The neglect of Germany

Despite the role and significance of Germany over the past century and in present times, any visitor to that country who wanted a good book on the country had, until recently, a stark choice – heavy academic histories or the Rough Guide. The 600 page Germany and the Germans which John Ardagh produced in the mid 1980s sadly went out of print after its final edition of 1995. In 2010, however, two large and serious books appeared - Peter Watson’s blockbuster - German Genius which is reviewed here and here

Watson has not simply written a survey of the German intellect from Goethe to Botho Strauss – nothing so dilettantist. In the course of nearly 1,000 pages, he covers German idealism, porcelain, the symphony, Johann Joachim Winckelmann, telegraphy, homeopathy, strategy, Sanskrit, colour theory, the Nazarenes, universities, Hegel, jurisprudence, the conservation of energy, the Biedermeyer, entropy, fractals, dyestuffs, the PhD, heroin, automobiles, the unconscious, the cannon, the Altar of Pergamon, sociology, militarism, the waltz, anti-semitism, continental drift, quantum theory and serial music.

The second book was Simon Winder’s Germania– a personal history of Germans Ancient and Modern which I referred to at the end of a blog last year but did not find an easy book to persevere with – by virtue of its idiosyncratic approach. I’ve drawn on some of the Amazon reviews to give a sense of its key features.

It’s the history of Germany in the broadest sense of that name - starting with the residue of the Roman Empire and ending with the founding of the Third Empire in 1933 when the author can't bear to continue. It encompasses cities from Brussels to Gdansk to Milan and all the way down the Danube, allowing the author to potter around old castles and cathedrals to his heart's content.A higgledy-piggledy mixture of more or less independent duchies, principalities and bishoprics coalesced slowly into modern states (plural - Winder uses Germania for Austria and Germany, and doesn't hesitate to visit other countries nearby). History as folly, incompetence and grudge; the author dismisses his own work as anecdotal facetiousness but it's far better than that. A flavour - "a slice through any given month in Germany's history turns up a staggering array of rulers: a discredited soldier, a pious archbishop, a sickly boy and his throne-grabbing regent, and a half-demented miser obsessed with alchemy".
This book is a travelogue (in the Bill Bryson style) fused with a cultural and political history of Germany. If you're looking for only one or the other, you will be disappointed. But if you just want to find out about Germany, and are ready to accept a few idiosyncrasies of style along the way, you'll love this book.

Neither book, however, deals with contemporary Germany - that's why the 1995 John Ardagh book is sorely missed, with its explanation of such important aspects of German life as federalism and the social market. The only bit of writing which I can unreservedly recommend about contemporary Germany is the long article on Germany written a few years ago by Perry Andersen.

Winder's focus on history gives some good insights:

• The role the earliest centuries and the Middle Ages play in the imagination of the Germans in all sorts of ways; and how much medieval architecture remains in Germany
• Why the Holy Roman Emperors, with no proper capital before 1533 when Vienna was declared the capital city of the Habsburgs, never managed to overcome the extraordinary fragmentation of Germany in the way in which the English and the French managed it many centuries earlier. There are delightful vignettes of the courts of tiny principalities, often presided over by dotty or self-indulgent rulers. Due to the frequent absence of primogeniture, many of them had hyphenated names, like Schleswig-Holstein-Sonderburg-Glücksburg which provided the wife for Edward VII: the more hyphenated, the tinier they were.
• How weak Prussia was between the end of the reign of Frederick the Great in 1786 and Bismarck's Danish War of 1864. Winder asserts that "Frederick's actions DID NOT LEAD (his italics) to Bismarck's empire." Winder doesn't think much of Frederick's achievements, but admires Maria Theresa and her "adorable", "fun" husband, the Holy Roman Emperor Francis I.
• And after all the tomes that have been written about the Prussian - later German - armies, it is interesting to see Winder rather debunking their achievements "outside the delusive little seven year period [covering the Danish, Austrian and French wars between 1864 and 1871]". He also debunks the German navy. He lays into some conventional views about the run-up to and course of the First World War with a zest reminiscent of A.J.P.Taylor. He makes a case for saying that Germany between 1871 and 1914 was militarily less aggressive than Russia  Britain, France or Italy during the same period. He sees the French as the main trouble-makers in Europe from Louis XIV onwards. But then he had decided from the start that his book would "bale out" in 1933. (He does not completely manage that: reference to the Nazi period are dotted throughout the book.) He told us at the beginning that he wanted us to look at pre-1933 Germany free from the hostile mind-set which has been created by the two World Wars, and which had been quite absent from Britain for almost the whole of the 19th century. For him there was no German "Sonderweg": for him "Germany in 1914 had been a normal country, espousing much of the same racism, military posturing, and taste for ugly public buildings that bedevilled the rest of the Continent."
• This is more of an impressionist account, though, like an impressionist painting, consisting of many brilliant and highly coloured individual brush strokes. It is basically, but not always chronological; and it is interspersed with digressions and bits of autobiography which increase in length as the book proceeds. Winder is having fun: "fun" used as an adjective occurs frequently in the book, which is light-hearted, often hilarious, discursive, never short of an opinion and indeed sometimes opinionated and over-the-top: he calls Weber's book on the Protestant Ethic "famously idiotic"; Napoleon III is rebuked for his "sheer childishness"; the word "mad" occurs with a somewhat maddening frequency; he describes the successor states of the Habsburg Empire as "a mass of poisonous micro-states". It is also quite serious, in many ways insightful, cultured, affectionate but also critical, and fantastically knowledgeable.

The book certainly has made me (and others- it has 100 reviews on the Amazon site) think. It has more than 100 bibliographical references and, significantly, half are literary or cultural.  

As it’s a public holiday in this part of Germany (the fourth this month – it’s Corpus Christi for Catholics and several hundred parishioners have just passed by with a brass band under my balcony) my internet is working very well even mid-morning and I’ve been able to surf the internet for articles about Germany. I was quickly rewarded with a book about the country written by an American whose German family background in Pennsylvania led him to a European trip in the 1970s which led to a 14-year stay in Germany and the research which led to the production in 2000 of the book Germany – Unravelling an Enigma which seems to focus on aspects of social behaviour and explanations of the social market. 

I will read it with interest and perhaps share some of its sections with you…

Stunde Null

When you're in the centre of Koln, you don't need much of an imagination  to sense what life was like here in the dying days of the war. The place has been completely rebuilt - such was the scale of the bombing. In the first week of my occupancy of the flat I have taken in a pleasant Koln suburb, television had black-grained images of American troops edging in March 1945 into the rubble of the the outskirts and centres of Bonn and Koln. And these continue to be shown - although May 9 is well past. Postcards with scenes of this rubble and destruction are also prominently on display in the city centre's kiosks.
In 1961 I spent a few summer weeks on a German course at Gottingen University – where my core text was Heinrich Boll’s Der Zug Kam Punktlich which described powerfully but laconically the journey to the eastern front of a German soldier in 1943 or so who knew he would meet his death and simply wondered which of the station names which flashed by would be his resting place.
Boll's bleak post-1945 novels made a big impact on me and it was therefore with a sense of serendipity that I picked up for free at some bookcases near my Clinic his The Silent Angel .

Heinrich Böll's The Silent Angel was one of only a handful of postwar novels that depicted the aftermath of intensive carpet bombing of Germany in the second world war. Though written early in Böll's career, the novel was not published in his lifetime due to the subject matter that was perceived by his publisher as unpalatable to the German public. Isn't it inappropriate to dwell on a topic that brings home the very episodes one wanted to forget? After so much destruction and suffering, is it not perhaps best to move on to cheery stories?
Böll described the wasteland of war-torn Germany right after the end of the bombings. Amid this tortured landscape the characters moved like zombies, traumatized by their experiences and haunted by relentless hunger. The lack of food and shelter consigned the majority of the citizens to the status of refugees. They lived only to survive hunger, scrounging for the rare bread and provisions that came at high prices.

At the start of the novel, Hans, a German soldier who lacked proper identification, stumbled into a hospital and was offered a bread loaf by a nun working there. The reader was given a first taste of the novel's subject.

Quickly he broke off a large piece of the bread. His chin trembled and he felt the muscles of his mouth and jaws twitch. Then he buried his teeth in the soft, uneven place where the bread had been broken, and bit in. The loaf was old, at least four or five days old, perhaps even older, plain brown bread bearing some bakery's red paper label; but it tasted so sweet. He bit in even more deeply, taking the leathery, brown crust into his mouth as well; then he seized the loaf in his hands and tore off a new piece. While he ate with his right hand he held the loaf fast in his left, as if someone might come and try to take it from him, and he saw his hand lying on the bread, thin and dirty, with a deep scratch that was soiled and scabbed

Physical hunger and destroyed landscapes of the city inhabit the tissues of the novel. Hunger (and destruction) was so pervasive as to go beyond the realm of the physical. It crossed the threshold of the characters' physical state, to become the hunger of their souls, the debilitating poverty of spirit. It became the very fires in their belly that drove them to resist that very same hunger.
Böll was able to illuminate a time that was barely recorded, even consciously avoided, according to Sebald—erased from memory, sanitized and repressed by German writers. It was not a popular subject but it was necessary to keep a record of destruction of cities and its effects on men and women. Sebald found in The Silent Angel not only an important subject but a quality of writing that he felt approached the gravity of the subject.

Sebald's essay ["Air War and Literature"] takes to task the postwar German writers for failing to record the destruction wrought by wars. For Sebald, the books of Ledig, as well as that of Heinrich Böll and Peter Weiss, among others, are a rare exception to this apparent defect in the German letters. Sebald champions the kind of novels that speak plainly and precisely, and with unpretentious objectivity, as opposed to novels full of "aesthetic or pseudo-aesthetic effects." He favors the concrete and documentary style of writing over the abstract and imaginary. For Sebald, accounts of suffering must be commensurate to the magnitude of the human loss; these are the kind of novels worth writing about in the face of total destruction.

In The Silent Angel, the imaginary was given up in favor of the imaginative.
The curtains had been pulled open, and in the large, black window frames stood the fantasylike image of the ruins: smoke-blackened flanks of buildings, cracked gables that seemed about to fall—overgrown mounds that had been ripped apart a second time, leaving only a few spots where the green was mossy and peaceful. . . . (91-92)
The above passage described the image of the ruins as "fantasylike" but the real view of destruction made the image un-fantasylike. The qualification of the smoke-blackened, cracked, overgrown, andripped objects could not deny the direct harms inflicted to the people on the ground.

Likewise, Böll's similes and imagery were purposefully constructed. An open piano in a corner "stood like a monster with a thousand false teeth" (39). In a particular ruin could be seen "only naked destruction, desolate and terribly empty, as if the breath of the bomb still hung in the air" (86). That lingering "breath of the bomb" was sufficient to convey the utter "nakedness" of the damage.

A most powerful description of destruction was that of the silent statues in a church.   

His gaze remained below: the altar was buried in debris, the choir stalls had been toppled by the blast. He saw their broad brown backs inclined in what seemed sarcastic prayer. The lower rank of saints on the columns showed gaps as well: abraded torsos and flayed stone, hideous in its mutilation and painfully deformed, as if it once had been alive. He was struck by the demonic grotesqueness. A few faces grimaced like furious cripples because they lacked an ear or a chin, or because strange cracks deformed them; others were headless, and the stone stumps of their necks thrust up horribly from their bodies. Equally disturbing were those who lacked hands. They almost seemed to bleed, silently imploring, and a baroque plaster statue was oddly split, almost cracked like an egg: the pale plaster face of the saint was undamaged, the narrow, melancholy face of a Jesuit, but its chest and belly were ripped open. The plaster had trickled down—it lay in whitish flakes at the base of the figure—and from the dark hollow of the belly straw spilled forth, saturated with hardened plaster. (119-120)

This posthumous horror was probably one of the most indirect and one of the most graphic descriptions of the aftermath of a night of "successful" bombing run a reader will encounter in fiction.

Despite the depressing, vivid images in the novel, the reader could not fail to detect the deep sense of the novelist's humanity. He did not reduce his characters to virtual zombies. Instead, the novelist kept intact their human strengths and failings. Amid the the piles of debris in the city, the white powder chalk and plaster, signs of renewal of vegetation started to shoot up from the ground. From these bleak surroundings, Böll's beautiful prose was able to yield a comforting quality of tenderness. The words had lightness and softness, like sweet bread. It was not really all black smoke and white dust: 

He stood up, walked quietly over to the door, and opened it cautiously. Light was coming from the kitchen. The old, blue coat that she had draped over the windowpane let large, yellow beams of light in through its tattered holes, and the rays fell onto the debris in the hall: the axe blade gleamed somewhere and he saw the dark logs, their split surfaces glowing yellowly. He approached slowly and now he could see her. He realized he'd never seen her like this before. She was lying on the couch with her legs drawn up, wrapped in a large, red blanket, reading. He saw her from behind. Her long, damply shining hair seemed darker, tinged with red; it fell across the arm of the couch. A lamp stood beside her, and the stove was lit. A pack of cigarettes lay on the table, together with a jar of marmalade, a loaf of bread that had been cut into, and beside it the knife with its loose, black handle. . . . (130-131) The colours and sheen (blue, yellow, gleamed, dark, glowing yellow, red, damply shining, darker, tinged with red, black) were so lovingly spread over this description of domestic setting and minutiae (coat, windowpane, axe blade, logs, couch, blanket, "book", hair, lamp, stove, cigarettes, marmalade, bread, knife handle) as to drum up the characters' expectations of a return to peaceful, normal circumstances. There was a flicker of love in that passage, a sense that all was not lost. The sense that hunger (physical, spiritual) does not go unfulfilled. The intermittent pangs of hunger only served as their amulet.

The torture of choice

For the past decade I haven’t been able to decide where to live – a condition the Germans call “Die Qual der Wahl”, the torture of choice.

I’ve lived in more than ten countries since I left Scotland in 1990. Since leaving Kyrgzstan in 2007 I seem to have settled down – dividing my time between Bulgaria (where I had a couple of projects); Transylvania (where I have a mountain house); and Bucharest where I have access to a very small flat. But I need a flat in a city I enjoy – with proper space for my paintings and artefacts. And time is running out!

Scotland is ruled out for its weather; I tried the French (or rather Brittany) rural market briefly (in 2010) but realised that, much as I love the French language and culture, I did not need another rural place. I then considered, for their cultural treasures, Brussels and Vienna - but they are too pricey. At the moment I find Sofia the best location (I currently rent a place there); but have, for the past month, been in Koln – receiving medical treatment which is scheduled to finish in mid-July. Occassionally I have wondered about Germany as a place to retire to...

Much as I appreciate German culture and society, my experience so far would not suggest this as an option. It is simply too expensive (although I notice that property in many parts of Germany can still be bought at reasonable prices); the shopping experiences are too bland; and the Rheinland anyway far too cold and damp. I miss my Balkan vegetables and warmth! Little wonder that so many sunbed and physiotherapy services are on offer here!

Of course I am impressed with the neatness of residential areas (so much "touching up" going on); the profusion of greenery; the politeness; the cycling; the regularity and cleanliness of public transport; and the sheer number of old people who use it. But I resent the charges the museums and galleries make – 10 euros, for example, to access Koln’s permanent exhibition of the Expressionists. So my only taste of culture so far has been the great Kathe Kollwitz museum at Neumarkt. It was 1964 when I first came across Kollwitz (1867-1945) - and Georg Grosz - when I lived for a short time in Berlin. Both were a great inspiration for the Bulgarian graphic artists of the first half of the century - the piece which fronts this post is one of the series she did on the Peasants' Revolt.

The Wine festival which has been occupying Neumarkt for the past 2 weeks is, quite frankly, pathetic – with 2.50 euros being charged for 0.15 millitre glasses. What a contrast with the 10 euros 2-day ticket I bought for the Sofia wine-tasting in October when I could fill my face!
The german property market is supposed to be more sensible than (say) the British - but I was still disappointed to find that the cheapest flats I could rent here are 60 euros a night (although that does reflect reasonably the higher cost of living compared, for example, with Sofia where I pay one eighth of that; such proportionality is not the case for food!) .
And internet connections seem to be very slow - one of several reasons why I have not been posting recently.

Do paintings speak for themselves?

On what was supposed to be the last evening in Sofia, a burst of purchases – this time from my friend Ruhmen's small Neron Gallery on the corner of Tsar Samuel and Neofin Rilski streets-

• two Petar Boiadjiev seascapes; 
• two more Kolyo Kolev Rhodope landscapes from the early 1940s; 
• and a dramatic Cyril Mateev showing the towering Rila massif. 

This on top of a couple more Naidenovs and a Kolyo Kolev a week earlier.

The painting at the top is the first Petar Boiadjiev I ever bought and one of my favourites - a 1943 one of the  Kaliakra cliffs just north of Balcik which was such an attraction for Romanian painters in the early part of the 20th century.
I'm told that Boiadjiev (1907-1963) studied art in Bucharest. That (and the birth and death dates) are the only things I know about him. His seascapes (for me) rival those of Boris Stefchev.

Kolyo Koev (1905-50) is another one of many Bulgarian painters I wish I knew more about – his Rhodope landscapes from the 1940s have a very distinctive colourful impressionist style – with the oil paint thickly applied.
All I know about him is that he committed suicide in 1950 at the age of 45.




Kiril Mateev (1920-2006) was a prolific painter - particularly of dramatic mountain scenes like this one.

Interesting that information about so many of my favourites is so difficult to get hold of!
I occasionally get the gallerists to consult their "bible" (the old artistic encyclopaedia of Bulgaria  painters many of them have) but (for names such as these) even this rarely reveals much.
A previous post regretted the lack of information about the life of Grigor Naidenov many of whose Sofia cafe scenes in the decades from the 1920s now adorn my walls.
But does info about the training, travels, travails and friends of painters really add much to one's understanding of a painter? The portrait of Naidenov I included in that particular post is certainly a bonus.....
I've met some of the contemporary Bulgarian painters but don't really know much about them. Somehow, however, the times in which the older painters lived holds greater fascination. I want to know how they dealt with the various dilemmas they were faced with - not least the violent communist takeover of 1944.

Aquarelles

Sofia’s City Gallery has a nice exhibition of aquarelles drawn from its archives which give a good sense of this particular genre as practised by Bulgarians in the past century. It starts with 3 majestic paintings from one Joseph Oberbauer (1853-1926); then 2 typical military scenes by Jaroslav Veshin from 1902 and 1905; before a magnificent large picture of a schooner in rough sea (1928) by Alexander Moutafov; and typical aquarelles by Shturkelov, Frantsaliyski and Jordan Geshev. I was glad to see a Naidenov - but the stars were for me the blue-skyed Plovdiv scene by Titrinov and this 1950 Vladimir Manski - "Parade at the National Theatre".

The viewing was made all the more enjoyable by the company and insights of the exhibition’s curator Svetla Georgieva, a painter and musician in her own right.  

By coincidence, I had bought an aquarelle the previous day - unusually for me. And a large one at that. It has the same feel to it as the Manski and is by a young contemporary - Andrean Vekiarov.

And I am reminded that I failed a few months back to pay tribute to the Sofia City Gallery for its great exhibition celebrating its 60th Anniversary.
The accompanying book - A Possible History - Bulgarian Art through the collection of Sofia City Art Gallery - is one of the best in its series. 

First real day of spring

At last a pleasant day – with Mount Vitosha sharply edged in blue; white clouds scudding across its face; and people at last enjoying their coffees at the pavement cafes. 

Diana Staykov’s “Absinthe” gallery is a welcome new addition to the galleries which can be found on Tzar Samuil (it’s at no 37). She focuses on aquarelles and set the tone by pouring us a glass of one of the most stunning Sauvignon Blancs I’ve ever tasted. 

It was actually a 2010 New Zealand Marlborough but made by a young Bulgarian Alex Velianov who now markets the wines under the brand Two Friends and brings the wines back to Bulgaria on his visits.

I was also taken with the work of Atanas Matsoureff in a book lying in the gallery. His website is even more interesting for its examples of  his drawings, aquarelles and paintings. Some of the portraits - such as this one - remind me of the famous Andrew Wyeth! I realised, I had already seen some of his drawings at Byliana’s A and B Gallery.

But it was the 20 cm bronze sculpture of Marianna Kusheva which really took my fancy and now has pride of place in our small Sofia attic flat.

wine and sculpture

 Thanks to CasaVino, an eminently quaffable new red wine variety for these cold days – from a village in the Melnik area near the border with Greece. It’s Kapatovo with a blend of four grapes, three of which I had never heard of - Marselan, Petit Verdot, Primitovo and Syrah. The first two are apparently late-flowering varieties from France and only Syrah is well-known. The result is superb - well warranting the four stars which it gets from my little Bulgarian wine bible and certainly worth the 18 euros price-tag (for 5 litres!!).

The Melnik/Sandanski area is renowned for its robust and tasty Mavrud wines to which I have become very attached this winter – breaking out of the exclusive attachment I was beginning to form to the Bulgarian whites – particularly the St Ilyia from the Sliven area.
The Mavruds (including some whites) are also found in the central plains.

My favourite little second-hand bookshop in the courtyard of Vassil Levsky at the University corner also came up a couple of nice old books – one published in 1960 on the sculptor Marko Markov (many of whose works were to be seen in the Ilyia Beshkov Gallery at Pleven) and the other one a 1974 collections of small (mainly black and white) prints of artists from the first 6 decades of the 20^th century.

Unfortunately I don't know which sculptures are whose!! Are they all Markov's?? Or are some Spasskov's? The bearded guy is certainly Patriarch Eftim!

My interest in such sculptures increases in leaps and bounds. I don't, at the moment, have many such artefacts - but could be persuaded to collect more of these......

Stoian Venev

Various reasons for the 3 week silence – the numbing cold of the last few weeks; waiting for the results of various tests relating to my prostate; and sheer disgust with how the power-elites have been betraying the hopes of decent people.
The Mouse that roared is a good post on the Cyprus crisis.
Now the possibility has been raised of removing the 100k guarantee which was previously in place for our bank savings. All I can do is collect the ammunition to use on the bankers!

It's apt that I came across a small 1950s book on Stoian Venev (1904-1989) whose sepia sketches are so evocative  

Venev grew up in Kuystendil - half-way between Sofia and the Macedonian border - and was clearly influenced by Vladimir Dmitrova (Maistora) whom he knew well

He is one of a long line of first-class Bulgarian graphic artists (Bozhinov; Dobrinov; Beshkov, Behar;Angeloushev - let alone the war sketches of so many others such as Shturkelov) but his work shows a particular sympathy for the struggles of peasants.  

And I particularly liked the study of the long-suffering wife in this sketch!