"Aschaffenburg Journal"

1918, from "Septemberschrei"*

FROM "ASCHAFFENBURG JOURNAL," (1918)

What many of us did and the way we lived before the war was wrong.

We all hung like Absalom by the hair from the branches of the Zeitgeist ("spirit of the times") and none of us had eternity within us, or a desire for a peaceful earth, or for meditation and the healing of our divided consciousness. We were confused, high-strung, and irritable. We were driven to the breaking point by the approach of world catastrophe. No one objected when spleen was proclaimed as the law of life and paradox became the highest spiritual value. And most were not satisfied with their own wild power, the dream of a diabolical palette - they all ran, as if possessed, after money, empty momentary successes. They took all they could from the eager art trade only to waste it in sick debauchery. Oh we were desperately in need and we didn't realize that we were sunk deep in sin. Yet the period achieved rich results in painting. New possibilities were discovered, new unheard-of forms. And even if they were mostly tested on imperfect subjects, their effects were not without power and we were all held spellbound, made breathless and feverish.

Oh, if we could only keep the enthusiasm of this first intoxication so that we could gird ourselves for greater deeds. We have to rise up from our degradation. We have to show the people a better way of life, the old ideals, the old purity, divine clarity, and the power of the soul, all of this as an imperishable revelation in triumphant and joyous planes. Henceforth we will no longer follow deadly reason, the old church dogmas, a political goal or a current fad - rather we shall create a spiritual, transcendental realm on our canvases out of primeval depths of feeling; out of elemental, immediate visions; yes, right out of our own spiritual being.

I too was for a long time without comfort, ruined, Godless, a captive of all the errors and moods of the moment, alone and anxious as an alley cat… until one night an inner voice comforted me.

From that moment on I emerged from the cavernous streets of the city and found myself out upon the sunny plain. I dipped furtively into old mystical books until one day I realized that the Bible which was supposed to be dead and done was a source of endless joy and profound truth. Previously I had leafed through it with misunderstanding and prejudice. But now I was transported by the power of the consoling verses of Psalms or by the dreadful words of Isaiah; I was awakened as if from a deep sleep, like dust I was blown skyward. I was happy as a little child and all grief and tension turned into sweetness. Each day became a new and holy call to action. Formerly, as an artist, I had used an unrestrained, nervous, scribbling stroke, I had been interested in the bizarre and in a sneering, drivelling kind of existence. Now my emotions became nobler. My composition became clear and delicate touches appeared here and there in rhythmic combinations. When I was young, boredom and restlessness drove me out into the low dives of the suburbs, to spicy French novels, and to the grotesque adventures of the Psychopothio Sexuolis. But now that I am older a few lines from St. Paul are sufficient to inspire me and set me to work. And tomorrow I shall be inflamed completely by the glory of God, I shall be a regular storm raised by the Almighty. I'm not going to sacrifice my energies to the night but do the works of my faith, joyfully in broad daylight.

Yes, I now have the great consolation, and the faith that I shall ceaselessly create, aspire, pray, sing praises, and fiercely struggle for perfection to Your greater glory, oh Lord. And should I serve You twenty or thirty years, my Lord, let me just die quietly working on a picture. Then Your breath can blow me away and let this exulting and insatiable creator's hand of mine turn to dust…

What we need for the future, all of us, is a fervent and fanatic naturalism; yes, a passionate, virile, and direct truthfulness, like Multscher, Grunewald, Bosch, and Brueghel. We want, of course, to serve the Highest with our work. We have a truly magnificent history to create - and how can we do anything else but use the forms of the outer world for this! Our visions must be as clear and powerful as those of Multscher and Grunewald - let's never forget these two! And let's never forget the noble, certain, and wise craftsmanship of these two heroes. They painted the way stonecutters cut stone; real greatness strives for something that will last a thousand years, not for a momentary effect which might amuse people at the next exhibition. Yes, craftsmanship, that rare, laborious craftsmanship which indeed has an austere beauty!…

For the past few years we have all been too interested in pictures which were remote from our world. Our goal was geometry and the youngest artists strove like madmen for abstractions and nonobjectivity. All you painters eager for heaven, you'd like to forget the earth and squeeze the spirit straight out from your tubes - immaculate and utterly transcendent. But stop a moment and study the marvellous reality of things.

Look at the trees, they have real wisdom. They take hold of the earth, otherwise they would simply lift their wings and fly to heaven. After all they are so passionately pious. And they should certainly make believers out of us because they are so beautiful. Thus they sink their roots deep into the soil and the wind doesn't budge them.

So let's hold on to the earth with all our might, otherwise we will drift into the blue, into chaos. Let's return to a passionate naturalism, to a deep, loving respect for the objective reality of the world. Because we strive for the transcendental we must master the terrestrial. Since we have a burning desire to see God we must first digest the earth and understand it. And please understand that this fervent truth-painting is no easy matter. It is so very difficult because it strives for the very highest. And every man who wants the highest travels the same difficult road.

Well, here [Aschaffenburg] I feel completely at home as a painter. Didn't I live too long in Berlin!? Oh, Berlin! You guillotine of all my hopes for joy. You hangman of all my delicacy, purity, and virtue. Why was I trapped so long in your painful net? Later I'm going to live only in the country, close to the lonely and infinite openness of the plains.

* Septemberschrei. Hymnen, Gebete, Lasterungen. Berlin, Paul Cassirer, 1920