Preface. The New Life. History is sometimes made with a camera. In 1925, in her studio on Corfus and Dambélin, the photographer Frida Ries posed the young boxer Erech Brandl naked in front of her lens. His trained body was lit with a sophistication usually reserved for female nudes. When the art dealer Alfred Flechtime published the full-page pictures from the shoot, showing the boxer nude from the front and from behind in his trendsetting magazine Kvershnet cross section, both photographer and editor had a sense of being ahead of their time. Boxing had exploded in popularity in America and was now causing a stir on the German cultural scene. There was much to be learned from boxing matches. The prominent left-wing poet and playwright Bertrand Brecht thought an evening in the theatre ought to be like a boxing match. He installed a punching ball in his study, and the author of Vicky Balm trained regularly in a boxing club.
The word kerpakultur, body culture, did the rounds. The immaculate, fully trained body became an obsession of the age. The picture-hungry Weimar Republic had a particular weakness for women photographers and the female gaze. The most interesting, innovative creators in this new craft were women. Frida Ries had directed Erech Brandl to look at the floor. That way, he appeared more like an object than if he had shown his face and looked at the viewer. Ries also forbade him to pose in the usual challenging boxing stance. Rather than covering himself with raised fists, Frida Ries asked him to raise his right arm a little to make his body appear less shielded. This added vulnerability emphasized the radical and challenging way in which the usual roles of men and women had been swapped. Even in the provocative 1920s, a woman reducing a male body to the status of object as lovingly as Ries did in this picture wasn't something that happened often. It would have consequences. That was certain.
Using scenes like that photo shoot in Frida Ries' celebrity studio, this book tells the story of a time that in many respects looks like a blueprint for our own. Viewed from the perspective of the present day, the Weimar Republic appears like a lenticular image, a picture printed to look different at different angles, surprisingly contemporary at one moment, weirdly alien the next. At times, it seems almost more modern than we are, as if we're looking back at something that is still in front of us. And then again, it looks as far removed from us as the black-clad rigid figures in the family portraits of our great-grandparents. How euphorically it had begun in 1918 with the fall of the Kaiser and the proclamation of the first Democratic Republic on German soil.
The old world is rotten. All its joints are creaking. I want to help to demolish it, the young expressive dancer and pioneering performance artist, Valesca Gerte, proclaimed, I believe in the new life. I want to help to build it. In every area of life, a new age seemed to be dawning. There were expectations of the new man, the new woman, the new building, even a new art movement, Neuys-Achlicchite, new objectivity. The architect, Bruno Taut, soon to be famous for the restrained functionality of his large housing estates, was not a man given to overreaction, yet he celebrated an almost religious ecstasy in 1920, saying, our tomorrow gleams in the distance, up with transparency, clarity, up with purity, up with crystal, and up and higher up with the fluid, the graceful, angular, sparkling, flashing light, up with the eternal building.
As cool as our responses today might be to the cubic buildings and the plain furniture of the new building, we can barely imagine the dizzying, vertiginous excitement with which they were designed at the time. And the aggression, Taut the architect, raged against stuccoed 19th-century buildings with a violence that called for dynamite and wrecking balls. Away with the gravestone and cemetery facades outside four-story junk stores and bric-a-brac markets, smash the shell limestone, Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian columns, smash all the ludicrous fakery. Oh, our concepts, space, homeland, style, God alive, those concepts stink to heaven, tear them to bits, dissolve them, let nothing remain, death to all that's musty.
How does it fit together? How did this stirring proclamation result in the unadorned modern architecture that seems so sober and cool to us today, almost well-behaved in its balanced elegance? The deliberately dramatic radicalism, typical of these years in many fields, led me to inquire into the emotional state of the Weimar Republic. Very few moments in German history have prompted such intense emotions as these. Born out of the torment of war, the enthusiasm of revolution was overshadowed by the humiliations of defeat and a sense of intellectual homelessness, along with the risks of unfamiliar freedom.
It was a time of extreme fluctuation. 1923 saw the madness of hyperinflation with its billion-mark notes that even a street beggar would have refused. Inflation called into question centuries old notions of value obliterated traditions and prepared people for a turbulent decade that in the words of the historian, Detlef Poikert played breathlessly and extravagantly through all the positions and possibilities of the modern age, explored them all and rejected them at almost the same time. This book deals in the feelings, moods and sensations produced by the political attitudes and conflicts of the age, emotional manifestations such as unease, confidence, anxiety, unwie, self-reliance, a desire to consume, a desire to dance, a hunger for experience, pride and hatred.
How did people feel in the Weimar Republic? Impossible to generalize of course, but amidst the different contradictory perspectives, it is a question that needs to be asked. How did it feel to be young, to be a woman, a city-dweller or a farmer? How did the Frichob soldiers feel in 1918 when they couldn't understand why the war was over? What did the revolutionaries feel? When the widespread hatred of soft plush of decoration and ornament? How did young women see their future when inflation reduced their dowries to nothing and instead, in huge numbers, they received something fundamentally new? Secretarial work?
How did people feel when the cities grew and grew and no one knew, unlike us today, whether they would ever stop? And why was the melancholic Austrian writer and journalist Josef Rort of all people so enthusiastic about city traffic that he cried, I am devoted to the Glaistraic, a railway junction in Berlin. Why did the young author Rort Lancehof-Yock plant a kiss on the radiator of her car when she parked it in the garage at night? And why did she urgently recommend that her readers do the same? The story of the Weimar Republic is best told in the places that shaped its intellectual development.
Whether it be the dance hall, the bow house dwelling, the open plan office, heavy traffic, the photographic studio, the sports hall, the beer tent at election time, or the edge of the street when the fighting gangs were marching. We also catch a glimpse of the villages and small towns in which a yearning for the city was growing, supposedly turning people's heads, inspiring young women to run away, leaving many disappointed bachelors behind. In the countryside, everyday struggles contrasted with the promises of the beautiful new modern world of consumerism, whose siren call was heard loud and clear coming from the cities.
Is there a danger that we ignore life in the provinces if we focus on the glamorous urban scene of the 1920s, and by doing so are we guilty of repeating an error that Berlin cultural elites were accused of committing at the time? And conversely, what are we to make of the Weimar Republic's nostalgia for the countryside, of the fanatical settler movement which called young people into the fields, a forerunner of today's eco-culture and rural communes?
The momentum of the cultural upheavals that were taking place would be unthinkable without jazz which inspired an intoxicated people, sending them into raptures. The gramophone record created pop culture which violently cranked up the intensity of life. The fact that one could dance the Charleston alone had consequences for the self-empowerment of the individual. To be able to join in solo on the dance floor was nothing less than revolutionary.
But then we adjust the image slightly and see the elegant people still standing on the sidelines. Those young decommissioned officers who now served in the dance halls of the Republic and were paid for by independent women who had no time to sit around for ages waiting until someone asked them to dance. How did they feel? House Fartaland, Fatherland House, a pleasure palace in Berlin even provided childcare when mothers wanted to dance in the afternoon.
This book tells the story of the highly charged politics of the body, exciting new developments in masculinity and femininity, about the need to be both more affectionate and more sexually ambiguous while at the same time toughening up and engaging in self-improvement in every area of life. Crucially, this was true of the armed combat groups formed of disaffected men that marched down the streets in close formation and gave the individual the intoxicating feeling of superior strength. This book will describe the attempts of rapidly changing governments to ride on the tiger of public disorder, but it is that very disorder that deserves the greatest attention, the pre-political states of mind that formed people's values, attitudes and convictions.
It was no coincidence that journalism enjoyed a stylistic and perceptive heyday. The intellectuals of the Republic, whatever their politics, developed a particular sensitivity to the political content of apparently quite unpolitical everyday phenomena. Wanting to know what it felt like in the Weimar Republic means not always interpreting historical events from their end point. Unlike us, people at the time didn't know how things were going to turn out. In view of the monstrous and horrific development of national socialism, we might be tempted to see the Republic only as the pre-history of its conclusion and constantly search for early clues to its downfall, but even mass unemployment was not a compelling reason to vote for Hitler, and many of the unemployed didn't.
So who did? Why did a woman such as Louisa Zomitz, who was happily married to a Jew, sympathize with the NSDAP? Who did people at the times see when they saw Hitler, the same person whom we see today after two generations of processing? Why could so many Germans no longer hear one another? Why did so many of them see the debates in the Reichstag as so much empty noise and the newspapers that reported on it as propagating nothing but lies? During the global economic crisis of the late 1920s and 1930s, the balance of German emotions alternated between hatred and a longing for unity.
The exhilarating diversity of the 1920s often came to be seen as a burden and by many as a curse. These people felt that their society was torn, split into irreconcilably opposed worlds that would never be mutually comprehensible. Inevitably, this dissatisfaction invites comparison with the present day. Around 1930, democracy lost one of its most important and most fragile resources, confidence. Much that had, during the boom times, felt like liberation and high-altitude flight now came to be seen as exploitation and betrayal.
From 1930 onwards, the attitudes of many Germans changed in ways that fed deeply into tastes and fashion, the sense of the body, tonal register, and musical preference. The mood plummeted, the desire for salvation rose, new kinds of litiginous intoxication were sought, more thrilling, aggressive, and menacing than ever. Any historical narrative implicitly asks questions concerning individual responsibility. The march towards national socialism was not inevitable. Weimar democracy was not so weak that any other outcome was unimaginable. People had a choice, each for themselves, including in the polling booth. At the time, they couldn't see exactly how important that choice was.