Form and Function

I usually read Chabon's The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay over breakfast.  Early on, I was surprised when the Czech Kavalier had an omelet with apricot jam for breakfast, as I had no idea anyone outside my family did that.  Apparently, it's a Mittel Europa thing.  Today I startled the breakfast room when I laughed out loud reading a footnote.  In referencing a clearly fictional comic book, the author adds that a copy turned up in 1995 "at an IKEA store in Elizabeth, New Jersey, where it was mutely serving as a dignified-looking stage property on a floor-model 'Hjörp' wall unit."  It was the "Hjörp" that did me in.

This morning I took care of some final organization for the student trip, and then went to visit a museum I'd been meaning to look at for some time.  Without saying which museum it was for the moment, I was intrigued by the architecture of the building and wondered about the relationship between form and function.  Would I look at the building any differently, if I didn't know its history?

I've not been able to learn when this building was constructed.  Probably some time between 1960 and the early 1970s.  Its stone-flecked concrete facade is like so many other buildings erected in Berlin in those years. 

And what if this building, in the inner court of the complex: does it have any resonances?

That odd shaped grill marks the car port for dignitaries to enter and exit.  It's far easier to see out of than into.  That's probably the only thing in the museum where the style seemed to match the function.

So what is this place?  Ominous music please....

Yes.  The central offices of the State Ministry for Security (known by the acronym Stasi).  These buildings are actually home of the agencies that handled international spying and security.  The one in the central courtyard contained the offices of the head of the Stasi.

While I found the east German children's games, and other elements of popular culture fascinating,

 as well as the elements of western culture that were smuggled in,

my main interest lay in the aesthetics of the totalitarian state.  For example, here's Stasi chief Erich Mielke's private quarters next to his office:

Or what of this cafeteria for senior officials:

Or the main stair case in the building:

I'll let others get excited about the various ways to conceal a camera:

I'd much rather look at the intercom:

It was rather warm and humid in the building so I eventually had my fill of totalitarian chic and left.  I spent some more time in the area around the hostel to see where things are that my students might need.  Then I tried a new restaurant north of Alexanderplatz called Lebensmittal in Mitte.  I ordered off their non-traditional menu and had more guinea hen breast, this time roasted in lemon, thyme, and honey, accompanied by grilled chicory, grilled watermelon, and chips.  Oh, and some merguez (North African sausage).  I devoured it all.

On my way out this afternoon, I noticed a lot of men on the sidewalk all wearing identical t-shirts that said BFC.  Eventually, I saw one with the letters spelled out "Berlin Fußball Club" (the Berlin Soccer Club).  They were all congregating outside a grocery store drinking beer.  I figured there must be a game tonight, particularly since the stadium is only a few blocks away.

When I came home after dinner, I could hear the crowd roaring from the stadium.  I walked over and saw the area crawling with policemen and police cars.  I decided to walk back to the pension.  Besides, there's no sound in the world scarier than hearing thousands of drunk German men chanting in unison, in German.  Until they suddenly switched to singing "Que Sera, Sera."  I still don't understand what that was about.

Tomorrow, I'm hoping to visit Die Brücke Museum in Dahlem.

Art, Archives, and Opera (updated)

I just got home from Die Zauberflöte and its already so late; I'm just going to put a bare bones post tonight and then fill in the details in the morning.

Started off the day with a leisurely breakfast followed by a quick visit to the Staatsbibliothek.  I went through the photographs I took of the trial transcripts and, while it didn't miss any, a few were blurry (one very blurry).  I made a noted of the pages and then rephotographed them.

As usual, the main reading room was still and quiet, with people noiselessly working at the long desks.  I took a moment to sneak a final shot of part of the room:

Since I had some free time I went to the Neue National Galerie.  They had an absolutely fascinating exhibit on Cold War art from 1945 to 1968, contrasting works by western and eastern artists.  I was soon quickly able to tell where the artist was working based on their styles.

Works like this 1945 piece by Heinrich Emmsen, who found his figurative work out of favor in the west, ended up in East Germany.

While artists working in the west tended towards more abstract approaches (these works below were all done in the years immediately after the war):

One of the things that struck me about this exhibit was my general antipathy towards western post-war abstraction.  Sure, there were some nice works like this:

But my eye was generally drawn to more figurative works done in the communist world, like this:

Only when I reached the section on pop art in the 1960s, did I find western works that particularly appealed to me, like this West German satire of both eastern "Communist Realism" and western consumerism with:

While it's safe to say I'm not a fan of post-war art, this exhibit, more than any other I can remember visiting, helped gain a greater understanding of the post-war artistic movements.  I think I know now why I don't like it.

After a quick lunch I headed to the Balz Archiv and caught the private elevator to the apartment where they are being kept.  Herr Bruno Balz was a major German pop song writer and composer, and he was the screen writer (mostly uncredited) for over a 100 films, with his music appearing in many more, including, most recently, Tarantino's Inglourious Basterds.  He passed away in 1988, and for over 10 years his papers were closed off and then misplaced.  Last year his widower, the artist Jürgen Draeger, established the archives in his new atelier on Oranienburgerstraße, across from Museuminsel.

Here's a photo of the archivist, Dominic Ortelt (on the left) and Jürgen Draeger (on the right):

 They asked if they could take my picture and I said sure as long as they provided me a copy.  I also had them take one with my camera.  I'm standing here with a photo of Herr Balz behind me and I'm resting against a rather beautiful and elaborate liquor cabinet given him by the Swedish singer Zarah Leander.

The archive is not a public archive.  They are still going through the papers and material, and interviewing Herr Draeger, and then putting up what they can on their website.  Since Herr Balz was arrested twice by the Nazis for violations of Paragraph 175, and then again by the West German police in the 1960s (West Germany's anti-gay law was only repealed in 1994), he almost never addressed his persecution in public interviews or writing.

I had a long, 3-hour conversation with the archivist.  Their material isn't set up in such a way that I could just start looking through it.  Instead, what I'm going to do is send them requests and questions and they will email me back photocopies of the documents and answers; and in that way, I will write my article (though probably not starting it until the fall, after I get this book proposal on the 1920s' murder trials done).

Trying to speak German for three hours using film and legal vocabulary I didn't know was exhausting.  I could hear how bad my pronunciation was and how many mistakes I was making.  From time to time, we consulted google translate in order to figure out what such or such a German word meant in English.

I didn't have a lot of time for dinner between my visit to the archives and the start of the show, so I tried a fish place around the corner, ordering their fish & chips.  I'm glad I got the small portion:

 Finally, I headed to the Komische Oper this evening for a performance of one my favorite operas, Die Zauberflöte (The Magic Flute).  I managed to buy the last ticket available, but it had a partially obstructed view of the stage.  Here's the view from where I sat:

The opera was staged in the manner of a silent film from 1920s Weimar-era Germany.  All spoken dialogue was reduced to titles appearing on the screen, with only the lyrics sung aloud.  The costumes all evoked images of the 1920s, and film projections highlighted the conceit.  The performers wore white stage makeup to look more black and white, for example.  It worked quite well and they could achieve some funny moments.  The Queen of the Night became a giant spider.  The performer stood on a small ledge above the stage and sang, while around her were projected a spider's body with eight legs, each of which threatened to impale poor Tamino if he failed to do her bidding.

The effect was to make the opera more accessible to children.  After all, the principle theme is moral and intellectual enlightenment in the temple of Isis and Osiris; not something that most children find appealing.  By turning it more cartoonish, it gave them something to hook on to as the plot went over their heads.  And there were a lot of children there, dozens of them.  Usually, one sees none.  At the Pause, it seemed that they were all having a good time watching a nearly three-hour long opera.

My only problem with the performance was my seat.  In this shot, taken at the Pause, my seat is not quite visible.  If you look in the first balcony level you will see a woman in a white jacket.  The pillar to the right of her (from our perspective) marks the partition between Loge 6 (where she is sitting) and Loge 7 where I was sitting.  I was in the third row back and you can just make out the chair of the man who was sitting to my left.  The bottom line:  when anything happened stage right I couldn't see it.  Still, I very much enjoyed the performance.

Finishing Up

Today was pretty much a get-back-to-work day; finishing up projects while preparing for new ones.

In morning, I did my laundry.

In the afternoon, I finished my work at the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin by reviewing three more newspapers.

I went to the Hauptbahnhof to buy my group tickets for Prague.  Unfortunately, no group discount as they were all out of them (I still don't understand what that means).

Dinner at Zum Schusterjungen, then back to the pension to email my research back to the States for safekeeping.

Tomorrow afternoon I have my first visit to the Bruno Balz Archive.

In the meantime, here's what the pension I'm staying at looks like.

First, the entry hall:

This leads to a courtyard filled with bicycles and recycling:

Then I enter the building in the back where I have my small little room on the ground floor:

And yes, it really is that orange.

A Week

A week; that's how long I've been in Berlin.  Oddly enough, the day ended somewhat similarly:  getting caught in the rain at the Roma-Sinti memorial.  In fact, though, a lot has changed.

I slept a good 9 hours last night and had a leisurely breakfast.  I'd hope to rent a bike, but the place was closed until 1pm.  Instead, I headed to the Berlinische Galerie, which focuses on art produced in Berlin in the last 100 or so years.  My friend Bruce had recommended it, and I thought I would check it out.

As befits a modern art museum, its interior is quite modern.

 I wasn't sure what the rules were on taking pictures, but I figured it was always easier to ask for  forgiveness than permission.  The museum's main exhibition covers the rise, fall, and rebirth of the arts in Berlin.  The first room contains art reflecting the imperial tastes of the turn of the century. These are then contrasted with the emerging Berlin secession movements and then dada.  The dada room was the first where I could snap a few shots.

This first painting was highlighted by the Nazis in their attack on modern art:

I love this sculpture:  it's called "Prussian Archangel"

They had a very  nice collection of German Expressionist works; in many ways I found this museum's collection to be better than the Albertinum in Dresden.  Here are two examples I particularly liked:

In most cases, I don't remember the artist or the title, but I'm pretty sure this next one was called "Still Life with Cat":

They also had wonderful portrait done by Otto Dix.  I really loved it, but there were so many museum guards, the best chance I had was to take this shot from a distance. 

They had two Felix Nussbaum paintings, including a particularly haunting "Self-Portrait with a Shroud," done when he was in hiding in 1942 and two years before he was captured and sent to Auschwitz where he was murdered.  The other painting was done in the '20s and showed the avant-garde unloading their paintings in front of the Prussian Academy of Art, while the faculty marched by ignoring them.  Up on the roof, the impressionist Max Liebermann, who had waged his own war against the academy before becoming its head, is painting his self-portrait.

Since the Berlinische Galerie is in Kreutzberg, I decided to head back to Mustafa's to see what their lunch line looked like.  At 30 minutes, it's still too long to ask my students to wait.  For myself, though, I was almost happy to do so.

Here's my Hähnchen Döner Kebap mit Gemüse

And here's they are the fillings (except for the chicken):

I decided to head up to the Wall monument and then to Mauer Park.  On Bernauer Straße they have recreated part of the wall, including the kill zone.  First, here's how it looked from the west's side:

Then here's how it looked from the east's side (remember, the closest one could come in the east was to the inner wall, not the outer one that bordered the west):

I read that Mauer Park (literally "wall" park) had a nice flea market on Sunday, so I walked over.  It was pretty impressive.  Tons of crap that no one in their right mind would ever buy.  One guy was selling old photo albums (with the pictures still inside), and it just really made me wonder where all this stuff came from.  It's one reason I don't like buying at flea markets in Europe and have almost never done so (though I don't mind wandering through them).  I can't help wonder if some of this was originally stolen from Jews who were later murdered.  Though that's much less likely when dealing with stuff from the 1950s and '60s.

Then I ran across this guy (the one in the vest with the tatoos):

He was talking to a woman in German who was a tourist looking for photos of the Berlin Olympics from 1936.  He had one shot, but she wanted more.  He brought out a two volume set from under the table, and the top one had "Adolph Hitler" written on the spine.  He was saying how he wasn't supposed to sell it here.  At first, I thought it was because the binding was broken (he kept emphasizing that every time he said he wasn't supposed to sell it), but then he explained that the other people at the flea market didn't like Hitler and didn't like him selling stuff like that here.  From what I could see, the book was filled with illustrated photos glued in, or something like that.  In the photo above, the woman (wearing the white t-shirt) is leafing through it.  I didn't dare get any closer when taking this shot, hence the lack of detail.

I could hear music and people cheering, so I left the swap meet and headed in the direction of this crowd:

This is called "Bearpit Karaoke" and its held in this park every Sunday afternoon (weather permitting).  You tell the organizer what song you want to sing, and if he approves, you stand before this crowd and sing your heart out.  This guy was belting out Sinatra's "My Way" in German to an enthusiastic crowd:

Most people, though, were just lying out on the grass relaxing.

I had some time before my 5:30 reservation to see the Reichstag, so I headed down to the Gendermarkt to visit Fassbender & Rausch, who claim to have the largest chocolaterie in the world.  I had a Eisscholokade, which was basically two scoops of real vanilla ice cream, floating in chocolate milk, with whipped cream and chocolate sauce on top.

After that, I stopped off at the Komische Oper to pick up a ticket for Der Zauberflöte for Tuesday evening.  Unfortunately, they were almost sold out, so I have an obstructed-view seat off to the side.  At least I should hear the music.

On the way into the Reichstag, there was a group of Israelis behind me.  I've been doing my best to avoid speaking Hebrew or even listening in on conversations, since it interferes with my German.  Last night, I even dreamt that every time I tried to speak German I unknowingly was speaking Hebrew.  In a special exhibit at the Berlinische Galerie, they were showing contemporary art videos and the one showing involved someone speaking in Hebrew.  At first I wasn't sure it was Hebrew because his accent was so strong, but then it became clear it was Hebrew.  At that point I tried to figure out his accent and was going to go with Russian when he said he was Ukrainian.  Anyway, the point is, I've been trying to think only in German, and banish Hebrew, and even so, I still keep using Hebrew words by accident.

The dome and its view are very nice.  It's definitely worth seeing.

When I left it started to drizzle.  Unlike a week ago, when the rain was cold and I needed several layers, here the weather was still warm and somewhat humid, so I felt comfortable in my shorts and short-sleeved shirt.  I decided to do laundry tomorrow and headed to dinner at an Italian-punk pizzeria called "Due Forni."  It's very popular, and I'm going to try to bring the students here in a week or so.

The pizza was very Italian:  thin crust and cooked in  a wood-fired stone oven.  That's it for now.  Tomorrow it's back to the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin one last time to check out the 1921 newspapers.  And do laundry (there's a laundromat three blocks away).

The Best Hamburger in Europe (that I've ever eaten)

Wow.  So today's been a rather long day too.  I woke up earlier than I wished in order to make my train to Dresden.  The train left the Hauptbahnhof at 8:46 am, but I hoped to have a tiny bit of breakfast at the pension, which is available as of 8:00.  I ran in, grabbed a roll, some salad caprese, and an orange juice, scarfed it all down in 8 minutes and ran off to the U-Bahn station.  At Alexanderplatz I had to run the three blocks to make my connection at the S-Bahn station and reached the Hauptbahnhoff with 7 minutes to spare.  I needed every one of them.

I'm looking for the platform for the train to Dresden and I can't find it.  I see a DB employee and said "excuse me, but can you tell me....."  "Guten Morgen!" he interrupted, officiously reminding me that I had omitted the necessary pleasantries of introduction. "Guten Morgen," I replied, "excuse me but can you tell me where I can find the train to Dresden."  "Dresden?!" he said.  "That's in the cellar!"  I was on the top level, the "cellar" was five stories down.  I started running down flight after flight of stairs.  Then I had to find Track 1, which was further back.  I finally saw the train, ran, and got on, with only a minute or two to spare.   Dripping with sweat, I found an unreserved seat, sat back, and tried to relax.

It was mostly a quiet ride, but I had some nice conversations with two British girls on a whirlwind trip around Europe.  They'd stared in Amsterdam (good bicycles and bad food) and had just finished with Berlin (they didn't like the graffiti and won't be back) and were on their way to Prague, before heading on to Budapest, Slovenia, Venice, Florence, and Rome.  I also had an interesting chat in German with a Czech woman in my compartment who'd spent the last 6 years in Berlin as an art critic and was on her way to Prague to visit her boyfriend.  We talked about the flooding and she told me it was worse in the Czech Republic than Germany.  The train lines were still open, but she was worried about the stop she would have just over the Czech border in Usti, where parts of the station were under water.

Coming into Dresden, we could see flooded fields.  I wished her luck and got of the train.  I walked through the new town and then the baroque old town towards the Elbe.  As I got closer, I could see where they had been stacking up sand bags.

But the biggest shock was when I reached the Elbe itself.  The river level was just below the bridge, and while the steamboats that I had taken the last time were still afloat, their docks were under water.

The Albertinum wasn't flooded, though given how close it is to the river, I could see how disastrous the flood in 2002 must have been.  I decided to have a quick lunch in the museum, as the weather outside looked like it might rain.  Just a salami sandwich and an elderberry lemonade.

The inside of the museum is very modern, as befits a museum of modern art:

I couldn't take any photos of the exhibits, so here's what I saw.  I went up to the special exhibit on the second floor (over ground).  Called "The Shock of the New," the curators had created an exhibition deliberately designed to juxtapose romantic and contemporary artists.  There were four "tracks" of contrast, but these were interwoven with each other from room to room.  For example, one track had Caspar David Friedrich, Vilhelm Hammershoi, Gerhard Richter, and Mark Rothko, and was called "confronting the void."  So half a room might have selections from each, while on the other half were works by Eugene Delacroix, Edouard Manet, Max Ernst, and Jeff Wall, and was called "the body as arena."  Other tracks were "making the transient permament" (John Constable, Adolph Menzel, Max Liebermann, and David Claerbout) and "imagining the impossible (Eugene Delacroix, Paul Cezanne, Per Kirby, and Luc Tuymans).

Many of these juxtapositions were fascinating, though not all of them worked.  Claerbout is a photographer and one room was made pitch dark to display some of his slides in light boxes.   "Take your time.  Your eyes will adjust to the dark" said the signs.  About half a dozen Germans went in just before me and I could hear them saying things like. "Can you see anything?"  "Yes, it's getting clearer."  "I still can't see anything."  "No, no, it is getting clearer."  Eventually, I could make out his photos.  They were of Venice and the islands of the lagoon at night with no light.  Claerbout was in the group of "making the transient permanent," and the "transient" captured here was the darkness of the unlit city at night.  Not an easy thing to photograph or experience.

Of course this exhibit meant that some of their regular material wasn't on display.  In particular, I think they only had some of their collection of Otto Dix's work up, which was a disappointment.  They did, at least, have his massive triptych called "War," which is one of the most powerful anti-war paintings I've ever seen.  I'd seen it once before on special exhibit at the Zwinger in 2007 and was blown away bit it the first time I saw it.  He finished it in 1932 and the painting had to go into hiding to save it from the Nazis. If you want to see what it looks like, just google the words "Otto Dix, War, Triptych" though, it's far more moving and impressive in person where you can experience its enormity.

After about an hour and a half I had seen all there was to see, so I left.  It was a little after 2 and I wasn't sure whether I should try to catch the 3:04 train back to Berlin or spend more time in Dresden and take the 5:04 train.  I was kind of museumed-out and since the steam boats were gone as an option, I decided to head back to Berlin early.  Unfortunately, Deutsche Bahn had other ideas.  At the station, I saw that the 3:04 train was delayed 50 minutes.  I went and got a coffee and did the crossword puzzle in The International Herald-Tribune (which is still being published!  I thought it was being discontinued.  I buy it every day -- it's my biggest splurge since at 3 euros/day it adds up).

By the time I got to the platform, the train had been delayed 60 minutes, and in fact, it arrived 75 minutes late.  I would have been better off taking the later train.  Best guess:  delays due to flooding on the Czech side.  Once we got underway, it was very smooth and quiet.  Here's some of the high water visible from the train:

When we reached Berlin, I was hungry for dinner so I decided to try a hamburger place under the Schlieses Tor U-bahn line that my mother had written me about.  It's called Burgermeister (a pun since in German that means the mayor of the city, but in English it connotes, the master of the hamburger) and it makes the best hamburgers I've ever had in Europe.

It's located in what appears to be an old pissoir (you can still see the little sign saying "men"):

Unlike, say, Mustafa's (also in Kreuzberg), the line moves very fast:

You put in your order, and then you wait.  I was confused at first, since I ordered a beer, but I realized that I needed to get it out of the 'fridge off to side.  When my number was called I got it and sat down to enjoy the only hamburger I've ever had in Europe that I liked (I've had lots of very bad ones).

Afterwards, I walked about two blocks to the East Side Gallery, a long stretch of the Berlin Wall that has been decorated by artists.  Here are a few examples.

After that it was back to the pension.  I'm going to sleep early and hoping to rent a bicycle tomorrow.