George Grosz visits Meidner's studio*

Another interesting character in my portrait gallery of this period was Ludwig Meidner, the painter. He was a strange little spirit who came to life only at night. He was a devil of a fellow, someone after my own heart. He was like a character out of a short story by E. T. A. Hoffmann.

Meidner lived in a hole of a garret, dark as a cave. Not a cave one finds in the woods or on the sides of mountains, but on the top floors of tenement houses. Right next to the door as one entered was an old iron, pot-bellied stove. Beside it was a high mound covered neatly with newspapers and cardboard. The mound was concealed in semi-obscurity because the sole source of illumination in the cave came from a single gas jet suspended from the ceiling. The other jet did not function. Everything lay in semidarkness and the room had a fantastic, ghostlike, gloomy effect.

Upon closer inspection, this mysterious mound revealed itself to be a heap of ashes and slag. It had been years since any of this refuse had been removed and carried down the five flights of stairs. It was just piled into a corner until it eventually formed a curious landscape.

Whenever Meidner gesticulated which he did frequently and passionately, or when he raised his sharp, shrill bass voice in argument, the paper and cardboard would flutter and a cloud of dust would rise from the hill and swirl around the smoke-filled room. The dust would settle in our hair, make our eyes tear and tickle our noses until we were forced to sneeze. This violent disturbance would agitate the dust some more, and the cycle would continue. We called this rain of ashes "The Destruction of
Pompeii." We would soothe our parched and ash-filled throats with beer and innumerable cups of tea.

Meidner was co-founder of a Berlin group called "Die Pathetiker." His style was Expressionistic and he painted with great vigor His paintings were dedicated for the most part to poets. He would work all night long by candle light, because the gas light was too uncertain and burned too faintly. He would draw Old Testament prophets with a scroll-pen on large sheets of paper He also delighted in painting his friends. One night he painted me too. He worked passionately, his breast heaving as if he were going through some great emotional crisis. Suddenly the easel collapsed, throwing the board, paper and all onto the slag pile. The dust rose in billows and I was seized with a violent fit of sneezing. Not so with Meidner He pounced on the fallen board and continued to draw on the floor, completely unmindful of the catastrophe.

I had to go to the toilet. What a calamity! It was just impossible to get relief. The toilet bowl was full to the top and practically overflowing. It looked as if it had been stopped up for months and perhaps even for years. Damn it, what to do? All that beer and all that tea demanded an outlet. Perhaps the wall would do, if I made no noise. But what was the matter with the window? That was an idea. But how to reach it? It was much too high. I returned to Meidner and said, "Ludwig, where can I...?
"Big or small," asked Meidner
"Small, thank God," I said.
"Good, good," said Meidner "Use the bathtub."

* from Grosz's autobiography, "A Little Yes, A Big No", New York 1941, 212