jenn, both squinting with a bit of a hangover. She works in the British Library, in the Asian and African Reading Rooms, full of stuff from the Dunhuang Buddhist caves — something for my next visit to London. We spent at least an hour not budging from the lawn of the courtyard before going down into mediæval land.
The rooms of the Medieval & Renaissance 300 – 1500 collection is quietly spectacular. What distinguishes V&A from other museums I’ve visited is how they understand the inseparable history of art and design. In Berlin’s Staatliche Museen you get paintings in the Gemäldegalerie, sculpture in Bode Museum, and arbitrary divisions putting a bunch of pieces that are too 3-dimensional to be painting but not enough to be sculpture in one or the other. By looking at the materiality of the works (and I’m thinking of Caroline Walker Bynum’s Christian Materiality: An Essay on Religion in Late Medieval Europe here) there’s not such a need to force arbitrary categories (though I’m aware the National Gallery is also full of altarpieces as paintings), and we get works in ivory, metal, wood, glass, stone, and any combination of these that seemed appropriate to the artist. Further, there’s a seamless flow from Early to High Middle Ages, where frequently I see Early split off into more archæological contexts, and High as art proper.
Many of the early works — from around 400 to 1100 — are small pieces in walrus ivory, with stone becoming more prevalent in the 1100s, and highly competent techniques in all materials developing in the following couple of hundred years. One of my favourite shifts happens with International Gothic, where the flat, verticality of bodies suddenly burst into movement, things flourish and flow everywhere as if caught in a fresh breeze, and the public begins to appear in the picture: individuals, groups, crowds arrive to fill the vision and comment on the main action. And I can’t choose between this or the styles they supersede. Or rather seem to swing between. When I look at The Deposition from the Cross (image 3) or Fragment from a Deposition (image 9), both from the mid-late-1100s, and compare them with The Symmachi Panel (image 1), Front Cover of the Lorsch Gospels (image 2), and Panel with the Adoration of the Kings (image 15) from 400, 800, and early-mid-1100 respectively, all from variously Germany, England, Italy, Spain, I see a shifting back and forth between ideas of representation that don’t strictly propose progressive development or evolution — at least maybe until the Late Middle Ages.
I mention those pieces also because I find them beautiful and even strange, like the popping eyes of Panel with the Adoration of the Kings, or the intricate opulence of the Tabernacle (images 4-8), which looks like it should unfurl with mechanical glory. One of my favourites is the small Portable Altarpiece (images 27 and 28) by the Master of the Louis XII Triptych, in painted enamel on copper, which the V&A describe at length. My photos are more faithful to the original, but still don’t do service to the sublime colours, shadows, movement. I also love the Tapestry (images 29-31), because it depicts a woman “in fashionable dress undertaking a spiritual journey … she finally enters a convent” and I imagine it’s the story of Hildegard of Bingen or Mechthild of Magdeburg. As well, it’s an entire work of art devoted to a woman’s life and story, which is something I love mediæval art for.
Master Bertram’s Triptych with Scenes from the Apocalypse (images 32-37) is frankly scary bonkers. The V&A have an excellent article on the decision whether to clean the altarpiece — in fact their entire journal archive is worth losing a week or two in. I’m not sure why Jesus has a green-black face, but that’s what he has. There’s so much to see in this triptych, it’s worth opening the images and scrolling around their vastness.
As usual there were plenty of pieces I didn’t or couldn’t photograph (even really good lighting and presentation doesn’t mean a photographable work will result), plus this was only one half of one floor and I had no idea how overwhelmed I was going to get. Up the stairs and into Level 1 for more mediæval awesomeness.
@medievalpoc said, “This has gotta be in the top ten ugliest arts I’ve ever seen and I love it.” Robert and I thought it was pretty freaky also. When we visited the Grassi Museum für Angewandte Kunst last Thursday it was unchallenged as the most wtf? of anything we saw. It’s deeply entrancing with its sheer strangeness.
So, with all the attention Der Kaminbehang got, I started to poke a little deeper. Turns out the Grassmuseum appreciates its weirdness, devoting an entire Digital Kinderkatalog (digital children’s catalogue) to the work. I can totally see kids going bonkers over it.
I’m not sure the Kaminbehang.pdf answers all questions being asked, but anyway, I slapped up a quick and rough translation. I also did a number on the text above each figure. I think it’s in Frühneuhochdeutsch, but there’s some words that are either Süddeutsch, imports from other Germanic languages, or possibly (in the case of the Roma figure) not German at all.
A couple of notes: These translations are on the literal side, not trying to dress them up beyond getting the meaning across. For the Kaminbehang, all characters are in uppercase, which can lend vastly different translations based on whether a word is noun or verb (e.g. herkommen/Herkommen). I presume this would be easier to differentiate for a German speaker, but even Robert had trouble teasing out the meaning. Words are separated with small stars. But not always. There are no umlauts, ‘V’ is used for ‘U’; ‘I’ is used for both ‘I’ and ‘J’ and sometimes ‘L’; some of the letters are so worn it took a while to work out what was what; there are both standard-ish Early New High German spellings (from what I can tell — not my thing at all), plus variations that seem according to how much space there was. I’m giving the original text (as close as I could work it out) plus a flat translation to English. I also did a translation to Standard German, but not including it.
First, the text above each figure, in original Frühneuhochdeutsch followed by my (literal) English translation:
Der weise Mor bin ich vorogen
alle ins Vien bin ich durch Zogen
mit meinem Pfeile und Bogen in meiner Hant
The white Moor I am before others’ eyes
all in my veins can I be seen through to
with my arrow and bow in my hand
So bin ich der Unger geant 1571
an meiner Kleidung wol bekant
durch deutsch und welsch Lant
So am I the Hungarian named 1571 (date of manufacture)
by my clothing well-known
through German and foreign lands
So bin ich der Zegeuner vor Hant
den deutschen nihi bkat als voe Jaren
da sie an uns kein Gelt deten sparenn
So am I the Gypsy before hand
the Germans are not generous as years before
since they no longer spare money on us
Ein Welscher bin ich bei zimlichen Jaren
und bin von Welschen genomenn
trag Kleidung nach unserm Herkomen
A Welsh am I for quite a few years
and am from foreign lands come
I wear clothing according to our tradition
So bin ich von schwartzen More genom
kein Kleidung drag ich in meinem Lant
von der sonnen Hitz die mich vorbrant
So am I known as the black Moor
no clothes do I wear in my country
from the sun’s heat am I burnt
Ich bin Frantzose wol bekant
meinem Herrn dem diene ich
bei meiner Kleidung bleibe ich
I am French, well known
my Lord do I serve
by remaining in my apparel
Einen langen Spies fur ich vor mich
ein Schweitzer und trever Helt
meine Kleidung mir also wol gefelt
A long spear for me before myself
a Swiss and loyal hero
my clothing pleases me indeed
So bin ich der Turck gezelt
kombt ein Christen meine Hant
er mus mir lasen ein teur speant
So am I the Turk tented (i.e. enveloped in a tent-like cloak)
a Christian comes to my hand
to leave he must make an expensive donation
So bin ich der hohe Deutsche genan
aller Nation Kleidung gefelt mir wol
weis doch nicht wie ich machen sol
mir doch ein bas dan die ander gefelt
damit ich ein Ansehen hab als ein Helt
so will ich hin zum Werckman gan
und im die Sache selber zeigen an
So am I the High German named
all nations’ clothing pleases me greatly
but I have no idea how I should wear them
first one then another enjoyed
thus I have the reputation of a hero
I will go to the artisan
and in these items display myself
And then the text from the Kaminbehang.pdf. This is intended for children or school groups, not sure what age range, but presuming pre-teens. It includes each of the figures, but their text does not correspond entirely or at all to the actual text on the Kaminbehang. It does provide additional information to its history, as well as elaborating on the figures, for example describing the first figure as Albino. I’ve also translated the figures’ nationalities or ethic groups literally. Some, like Moor or Gypsy or Turk are pejorative, either within their use context here or generally. German — the language as well as the thinking, people, country — still has ‘issues’ with both words used as well as concepts behind them. Let’s just say it’s late-’70s here.
The fireplace hanging
The fireplace curtain on display probably originates from southern Germany and was manufactured in 1571. It is 40cm high and 284cm wide. Previously it was used to decorate a fireplace in summer, when it was too warm for heating. It belonged to the old art collection of the Leipzig Town Hall (Leipziger Rathaus), the so-called Leipzig Council Treasure (Leipziger Ratsschatz). This work of art which we will look at in more detail together dates back to the Renaissance era.
It is meticulously made of precious materials such as silk, velvet and linen. Gilded metal wires along with real gold and silver thread were also used in the process. The figures’ weapons are comprised of metal or carved from wood.
It consists of nine alternating yellow, white, and black fields, on each of which a male figure is identifiable. The embroidered figures were stuffed with linen and paper, and are semi-sculptural in shape — that is, they lie like bisected puppets on the cloth.
Shown are different nations in their country’s traditional clothing. As early as the 16th century, people in Germany were interested in knowing how other peoples lived. In addition the artist was making fun of the vanity of the people of the time.
What is important is:
The individual figures are representations of how foreign peoples and cultures were imagined in the 16th century.
The European peoples are depicted as very rich and progressive; the Africans however, as a wild and impoverished people.
Today we are fortunate to know much more about other nations and the similarities or differences between our lives. Have you ever thought about this?
The White Moor
“Although I am an African, I have a fair complexion. They call me Albino. Not only in the 16th century were there often people like me on the west coast of Africa. I am depicted half-naked, like a wild hunter, clothed only with a hat and loincloth. In my left hand I carry a bow, and in the right an arrow.
“My clothes are a long, colourful coat, a scarf around my neck, white trousers and short boots. In my hand I have a war hammer.”
”I wear a pointed cap, a striped cloak, short trousers, and shoes. With my hands I open my cloak a little — can you see my naked belly?”
“I prefer to dress myself very elegantly — according to the latest fashion, all in black with a flat hat and long hose. To this attire also belongs a long dagger, which I hold in my hand.”
The Black Moor
“I am also an African and on my naked body wear nothing but armlets and a torc. In my hands I have two arrows. The white blemishes do not mean I am wearing a leopard skin, rather the black fabric is worn out in these places. Now the light linen base shines through.”
”Like the Italian, I am very fashionably dressed. On my head sits a beret. In addition, I wear a ruffle at my neck, slit trousers, and dainty shoes. My bright hose are especially striking. My left hand rests on the hilt of a sword.”
“With a long, forked beard, I have been depicted in the colourful garb of a mercenary. This includes a beret, doublet, funny knickerbockers, decorated hose, and elegant flat shoes. Sword, dagger, and a long spear are my weapons.”
“I wear a moustache and a cap, a wide collar over my coat, long hose and ankle boots. In my left hand I hold a small, naked baby by one leg. The scimitar is my weapon.”
“I am still naked, but over one arm I carry many items of colourful clothing. But for which of the different fashions should I decide upon? Best for me to go to a tailor and avail myself of him for advice. After all, I will not get warm by looking at the clothing!”
These days, Dasniya calls me mid-week:
“Hey, D! Where are you?”
“Berlin! I just got back from [place]”
“Excellent! You here this weekend?”
“Nah, I’m off tomorrow morning to [other place].”
And repeat next week.
Last week she was in Mainz, this week Helsinki. Right now, yes! For the Helsinki Shibari Festival, where she’s teaching a rope/shibari/bondage workshop this weekend. In Helsinki? Go. It’s called Wellness to Torture. How could anyone not want to go to a workshop called that? Also another one called Japanese Dreams, where she goes into butoh and bondage.
In Berlin, not in Helsinki? Her Tuesday morning workshops are running all October. And she was in Oliver Riehs’ new comedy Der Affenkönig, on at CineStar Kulturbrauerei from next week.
The Last Days of New Paris begins with this epigraph, and continues, “In other words, ‘What does papa say I may think and feel about this?’” a quote from surrealist artist Grace Pailthorpe in On the Importance of Fantasy Life. Pailthorpe doesn’t get a page on Wikipedia, or for that matter much mention anywhere, not unusual for a woman. I don’t think this is the specific or entire point China Miéville is trying to make, his tendency over the decade I’ve been reading him has been towards minor figures — minor in the Deleuze and Guattari sense of the word. I’m not sure either he uses this epigraph as confrontation, though my response, “You tell me. You tell me what my reaction to surrealist art should be if not this most pathetic of all.” is obviously that.
I’m not a fan of surrealism. Without categorising all the European art movements of the last millennium, I would say it’s around my least favourite. When I think of surrealism, I think of a bunch of male wankers engaged in a circle-jerk about how ‘radical’ and ‘edgy’ they are while all onlookers see is bros taking up space, completely and uncritically committed to the most narrow and unimaginative of political, artistic, social, and philosophical positions. So when a surrealist says “What am I supposed to see and feel from this?” is pathetic and follows that up with some ad hominem Freudianism, I feel we’re not getting off to a good start for Miéville’s latest novel.
I’ve read part-way in, and getting all presumptuous here, it’s something of a sequel or same-universe-y to his story, The Tain (in 2005’s Looking for Jake), and digging into the same aesthetic bits as 2009’s The City & the City, and 2011’s Embassytown. The latter two I thought were proper good. Not easy reads either. The Tain though, I was ambivalent about, more on the ‘no’ than ‘yes’. So far with The Last Days of New Paris I’m feeling the same.
It doesn’t help that I’ve just come off reading one of the finest works in history (which I haven’t yet blogged because it’s so profoundly good I don’t know where to begin except with hyperbole), plus The Sea Is Ours, plus Jo Walton’s Necessity, so I’ve been existing in this rarified state of sublime reading. And Miéville is capable of doing that to me: Un Lun Dun, the two above, Kraken, Railsea, he’s been solidly reliable in filling my Book of the Year coffers.
And yet. He also somewhat regularly throws out works I don’t care for. I’m confronted with this surrealist tale and an epigraph that demands a response yet gaslights the very question most valid. What am I supposed to see and feel? Because whatever surrealism was doing it was not without context. If I was my Turkish Muslim grandmother in post-war colonial South Africa, a valid question would be this one I’m ‘not allowed’ to ask. And of the many art movements of the early 20th century, I don’t recall surrealism providing much in the way of answers to these. Filing surrealism along with Psychoanalysis, Marxism, dialectics of the Hegelian (or Marxist) kind, and a swathe of European thinking that has been banging its face into a cul-de-sac since Kant, binning the lot, moving on. Probably not the imagined response to that epigraphic statement, or the novel.
It’s a limit for me with Miéville, a limit for himself as well. He’s a Marxist, or rather Socialist of the radical, International type. I’m a fuck-knows-what who wishes just for once the Left could speak without first filtering the universe through Marx’ beard. More than the fact I think Marx was wrong, I resist the hegemonising desire of others to frame my world through (nominally his) Marxist reductionism, just as I resist feminism and queer’s own colonialism of my self. It’s strange to be talking about a work of fiction like this — admittedly I read (and watch) fiction precisely for this kind of entertainment — though I think Miéville positions himself with the expectation of this. I don’t find it possible to read, say, his most recent novella, This Census-Taker without considering fairly hefty issues of political representation, human rights, violence; it’s intrinsic to his writing, just as Iain M. Banks’ Culture is a manifesto for a liveable world. When Miéville asks that question, even if it’s deferred through the words of another, he’s bringing all this to the conversation.
It could be I’m just not in the mood for him right now, coming off this run of fiction that I’ve devoured like a meal at the breaking of famine. It could also be this run is where I find myself, see myself. Representation. Context. What I need in art. What I find in Miéville sometimes when he ventures far from his defaults, defaults to my mind which sit fairly predictably in hetero male writer land (whether or not he is), defaults I’ve found he’s returned to more or less since Embassytown, so I read him out of fondness for the past, out of loyalty to a writer who can be transcendentally fucking brilliant, but not currently out of much love for the book in hand.
I was rewriting my biography last week, amazing how many hours can be spent on 240 words. I realised that it’s been a while since Central Asia, specifically Afghanistan, has been one of the foci of my studies. China’s still there, mediæval northern European / germanic history has sprung from nowhere to rout swathes of interests, as has Islamic history.
A big one right there, “Islamic History”. What does that even mean? Well, my interests in China did and do have a component that’s concerned with the borders, not China proper, occupied China, whatever we might agree in the future is the term for Tibet, Xinjiang, even the provinces like Guangdong and others, which could be regarded as discrete countries, and in that Islam plays a role, either in Xinjiang as the eastern-most region of Central Asia, or in Guangdong as the port on trade routes that saw significant Muslim presence. Then there’s my Central Asian / Afghanistan interest, obviously Islamic (as well as Buddhist and others), which in the past few years has slid more consciously over into an interest in Iran, thanks in no small amount to Najmabadi. And then there’s whatever is in Berlin, which reaches out to Germany, and across Europe. A history of any of these is inextricable from a history of people who also happened to be Muslim, whether immigrants, descendants of immigrants, or locals (not sure how long you have to be a descendant for before you’re a local; that’s the conversation we’re having right now).
So I’m vaguely defining my current interests and studies as Northern European & Germanic mediæval, Islamic, and Chinese history, with an emphasis on women’s roles and representation. Which sounds like a whole tanker of “What the Fuck?” but if there’s one thing I do even if I don’t consciously trust my doing, it’s have seemingly wildly divergent interests that are in actual fact deeply intertwined. (And yes, my love of hoonage is not incommensurable with this.) And it’s people like Najmabadi and books like Islamicate Sexualities that help me understand this.
And what a book. If the quality of a book can be measured by the number of works mentioned which go onto my Must Buy! Ned Cash 4 Bookz list, this one will bankrupt me.
I was watching the première of Pitch on the weekend. It’s a Fox TV series about a young black woman who becomes the first woman to play for a Major League baseball team; a serious drama marketing campaign equivalent of the “You Never Lamb Alone” ad (“What’s the best thing about diversity? Everything!”). I have zero interest in baseball, but there I was watching it when for a split second the camera cuts to close-up pan the grandstands and it’s totally “What’s the best thing about diversity? Everything!” cos there’s a woman standing wearing a long white hijab in a crowd that’s multicultural as fuck. I don’t know if this is representative of an average baseball crowd, my feeling (informed only by unintentional slopping around the edges of US sports culture) is that American baseball has one of the whiter sports audiences, not NASCAR, but over that end of the spectrum. What that image is about is desire — even if it’s primarily driven by marketing and money. In combination with casting a black woman as a rookie Major League player, it says, “We see you and we want you here.” And again, even if this is cravenly driven by money, we see ourselves in this and once we are visible, we can decide how to interpret our image. And if we don’t see ourselves, we’re nothing.
And how, Frances, does this relate to Islamicate Sexualities? Same weekend, watching the second episode of High Maintenance where the first story is about a young South Asian student living in Brooklyn with her religious aunt and uncle, negotiating that while wanting to get blazed on the roof. The first essay, also the introduction goes between Orientalism, homo-nationalism, queer colonialism, mediæval history, post-colonial theory, to sketch out a broad proposal for how we might talk about sexualities, and by extension identities, for people living in and coming from Islamicate regions, cultures, and/or backgrounds. And talking about ourselves, not being talked about.
Somewhere recently I said I was only interested in reading works coming from this perspective, that the issues and questions around desire, identity, self and community would only find partial, incomplete answers in feminism/queer/whatever we’re currently calling it that was located within an Anglo-Euro-American (throw in Australasian) historical frame of reference, a reference that’s inherently white. Or to put it another way, we’re not going to find an answer to colonialism from colonialists. This is something I think has become unambiguous from living in Europe and Germany, where not only is there an unwillingness to regard immigrants of how ever many generations distant as ‘German’, we’re not even at the point of admitting this a fundamental problem. My reading of works like Katherine Pratt Ewing’s Stolen Honor: Stigmatizing Muslim Men in Berlin, and Ruth Mandel’s Cosmopolitan Anxieties: Turkish Challenges to Citizenship and Belonging in Germany played a big part in beginning to understand this and formulate my thinking, as did more recently Seyla Benhabib’s The Rights of Others: Aliens, Residents, and Citizens. I’m reading writers like these substantially because they’re the only ones prepared to address these issues.
Islamicate Sexualities was published in 2008, emerging from a seminar held in 2003. That’s a generation, a lifetime ago, the seminar a few months older than 4Chan; the book barely younger than tumblr. Yeah, I’m talking about 4Chan and tumblr. If you want to understand how transgender/transsexual/trans people (I mean trans women here) and identities came over the last few years (call it a decade) to where they are now, places like these (along with LiveJournal, and probably MySpace, but that’s all been lost) are critical. And how fast this is moving means a book like this is going to miss a huge part of the conversation as much as it retroactively informs and predicts. (And as for why our part of the conversation is only recently tipped the queer/cool meter, that’s the history of Anglo-Euro-American feminism/queer right there.) I’ve barely read the first part, so I’m not pre-emptively criticising it here, just pointing out its age, how things have changed in eight years, and what that might mean for a prospective reader.
I think I’ve been more than six times to the Gemäldegalerie, but a couple of those visits were without camera – though with friend! So we all don’t get lost, here they all are, along with 300 or more photos:
Saturday. Magdeburg, after the quite incredible Dom zu Magdeburg St. Mauritius und Katharina, about 3pm, so I could have spent more time in the church before wandering up to the Kulturhistorisches Museum Magdeburg about a block westwards. I didn’t, expecting proliferation in the latter, especially after the excess of the former. Somewhat disappointed then. It wasn’t the unbelievable overabundance of Musée des Beaux-Arts de Valenciennes with its acres of Rubens. It was kinda average, to be frank (hawhaw) (the Museum für Naturkunde in the same building was by far the better of the two, I just wasn’t there for that stuff).
I was expecting medæval art. Probably because I interpreted Kulturhistorisches as Kunsthistorisches, wishful thinking or something. Possibly also because some of the rooms containing this stuff were either closed or empty. Who knows? Museums can be really crap at communicating, particularly when it comes to the not so cool collections. Blahblah context, etc.
It did get off to a good start with the Tiroler Weihnachtskrippe, a joyous diorama of a town with fancy houses, sheep and farmers, porticos and mad baroque architecture, and omg! it’s Joseph and Mary in a crappy lean-to and a bunch of angels and everyone’s lining up to I dunno, give them a goat or something (complete aside here, why does Joseph never figure in mediæval (or otherwise) Christian religious imagery the way Mary does? Besides the Nativity Scene / Heiligen drei Könige, he doesn’t figure at all, and even there he’s all awkward in the background), and there’s Balthazar looking his usual young and innocent self, in a much-embroidered light maroon tunic and golden jacket showing plenty of torso, and a turban with golden ornaments. He looks a bit lost and on his own, but one of the quintet of angels is keeping him company. It’s all rather sweet in that late-Baroque / Rococo way.
A few notes: it came from Ursulinenkloster Innsbruck, transferred to Posthalterhaus in Schönberg bei Innsbruck before arriving in the Kaiser-Friedrich Museum in 1908. It was restored by the Fachochschule Erfurt between 2007 and 2011. The museum describes it as a perfect example of nativity scenes in the 17th and 18th centuries created in Tirol, and contains 68 figures 8-30cm in height and 28 animals. Plus a score of houses and buildings, and carefully placed mirrors at the ends of the porticos making it look much larger than it is—and it’s the size of a small room.
Next to that is the life-size Der Magdeburger Ritter from Magdeburg in the 13th century Gothic stone sculpture style. It probably depicts Otto the Great (the Holy Roman Emperor Otto I), with two unknown women bearing his shield and banner (I’ll pretend they are the sisters Eagdyth and Eadgifu). As with the Saints Mauritius and Katharina sculptures, its creation dates from 1240-50, concurrent with when Mechtild of Magdeburg resided in the city, and the place was pretty much the centre of mediæval Germanic awesomeness. It still has the stiff, narrow, vertical and symmetrical aesthetic of early Gothic art, but there’s already some movement, naturalism, and asymmetry entering, particularly in the two women.
Off into the Magdeburg – Die Geschichte der Stadt collection. I really was expecting to see more of St. Maurice. Besides Gepanzerte Krieger (the bronze lower-left panel of a door wing) of which the caption says, “Die Mittelfigur nimmt Bezug auf den Hl. Mauritius, der den Märtyrertod erlitt, weil er es ablehnte, Christen zu verfolgen und den Kaiser als gottgleich anzuerkennen. Otto der Große weihte dem Heiligen den Dom und das Erzbistum Magdeburg.” (“The central figure refers to Saint Mauritius, who was martyred because he refused to persecute Christians and to recognise the emperor as godlike. Otto the Great consecrated the Holy cathedral and the archbishopric of Magdeburg.”) It’s a little ambiguous to me whether by ‘nimmt Bezug’ the museum is saying this is St. Mauritius or whether translating as ‘refers to’ loses some meaning, or if there’s just a whole pile of ambiguity. Anyway, it’s a rather splendid piece of bronze-work that sat next to an even more splendid one which sadly was unphotographable.
Sprinting through the centuries like no one’s business, a couple of paintings from the early 19th century of the Magdeburger Dom which show off its very attractive (and completely absent of flying buttresses) Gothic form. A stack of early 20th century Expressionist works (by women!) most of which I did a shit job of photographing, so only one appears here, and then it’s into fun time.
By which I mean, “Heh … we have to talk about this stuff, but it’s kinda embarrassing” Nazi-land. Both the Nazi and DDR periods are in a single room, which is fitting, as I’ve been considering lately that the Soviet occupation of East Europe really was a 45 year prolongation of the war, and as the Second World War was fundamentally a continuation of the First, the 20th century takes on a very specific coherency when the first 90 years are war and only the last ten years (nominally) not.
Up first, Fibel für den Gau Magdeburg Anhalt (Primer for the District Magdeburg Anhalt, from 1942) with its adorable children playing with lanterns at night on one page and the “Heil Heil!” Nazi-fuckery on the next. Nearby are the photos of Das so genannte Zigeunerlager in Magdeburg (The So-called Gypsy Camp in Magdeburg), to which the caption concludes: “In 1943 the camp was abolished and all occupants deported to Auschwitz.” Beside that is a large diorama of Magdeburg in 1945, Magdeburg Zerstörte Innenstadt, the destroyed inner city. What I find curious in both is the passivity of the language, “the occupants were deported” by whom and to what fate, is left unsaid; the “inner city was destroyed” again by whom and why hangs overhead in its absence.
When I arrived in Magdeburg, I was struck by the absence of people. It’s a city of around 230, 000 so not small, and a university town. Outside of the main station it was as if aliens had vacuumed the town clean. And besides the absence of people, the absence of buildings. It was comprehensively bombed by allied forces towards the end of WW2 (the argument about how much of a war crime intentional fire-bombing was is not for here), but the Soviet occupiers left tracts of the inner city abandoned and they remain so to this day—where they didn’t fill it with high, frothy Soviet architecture, the kind that lines Karl-Marx-Alle in Friedrichshain (except in Berlin the rent is impossibly high for these places; Magdeburg it’s—at least part—subsidised housing).
So you have this city, the capital of the state of Sachsen-Anhalt, in beautiful countryside, sitting on a river, a thousand years of history, obviously underpopulated and with plenty of available accommodation and land in the city center, and rather than go, “Fuck yeah, we need shitloads of new people here, yo!” a full quarter of them voted for the anti-immigration, crypto-fascist, nationalist Alternativ für Deutschland, the place is rife with Neo-Nazi anti-immigrant and -refugee attacks (despite it having a reasonable number of both), and the general sentiment (which I’ve encountered elsewhere in former East Germany—and West) is they’d far sooner sink together as ‘Germans’ in their own misery than do anything meaningful to better their situation. And by meaningful, I mean make the place attractive to artists, immigrants, refugees, young people, small businesses, people fleeing increasingly expensive Berlin. The place could be awesome.
Last piece then: a wall tapestry from Tournai. The caption says:
Der Bildteppich stellt eine Geschichte dar, in der geraubte Heidenkinder verkauft werden. Von einem Schiff werden die meist dunkelhäutigen Kinder an Land gebracht. Ein Seeräuber oder Zigeuner erhält von einem prächtig gekleideten Mann im Vordergrund Goldmünzen und die Kinder werden an Edelleute in spätgotischen Gewänder übergeben.
Im Inventarbuch eines Teppichhändlers des 16. Jahrhunderts aus Tournai gibt es die Aufzeichnung über 17 Teppiche einer so genannten “Carrabarra-Geschichte”, wozu dieser Wandbehang gehört. Trotz eingeschränkter Farbskala und relativ geringer Fadendichte verstanden es die Weber der Bildwirkereien in Tournai, technisch und künstlerisch hochwertig Teppich herzustellen.
Loosely translated first paragraph: The tapestry depicts the story of the selling of the stolen heathen (pagan or perhaps Gentiles is best) children. From a ship, the dark-skinned children are brought ashore. A pirate or Gypsy (Zigeuner, i.e. Roma, Sinti, a Romani person) receives gold coins from a splendidly dressed man, and the children are handed over to noblemen in late-Gothic dress.
Again this passivity of language, as if the nobility are being coerced into handing over their coinage by the wily gypsy, or saving these children out of their own altruistic goodness, when by the 16th century the European slave trade was already underway, and for nobility across Europe, buying children (and dwarfs) from Africa was common. Or perhaps that’s how the nobility wished to imagine what they were doing, altruism and saving the dark continent from itself.
As the second paragraph says, it’s not a great work, limited colour palette, low fibre density, but still technically and artistically proficient—and one of seventeen, though the museum only has this one.
After that, I barged through the Museum für Naturkunde, was pretty much museumed and arted out by this point—and you can probably tell I was a little underwhelmed by the museum. Unfortunately then stuck in Magdeburg with nothing to do for a couple of hours. The busses to the city are plentiful, but leaving … and as for trains, Deutsche Bahn have a monopoly and they love squeezing passengers for every euro they can. Not the greatest for tourists. (I can really see a sideline job for me photographing mediæval art in small towns and obnoxiously telling them how to be better at tourism.)