Chapter 3 Extreme Living Let us want, dream, create together the new building of the future, which will be everything in one form, architecture and sculpture and painting, which will rise towards the heavens from millions of hands of craftsmen, the crystalline symbol of a new coming faith. Valtagorpius, Bauhaus Manifesto, 1919 In the Bauhaus House, Death to Everything Fasty, the architect Bournotaupt proclaimed in 1920. The 40-year-old was not yet the famous builder of large-scale Berlin housing estates, but he had already been able to erect a garden city for ordinary people in Marktobork and the Tushkustenziedlung, paintbox estate in Berlin, so-called because of its bright colors. Bournotaupt had bigger dreams, but in the meantime he had to pay the rent with second jobs, for example by designing stage sets or publishing the journal Frühlichet Morninglight.
In the magazine he published visions of the new building and gave free reign to his revolutionary energy, away with the sauopuses, the dopes and the miseries, the always self-important frowners, away with the gravestones and cemeteries facades outside four-story junk stores and brickabrack markets, smashed the shell limestone doric, ionic and Corinthian columns, smashed all the ludicrous fakery. With puritanical rage these words were directed at the historical stucco facades of the Gundudseid, the age of the founders in the 1870s when an economic boom at the beginning of the German Empire led to an ornate triumphalism in architecture. The buffunery which shaped the face of cities at the time. Tout wanted those facades knocked down from the walls as soon as possible.
Down with the elegance of sandstone and mirrored windows smashed to pieces the marble and fine wood junk on the rubbish heap with all the trash. And he wanted to chuck the thinking that had led to such monstrosities on the rubbish heap as well. Oh our concepts, space, home, style, ugh, how those concepts stink. Tear them up, break them down, nothing should be left of them. Scatter their schools, send the professorial wigs flying, we'll play catch with them, death to everything fussy, death to everything that means titles, dignity, authority. Impossible not to think of the slogan of the anti-authoritarian revolt of 1968, under the gowns the mildew of a thousand years.
But we mustn't imagine that Bernard Toatt and his comrades in arms didn't have positive things in mind as well. His treatise ends with a lot of cheering. Our morning gloss in the distance, hailed to transparency, to clarity, hailed to purity, hailed to crystal, and hailed and hailed again to all that is flowing, graceful, angular, sparkling, flashing light, hailed to eternal building. That's Bruno Toatt in a state of euphoria. Toatt was actually a man of moderation and the middle way who wanted to make big architecture for little people.
And unlike many of his colleagues in new building was able to take into consideration what might be seen as the pity bourgeois need for comfort. He saw himself with his pickaxe at the front of a historic battle for architectural authenticity, born aloft on a sparkling, flashing up current of enthusiasm. The new was to come into the world as something eternal, detoxified, pure, liberated from all superficial trappings. The functionalism of the Bauhaus was also celebrated with religious fervour. In 1919, a year after the end of the war, the architect Vaita Gorpius, supported by the painter Leonel Feininger, formulated the founding manifesto of the Bauhaus.
Let us want, dream, create together the new building of the future, which will be everything in one form, architecture and sculpture and painting, which will rise towards the heavens from millions of hands of craftsmen, the crystalline symbol of a new coming faith. Re-think everything from the ground up. Gorpius relied on the fundamental radicalism of so many innovative movements in the 1920s. His appeal to found a new kind of learning community ignited. Reprinted in many newspapers, it was followed by painters, architects, sculptors, designers, typographers and photographers, famous artists who had no interest in teaching ex-cathidra, but instead wanted to shape the future with their students in workshops.
Johannes Iten, Gerhard Marx, Paul Klee, Oskashlemmer, Vasily Kandinsky and later followed by Laszlo Moholynaj, Josef Iobas and many others. They weren't just concerned with making a clearly designed lamp or a contemporary chair, but with a renewal of lifestyles developed out of a community that wanted to live together almost as intensely as a commune. Their sense of mission was aggressive, their range of subjects all encompassing. They were concerned with the entire building, from the hole down to the tiniest detail, seen as a unit, from the ground plan to the door handles, the coffee cups and even the chess set that stood on the plain table.
Everything was reduced to its elementary function. The night in the Bauhaus chess set was no longer a gorgeously carved horse, but an angular lump that visibly showed what moves could be made with it, forward and then off to the side at a right angle. The bishop wasn't a slender messenger, but an X-shaped lump that represented its diagonal paths. Reduced to the geometrical distillate of their movements, the Bauhaus chess figures dismissed centuries of history of precious carved figures as knickknacks; the sublime, they argued, was always simple.
Collaboration between the individual arts in the Bauhaus was what we would call interdisciplinary today. The Bauhaus members strove for spiritual unity based on a shared understanding of good crafts and the willingness to respond to mutual influence and criticism. Such fundamentally different characters as the iconic dreamer Paul Klee, the advertising designer Herbert Baier, the dogmatic esoteric color theorist Johannes Iten, and the dance machinist Oskar Schlimmer made common cause. The individual arts should find their way back from their lonely separation into the lap of the all-encompassing art of building.
The prospect of coming close to the spirit of the new in a community of students and teachers and the certainty of being able to shape the changing times led all these avowed artists to break away from the spheres of their previous lives and come together in Weimar. The city was open to them because the Academy of Art and the College of Applied Art devoted to the avant-garde under the direction of Henry van de Velder. Both closed in the war were in need of revival. The initial idea was almost a redemptive one. The finding a drawing that decorates the 1919 Bauhaus Manifesto shows a church in the middle of an electric storm of lines and stars, the cathedral of the future as a glorious building of flashing thoughts.
In spite of its delight in the future, the Bauhaus philosophy also yearned for the past, for a pre-Bourgeois time in which the biggest building projects were undertaken communally by the best craftspeople and artists. Like the medieval sight hut in which builders had once gathered for the pious intention of cathedral building, similarly-minded people were now to come together in living and working communities to prepare the cathedral of freedom of the future. So high the tone, so sober the result. It's therefore entirely consistent that the cathedral of freedom should have looked very cubic in the end, quite bare and at first glance quite monotonous in appearance.
The maxim of thinking anew from the ground up led to a return to the fundamental forms of design. When it worked, the results could be entirely breathtaking. The house Amhon, the empty art lights of Wilhelm Wagenfeld, Marianne Brant's Silver Teapot, or Joseph Albers' Nest of Tables, were quintessential. In their simplicity, they went straight to the heart; their reduction, balance, and harmony were enchanting. The editors of the journal Uhu, when they saw a Neuyserlicard chair by the Rach brothers, were reminded of a poem by the nonsense poet Kustian Märgenstern.
When I sit, I don't want to sit as my bottom might wish, but as my sitting mind might, should it sit, weave the chair. The best Bauhaus pieces, which have rightly been remembered, look almost alive, spiritually charged in spite of their ascetic coolness. Even bolder means of design were gorpious goal, in order, floatingly to overcome the earthbound in effect and appearance. The flat functionalist, that his adversaries saw in him, would hardly have spoken in that way. At the Bauhaus, they were hyper-modern and mystical at the same time.
They went on diets featuring Icelandic moss pudding and cold garlic bowls. They did breathing exercises together, and engaged in ritual naked dances on the ill meadows. Johannes Iten, for example, a Bauhaus master from the earliest days, a bald, monastic figure on the Tibetan model, was Devotee of Mazdaznam, a Zoroastrian Christian Hindu mixed religion that had many devotees in the back to the land Liebenschre farm movement, and had also fallen on fertile soil in Vima. The Bauhaus people were not enemies of pleasure. Their parties were legendary, and were celebrated extravagantly.
During the poor post-war years, if they did not have enough to eat in the Bauhaus canteen, they would often push the tables together and dance to banish their hunger. And they often lay casually on the floor together. The Bauhaus archive is full of photographs, revealing an almost hippie-like abandon. The conservative Burgers of Vima, whose pride in their beautiful city was based on its prestigious past, felt that such behaviour was a thorn in their eye. There was much mockery in the local press, and there were actual attacks on students and police operations for supposedly unseemly incidents.
Far-right agitators stirred up the city's craftsmen by telling them that the Bauhaus planned to cheat them out of their meager commissions with industrial, serial constructions. In 1925, after countless quarrels, the new right-wing regional government managed to expel the Bauhaus; the teaching body and the students moved to Desau, which was governed by the social democrats. Within only 15 months, they had built the new school building, world-famous even today, with its neighbouring masters' houses. There was no shortage of conflicts between the independent-minded characters. Tensions were particularly bad between the esoteric Bohemian monk Iten and the rationalist Gorpius. Apart from mental differences, there were also political consequences. Gorpius saw his efforts to win the trust of the public as being threatened by Iten's freakish behaviour.
After his dismissal, the school became more technical and marketing-oriented, while the libertarian aspect remained, at least outwardly. The Bauhaus still attracted many forward-looking women in the expectation that equality was being taken seriously there; at first, more women enrolled than men. That did not suit Valtagorpius at all; however, he was concerned that the high proportion of women might damage the reputation of the art school and further reinforce the widespread view that the Bauhaus was a Bolshevik madhouse. For fear of the reservations of his financiers, he passed a decree reducing the proportion of women to a maximum of a third. But it was not only pressure from outside. Many of the Bauhaus men did not think the women capable of outstanding achievements, and when those achievements were forthcoming, they envied them their success or the more. Women's students were relegated to photography class or the weaving mill.
Oskar Schlemaz-Bullian's line became popular, where there's wool, there's a woman who weaves, if only to pass the time. Perhaps as an act of defiance, the Bauhaus weaving mill became one of the most innovative parts of the school, or at least one of the most lucrative. Within a few years, Guntar Stowe rose from being a student to the director of the mill, with her tapestries and blankets that wove geometrical planes of colour into fascinating textile landscapes turning the Bauhaus into an economic success that assured its survival. She was never officially thanked. Frida Dicker developed many well-known pieces of Bauhaus furniture and later a child-centred style of architecture for kindergarten. Cut-bought designed inexpensive small apartments to ease the housing shortage. Michiko Yamawaki brought a genre atypical severity to collage making.
Gritta Stem contributed significantly to the renewal of advertising graphics and advertising photography, and Marianne Brant posthumously received the highest price that was ever paid for a small Bauhaus object: $361,000 at Savabes for her 1927 metal teapot. Alma Busha developed a lot of furniture for the house Amhwan, which would be existentially important for the school since it was at the centre of the highly regarded first Bauhaus exhibition. Her Vof Poppen, Bendy Dolls Made of String, were dreamy children's toys, and her wooden building blocks for children formed arches with different radii that allowed for fantastical constructions. As the Bauhaus photographer, Lucia Moholy made a considerable contribution to the publicity for the school. Without her, the memory of the Bauhaus would not be anything like as present as it is today. But her photographs were published almost entirely uncredited.
She would later have bitter arguments about her copyright with Walter Gorpius and his wife, Yza. Compared with normal architectural art academies, the Bauhaus was a haven of free spiritedness. But when it came to hard economic interests and public recognition, many of the Bauhaus men fought unfairly for their old preeminence. For Bauhaus women, the birth of a child meant the end of a career. Gorpius and the other leading figures lacked the social imagination for the compatibility of family and work. Even so, for the young female students and artists who had come here from all over the Republic, the Bauhaus must have been a wonderful place compared with the obstacles that ambitious women usually faced.
There can have been few other institutions that left such a mountain of original photographs of confident, unconventional and happily collaborating women. These pictures can seem almost startlingly contemporary. They don't show that bobbed women that immediately let us know we are looking at women of the 1920s and apply a corresponding patina, but strong individuals, who look like they have just come down the steps of a Berlin Academy of Arts. They were original young women who had liberated themselves radically from the constricting bonds of their often provincial origins and of the age. Looking at these pictures, you sense how little separates us from them. The reason lies in their risk-taking. As we flick through the Bauhaus photograph album a hundred years later, we actually feel as if we have burst the fetters of time or done so again. For one unreal moment, they have arrived in the here and now.
We actually live like pigs, terribly thoughtlessly. The Bauhaus was serious about the revolution and brought it into the sitting room. Today, it's hard for us to imagine the challenge presented by the reduction of forms to a fundamental minimum. It was about much more than stylistic issues. It was about the chance to bring the atmosphere of general upheaval into the private sphere. In many illustrated magazines under headlines such as How Would You Like To Live? There were juxtapositions of old and new. On the left, the familiar traditional sitting room, a dense thicket in its mixture of styles, gloomy, cozy, with softer paltry. On the right, a Spartan nothing, bare steel tube furniture in a white Bauhaus cube. This was usually followed on the next few pages by the external view of the building, also as a pro and contra.
On the left, a playful villa with hip roof, doorma and aural windows and shutters. On the right, a sober white box with a flat roof and large unprotected windows, the minimalist dwelling of the new age, essentially a shell only smoothed and whitewashed. Reduction to the elementary forms of rectangle, triangle and circle was a declaration of war against everything that had hitherto been associated with a successful, comfortable life. A 1927 poster for the Deutsche Werkbundt, an association of artists, designers, architects and industrialists, showed an opulent historical sitting room which still served as a model for many Germans. It was firmly crossed out in red. Away with it, the representatives of the new design demanded.
They plainly had a lot of work ahead of them. It would be a mistake to imagine the interior of the houses of the Weimar Republic as all having been furnished by the Bauhaus. In most apartments, 1925 looked like 1890, like Kaiser Reich, the period of the German Empire, 1871 to 1918, like Pluschen knickknacks. Let's take the apartment of the silent film star Aston Nielson at Kaiser Eley 203 in Berlin. In 1924, anyone without the good fortune to be invited to visit could look at her apartment in some photographs in the magazine Diderma. It was like flicking through a kind of art museum, a wild and magnificent rollercoaster of taste. The soberist objects of all, with a medieval wooden sculptures, devout figures of the saints, which loomed plaintively out from among the trinketry of later centuries.
Meanwhile, Madame de Pompadour would have approved of the wildly ornamented bulging and over upholstered shes long in the parlour. It was an apartment from which even the owner had to take the occasional break. Aston Nielson's summer house on Hiddensy was a paragon of frugality, a place where her overstretched senses were able to recover. In her Berlin home, all the items of furniture were precious originals, bought at great expense at an antique market. But most people had similar things in their sitting rooms, albeit as copies. Factory quality, near Baroque.
Whether it was cheap or expensive, for most people in the early 1920s, coziness meant being surrounded by history, living among traditional forms, however loudly the advocates of new living shouted, death to the fusty. But it nagged away at them regardless. Was living among the opulent decor of the past really still as comfortable as people had believed it to be for decades? Doubts were growing among the residents. People felt that they had been left behind. Revolution and the shock of inflation had changed everything. Supposedly valuable things were starting to look threadbare. What had previously looked merely velvety now looked slightly musty. What had seemed valuable now looked weird.
Widespread talk of spiritual homelessness was more than a phrase. Many people no longer felt that their own apartments were still welcoming, and the red X that the vacu-bunt had painted over their sitting room had started them thinking. Perhaps this really was junk. A profound change in taste that would continue for over two generations began to take hold of people. Decor that had looked pleasing a moment ago now looked like a tumour. Historicism had led people to decorate their apartments as a table of contents of their education. The architecture critic Adolf Biena wrote in the publishing company Ushdine's pioneering magazine, Ooh. Under the headline Carefree Rooms the author argued that everything superfluous should be banished from apartments. He himself had even removed all the artworks from the walls. Our apartment no longer needs to be a museum, theatre and church, not even a place for display.
We no longer want it to demonstrate our personality. The more rich, fantastical, romantic our lives, the more self-evident, peaceful and simple our four walls should be. Because it lacked originality, historicism had developed a curious form of greed. It had constantly piled new copies of past styles on top of each other, so that the lack of discrimination had gradually become its essence. Every gap had to be filled with trinkets that in some way looked as if they came from a long time ago. Yes, we actually live like swine, terribly thoughtlessly. Bertolt Brecht has one of his characters say in a satire on Bauhaus architecture as he is being led wide-eyed through one such modern dwelling. Only a few years before the character had still been lying in the mud in Arras, with his fellow soldier, and now that same comrade is hosting him in a setting without so much as a speck of dust.
A few whiskies later, however, he runs rampage in the sterile Bauhaus building because he felt within himself a depthless desire for as many things ill-matched, illogical and natural as possible. The advocates of the Bauhaus style had a different view. They claimed that the superabundance found in ordinary apartments took their inhabitants to the edge not only aesthetically but practically too. In their desperate efforts to keep their cluttered surroundings clean, they had become slaves to their apartments. Very few already had one of the newly invented vacuum cleaners, but they also had huge quantities of carpets, runners, footstools and sofas. Most of the dust was only being redistributed and swept from one end of the apartment to the other. For the new person, this was not a species-appropriate setting, neither ideal nor hygienic.
The modern human being cultivated a new sense of the body, trained in sports and gymnastics, that no longer matched the old-style dwellings. They had had enough of sinking into upholstery, immersing themselves in an apartment and being wrapped in an atmosphere. They wanted to put themselves on display, even in their apartment they wanted to be the fighter that the present demanded, to tower as a person who no longer wanted to hide in the past. After experiments with wood-slat constructions and rigid steel tubes, Marcel Breuer, born in Hungary in 1902 and only 23 years old, director of the factory workshop at the Desal Bauhaus, invented a back-leg-free chair on which one could bob up and down slightly. Traditional armchairs, soft and low, encouraged sedentary behaviour. On the cantilever or Frei Schminger, free-swinging chair, its later name, one sat as if about to spring, ready at any moment, to catapult oneself back into active life.
This matched the demeanour of the athletic person of 1925. Even when sitting, a certain physical tension was preserved, the sitter was springingly at rest, keeping their balance and sensing their strength. It was built for people who wanted to retain some degree of movement, even when seated. The cantilever chair displayed the person in the empty space. Because one could transform one's own strength into energy while sitting on it, one felt as if one were on a kind of sitting machine, ideally suited to a space that the architects of the new building liked to refer to as a machine for living. It matched the intensely nervous mood of the era, and it also looked strikingly elegant, the epitome of modern living even today, copied and varied many times over, most recently by Ikea's Poeng chair.
But a piece of furniture like that isn't designed overnight, and not by one person. It was the result of years of work in the workshop, with many preliminary stages and the mutual influence of several designers. In the end, three designers were able to claim the cantilever for themselves, Masel Breuer, Mies van der Rohe, and March Stamm. The copyright row that developed among these like-minded people is interesting even today. Cooperation and competition were contradictory principles that offered the Bauhaus and its kindred spirits both solidarity and explosive material, creating a unique psychodynamic.
Apart from anything else, Gropius and his people were engineers of fame, they were genius as at PR, masters of lobbying as well as marketing, advertising and corporate design. The Bauhaus logo, their own series of books, an unmistakable formal language in layout and typography, and public presence in every artistic sphere, even the theatre, ensured that everything that looks aesthetic and functional is called Bauhaus, even today.
Door to door, new building for the urban masses. There was one sphere of society that couldn't have cared less, whether a bit of stucco was stuck somewhere, or what spirit might have woven a particular chair. This sector was happy to have a roof over its head. In the poor quarters of the cities, people were crammed tightly together, and viruses and bacteria had a heyday. It was damp and dirty, and strangers would often sleep in the same bed in succession.
If a person left the house in many cases a sleeping buddy would come in and slip by arrangement under the still warm blanket before disappearing again when the first person came back. The same was true of the bathtub, if one had such a thing. The water in a tub would have to do for the whole family, the last one in would bathe in cold, dirty water. In many apartments in rundown rental blocks, there were conditions of almost indescribable squalor.
Between 1901 and 1920, one Berlin medical insurance company carried out investigations into housing conditions in Berlin's working-class districts and documented them in 175 photographs that give a shattering insight into the spaces in which many people had to live. Full of junk, damp and unhealth. Because there was no money for cupboards, the contents of the households were strewn all over the place, clothes hung on nails on the walls of the rooms, washing dried on lines stretched across the rooms.
Mothers sat at the only available tables, sewing sacks for money. There weren't enough chairs for the residents, so people lay about on mattresses and got on each other's nerves. In every third Berlin house, there was a pub where many people sought refuge in alcohol, but only the men. In proletarian pubs, unlike the bars in the middle-class districts, women were distinguished by their scarcity. Everywhere there were people coughing, wheezing and sweating with fever.
Sleeping sickness, tuberculosis and above all, Spanish flu with its millions of fatalities had taught people to fear the modern varieties of pestilence. Heinrichtzillers' insight that people can be killed not only with an axe, but also with an apartment was doubly true. Criminality in these districts was viral. The cramped conditions did encourage a feeling of solidarity, but to an even greater extent fostered violence. In the Weimar Republic, that was a source of considerable anxiety.
In 1925, the liberal philosopher and author Teodor Lessing, in his semi-documentary essay about the mass murderer Fritz Harmon, described one such place of social sickness. Harmon, the cannibal, who killed and dismembered 24 boys and young men in a bestial manner, lived in a rundown part of the old city of Hanover, a breeding ground for lightless generations, jaundiced with poverty, breathing in decay and mildew, cursed to misery.
In many larger cities, parts of the medieval centers had been neglected, and now, in buildings that might from a distance, have seemed picturesque, provided accommodation for the poorest of the poor. In the evening, when the moon hung over the rotting roofs of grey chimney stacks and cast a silver light on the ghostly black river, the heavy, thin, exhausted, overworked suffering humanity emerged from their old boxes and hung and crouched over the stinking lagoon.
It was not the age of these districts that was problematic, but their overpopulation. Whether the houses were four decades old or dated from the 15th century, the effect was the same. It was as if they were flooded with misery. Half a million people didn't even have a roof over their heads, and pressure on the cities was growing. More and more people were turning their back on the country and trying their luck in the crowded metropolis.
The problem couldn't be solved, but it could be eased. Building was needed on a scale too great for private clients. In the first years, after the war, house building was still stagnating, but with the introduction of the tax on inherited housing in 1925, the state created an instrument for an active construction policy. This meant that old buildings were taxed and the income used for the construction of new buildings. All over the country, charitable construction companies were set up, undertaking massive building projects. After 1924, half of all dwellings were built by charities in Frankfurt over 90%. A boom began in the building of social housing and satellite towns. The authorities really had a slog ahead of them if the cities weren't to let people in the lowest income bracket suffocate in misery.
A slog meant cheap building on a mass scale and in the shortest possible time. Lined up in rigid rows, set on green field sites, built with serially produced prefabricated construction elements, countless thousands of apartments were produced under extremely high pressure, a huge accomplishment by the state, all the more remarkable when you consider that the German government can't get a grip on the catastrophic housing shortage we face in the present day. In Berlin alone, 146,000 dwellings were built between 1925 and 1931. By way of comparison, in the six years between 2013 and 2019, in spite of similarly high demand, 91,140 new flats were constructed.
In Frankfurt, it was the architect and city planner Ernst May, who was responsible for the construction of 12,000 new homes between 1925 and 1930. They were tiny but practical, often with a little garden in front for the purposes of self-sufficiency. Price controls made uniformity inevitable, although under certain circumstances, it was possible to introduce a certain degree of originality. In Tsekhausen on Borfeldstraße in Frankfurt, two dozen three-story cubes were built, in a zigzag pattern, as the name suggests, rather than being erected in the usual dull row. The whole thing looked as if a god had not thrown some dice exactly, but sorted his building blocks, although unfortunately he only had one kind.
With the breathtaking scale and monotony of these new build areas, the state had created an impressive face for itself, a real mass ornament. The geometry of the modern age had taken hold of the little people. Small house lined up next to small house as if on parade. The new Frankfurt was no longer dominated by chaos. There was no charming confusion like that produced by small-scale private construction over the centuries in city centres across Germany. Instead, there was an almost frightening clarity. The satellite town boasted a rigid order that its residents had to fit in with.
Such strict geometry was nothing new in urban architecture, of course, even in the newly built districts of the Baroque period. Or in the 19th century tenements, flats were stacked serially on top of one another, but living conditions had never been organised as soberly as they were under the builders of the Weimar Republic. It can hardly come as a surprise that a lot of attention was paid in the Soviet Union to answer Meiss talent for creating affordable living spaces. In 1930 they had head hunted him. Meiss went to Russia with 20 German colleagues and even worked there for a time as engineer in chief of the Association for the Construction of Standard Cities in the USSR.
Meiss now in charge of a workforce of over 800 people saw this as perhaps the biggest task that an architect has ever faced. For a large-scale planner like himself, this was the fulfillment of a life stream to build new cities out of nothing for millions of people. Within a very short time, Ernst Meiss was to throw up a new industrial city called Magnetogorsk after the nearby magnetic mountain in the bare step of the Urals. After three years, however, Meiss fell into disfavor. Aside from the usual quarrels with civil servants, Meiss construction suddenly wasn't propagandistic enough for the Soviet leadership.
The Stalinist need for display was unhappy with functionalist Sylenböl, literally line construction, otherwise known as row house, based on long, thin buildings. They wanted more pomposity in the decor, more closed districts and more visual axes involving grand monuments. In totalitarianism, the modern age paused, Meiss's idea simply became too stark even for the Soviets. Equally undesirable in Nazi Germany, he later went to Kenya and ran a coffee plantation.
The Frankforta Mai was only outdone in terms of productivity by his Berlin colleague Martin Wagner. Wagner was the building director of a city with an even worse housing crisis, but Wagner had more room than Mai did in Frankfort. He didn't have to move his larger states outside the city, but was able to erect them among the many small towns that had come together in 1920 to form greater Berlin. City planner Wagner found a congenial artistic partner in Bourno Taut, who was now chief architect of Berlin's non-profit construction company, Geerhark, which was a leading player in modern large-scale housing construction. Taut almost thought on as large a scale as Mai, but was more concerned with loosening up serial building with a variety of individual elements. He wasn't even afraid of predifying a simple door, with a wide frame adorned with a gold waffle pattern on a blue background, as if he had suffered an attack of romantic weakness or anticipated a post-modern brainstorm.
Taut built residential districts that remain exemplary for their high-level democratic construction. His vonstadt carligin demonstrates that even social housing can be charming. With its pre-constructed lodgiers, the building turns its logic outwards. Curved corner balconies recall the elegance of a luxury steamer, and windows running around corners sweep away centuries-old building rules. Kitchens were typical of the method of new building. They shrank to the size of a battery cage. Architects explained their tiny size by saying that they had measured the many unnecessary journeys that people had to take while cooking in a traditional kitchen. Tailorism, the optimization of time and motion for reasons of profitability, had shown that housewives, the house husband was still a long way off, wasted much of their energy making these unnecessary journeys. To shorten them, the kitchens in Reichspan dining cars were taken as a model and a virtue made of their tiny spaces.
The Frankfort kitchen that the Viennese architect Magareto Schutter Lihotsky designed for the buildings of Ernst May in 1926 had an area of only 6.5 square meters. In spite of a width of just 1.87 meters, it offered what was supposedly perfect working conditions. With upper and lower cupboards, it formed the prototype of the contemporary fitted kitchen. Cooking in the kitchen was like working in the cockpit of a narrow aeroplane. If you needed a work surface, you just folded a board between the lower cupboards that faced one another. That was a practical solution and the fact that the women in the kitchen were essentially locked away didn't trouble the designer at all. On the contrary, the separation of the sphere of food preparation, dirty, from the space of eating, clean, followed the paranoid notions of social hygiene that the reform-living movement followed at the time. The modern woman rationalized away on democratic principles was supposed to be invisible until the food was ready.
Cooking was banished to a room that the wife only escaped when she brought in the finished food. Ideally, she would have changed in the meantime. Built Euphoria Anyone who went out in the evening to go dancing or to the cinema left the domain of the Bauhaus aesthetic. A different architectural spirit prevailed in the glittering dance halls and entertainment palaces. A hitherto unknown glamour catapulted the guests out of the travails of the plane into artificial glittering states of paradise. Those who went eating and dancing in Berlin's house Gormenia could consider themselves the most elegant of all. The building included a series of five very different restaurants that stretched over a total of three stories. Dinars sat in two gallery floors, one above the other and looked down at the parquet below or at the balcony opposite.
The architect, Leon Nachtlich, had wanted to arrange the house Gormenia which opened in 1929 in such a way that as many people as possible see each other because people take great delight in looking. Five years after the introduction of the new Reichsmark society had found an ideal look for itself. With the interconnected sequence of establishments Caffib Eileen, Vainresteron, Tauber, the Bierstubuschtag Pilson, the American buffet and the English tea room, Nachtlicht had created a complete artwork centering on a conservatoire with branching water courses, tall palm trees, and exotic plants with tortoises wandering about to the sound of screeching parrots and the driving rhythm of jazz.
Trees of light made of milky glass tubes stretched the full height of the three stories. On the top floor was the dance hall above that the roof garden on which there was room for 650 people among spot lit fountains and luxuriant flowers. If it rained an electrically activated glass roof appeared above the guests. When the glass roof was removed again after the storm the cleansed air is inhaled in deep breaths and people are even more delighted with the technical development for saving a day that had begun with great pleasure, according to the Gormenius Brochia. The owners were particularly proud of the indoor climate. With the Vusmald weather maker they were able to make their own weather the advertisement promised. In every detail the house Gormenia aimed for a perfect and undisturbed artificial world. The space was an ideal backdrop for beautiful women and elegant men strolling amidst a world that was there entirely for their pleasure.
Waiters were supposed to dash about like arrows fired from a bow. Everything here works as if on a conveyor belt, as if by clockwork everything is wound up everything electrically charged. Some giant must oppress a button so that everything works and hurries and rushes tirelessly without a pause for breath. To maintain the momentum the music could never fall silent because the best bands are precisely good enough to take over from one another in constant succession. Five such select orchestras play in the Gormenia Palace. Agents of all countries are employed in New York and London in Paris and Rome in Vienna and Budapest even in Bonas Aires and Rio de Janeiro to find bands that will complete the service to our guests.
The glamorous stylistic phenomenon characteristic of buildings like the Gormenia were only called Art Deco later on. In the 1920s the concept didn't exist. At first Art Deco was nameless. It was only when a subsequent generation was struck by the bravura pieces of this ambitious decorative trend that the glamorous side of the modern age was given its own name. In reference to a big exhibition that had been shown in Paris in 1925, the Exposisio Antanasunal des Art de Cortif y Anders Triel Modell. The Berlin Renaissance Teerta for example which is now considered to be the last surviving Art Deco theatre in Europe was seen in the 1920s as a testimony to an expressionist Rococo. If Art Deco was only given its own name after the fact and it was generally categorized as Neuys Áchlickeit at the time, this was down, apart from a lack of eloquent theorists, to one important factor.
Art Deco broke just as decisively with the past as the functionalism of new building. Its guiding principle was not minimalism however but excess. While the representative of Neuys Áchlickeit concentrated on the minimum that was absolutely necessary for a good life, the representatives of Art Deco saw excess as a highly necessary matter. They too wanted to remake the world from the ground up but make it more glamorous. Much more glamorous. Spikes and arches, fanned corners and aerodynamic curves gave every object a striking appearance and fine materials such as smooth leather, mirrors, chrome, brass, polished ivory and gleaming mahogany lent simple forms of weighty magnificence. The domains of Art Deco were fashion and jewelry, interior decoration and the temples of modern distraction, dance halls, cinemas, boutiques, department stores, hotels, the luxurious places that made up the euphoric elements of the roaring twenties.
An example in Germany was that the Káśdát department store in Hamanplatz, a bit of Chicago that loomed like an American dream from a tenement block in the Berlin District of Neuichön. Today the Senate and the District Council are arguing about the plan to rebuild the upwardly aspirational department store under the direction of the Chipperfield architecture office so that its Mesopotamian metropolis architecture can stand triumphant over the neighborhood once again. Also falling under the heading of Art Deco is the Universum cinema by Erich Mendelsohn. Today the Schalbüner on Leningenaplatz which with its elegant round bow and angular superstructures noses its way towards Köferstendam like a luxury steamer.
Or the Grassemuseum in Leipzig with its Hall of Pillars which looks as if it were built for Cleopatra's wedding to Albert Einstein. Cleopatra, she was like ancient Egypt in general, incredibly hip in the 1920s. In 1922 the discovery of the grave of Tutankhamun fired the imagination of designers as did the Ishtar Gate which was shown in Berlin's Pergammon Museum in 1930, were the pharaohs not also Bauhaus artists in their way, the pyramids are manifesto to sublime reduction? The bust of Nefertiti shown to the public in 1924 caused a sensation and expanded people's understanding of timeless beauty. A cultural kinship was seen between Nefertiti and Greta Garbo and turned Nefertiti and her husband Akhenaten into the faces of beer, cigarettes and coffee. Charleston dresses in the pharaoh style were the last word in fashion.
Stage stars such as Ida Roland and Margot Leon, forgotten today, strutted around disguised as Nefertiti. Big performances like theirs needed a suitable setting and they found it in the grandeur of Art Deco. Palatial interiors like Caffi Uland with gleaming gold ceramics on the walls, ceilings that fanned out like seashells, brass and frosted glass light columns and handrails of polished bubinga wood or palisander turned every guest into a star, a pharaoh of the 20th century. Art Deco was an aesthetic of globalisation. It was no coincidence that it's heyday coincided with the arrival of international shipping lines, passenger flights and travel agencies, aspects of Yudin Yuth style, the German version of Art Nouveau, the pioneering utilitarian Vina Vekstetta Viennese workshops, design movement and the Bauhaus merged with French models but also with the American chic of skyscraper fantasies.
This produced an international metropolitan style that was soon as global as the Charleston, the Bob or Coca-Cola. That brown sweet soda appeared on the German market in 1929 in the ribbed and bellied bottle that still exists in a very slightly different form today. Originally designed in 1915 the Coca-Cola bottle is the best known and most durable product of Art Deco, a coup of packaging design. It was a little piece of the world of the great Gatsby that everybody could afford. Like the Bauhaus, Art Deco wanted to be radically new but with the stress on dynamism. It was sensual, decadent and intoxicating, almost orgiastic as the architect Le Corbusier complained. Art Deco flirted with the world of opium and cocaine and presented itself as a drug in built form. It is hardly a surprise that this intoxication in stone should have been met with skepticism and resistance.
In Art Deco the modern age had for many people been given a destructive but also a triumphant face. They were as uncomfortable with it as they were with the severe Puritanism of the Bauhaus. Furious innovation in building became the visible sign of a feeling of loss that crept upon them in their more timid moments. Bit by bit many saw their spiritual home being lost. New morals, slender and confident young women, crazy music, cock-shaw bosses, rising prices in crafts and retail and these buildings that looked distinctly un-German. The alternative had a telling name, Jaime Tchutzstier, homeland protection style. The flat roof as a matter of conscience, Jaime Tchutz architecture.
In 1926 in Ulstein's Spirited magazine Oohoo, the social democrat minded head of the Bauhaus, Walter Gorpius and the far-right architect Paul Schultzer Nomborg provided a pro and contra on the subject of contemporary architecture. The 57 year old Schultzer Nomborg built predominantly country houses for a wealthy clientele. The best known is probably the Tzitzelianhof palace in Potsdam, which he built in 1917 for Crown Prince Wilhelm in the Tudor style. An illustrious collection of conservative intellectuals and artists used to meet up at the Schultzer Nomborg's house in Zalek in Nomborg Saxony Anhalt. A man such as Schultzer liked to include his hometown as the decoration in his name.
These included the architect Van Amach, the author Berries von Munchausen, the painter Ludwig von Hofmann and the more liberal urban planner Van Ahegeman. From the mid-1920s however, national socialists such as Adolf Hitler and Joseph Goebbels were also welcome guests in Zalek. While in his contribution to Oohoo, Gorpius insisted that people needed to move with the times and develop progressive buildings out of progressive technologies, Schultzer Nomborg argued that they should take their bearings from the rural forms of architecture of the pre-Bourgeois period. In those days, clear, extremely distinct forms had come into being, forms which were part of the organic legacy of the northern cultural circle.
They had built houses that looked like a collection of magnificently fiery characteristic heads of rugged ferries, masculine craftsmen, sensitive scholars and chivalrous aristocrats. After imitations from foreign cultures had been superimposed on the architectural identity of Germany to the point where it was no longer recognizable. There was a need to return to the traditional formal vocabulary of pointed roofs, aural and bay windows and shutters to build houses once more that clearly declared their allegiance to the Nordic culture group.
Schultzer Nomborg was a representative of Heimad Stéo, homeland style, a term that had been current since the turn of the century. It meant a return to simple traditional forms that aimed to harmonize architecture with the regional legacy. Not all representatives of Heimad Stéo, which after intense arguments came to be called Heimad Schutz Stéo, homeland protection style, were radical nationalists. Many highly regarded architects, such as Hermann Motezios, were also part of it.
Heimad Stéo, also known as a farm architect, often took its bearings from other geographical regions, particularly the United Kingdom. Boring from English garden cities in many places, it created estates of terraced houses in an undecorated, aesthetically charming, raw style. Today we would call it a reinterpretation of a country house style, or else it reached far back into the past. The Borkorf in Flintsburg, a five-story tenement with two interior courtyards built in 1909 even contained hints of the Middle Ages.
Like Noyes Borne, new building, Heimad Schutz Stéo wanted to build everything from the ground up. Both trends saw their goal as lying in a movement away from architectural barbarism, through concentration and reduction. The Bauhaus wanted to rely entirely on the elementary, geometrical forms of building, while the homeland protectors aimed to return to reduced, pre-industrial architectural vocabulary. Many of them had the idea of a primal house in mind.
Finding the new in the archetypal was a longing that characterized both sides. Even more interesting than the obvious differences then are the areas of agreement between Valtagorpius and Polish-Schultz and Nombork in the pages of Uhu. The far-right master builder, who would join the National Socialist Party in 1930, rejected historicism, just as vehemently as the modernist corpus, and both detested the ornamentation of the Gundadside buildings of the mid-19th century.
Inauthentic the materials, inauthentic the styles that are thrown like fancy-dressed costumes over shabby, dirty undergarments. Schultz and Nombork saw the Vilhelmina façade as nothing but a betrayal of the authentic and the true, or in his eyes, Germanness. If we leave the Germanness aside, we can find an almost identical argument in Gorpius. He too felt that the Vilhelmina decorative architecture was decadent.
In the lower case, font typical of the Bauhaus, he called for more vital architecture. The art of building declined in past generations in a feebly sentimental vision that saw its goal as lying in the formulaistic use of motifs, ornaments, and profiles that covered the bodies of buildings. Building became a bearer of external dead forms of decoration, rather than being a living organism.
Feebly sentimental and external dead forms are not a long way from Schultz and Nombork's thread-bear fancy-dressed costumes, which in turn sound very similar to Bruno Taut quoted at the start of the chapter, who raged in 1920 against the self-importance of four-story jonk shops and brick-a-brack stalls. Left and right met in a cult of authenticity that lies within all radicalism, as the philosopher Hémourd Plessner observed at the time.
During the Weimar Republic, revulsion over dishonest decor spread beyond the limits of the two camps. Even such an elegant aficionado as the author Franz Hesse felt as much aversion to the Gundudside buildings as any iconoclastic avant-gardest. The tumor buildings spoiled his strolls along the Corfus and Dam, where much that is hideously towering, horrifically protuberant and crept over has been left from the worst days of private building.
It wasn't long before words turned into deeds, precisely in the most elegant districts of the cities, on Vittenbach Pless and Berlin for example, moves began to knock the stucco off the houses to give the Gundudside buildings the requisite sobriety. The anti-ornamental taste diktat turned into an attack by the present on earlier times. The barbarism officially known as destuckification was an obstrus aesthetic practice with the aim of getting rid of history.
Only a new person in new surroundings seemed capable of coming to terms with the future. In the words of historian Martin H. Gaia, only someone who could forget, or who was not mentally connected with the past, seemed to be able to assert themselves in the new age. Architects such as Le Corbusier or Teofondersbork dreamed of combing out cities with heavy equipment and driving out their romantic sins, their confusion, and their chaotic diversity. The socialist architect Ludwig Hüberzheimer, a teacher at the Bauhaus, set out plans for the demolition of Friedrichstät in Berlin. He wanted to tear down whole districts behind the Zendarmenmarkt to make way for 18 high-rise slabs each 600 meters long, a totalitarian nightmare which luckily remained a fantasy.
Decades later, Hüberzheimer himself described his plans as inhuman in every respect. The severity of such urban redevelopers made it easy for radical conservatives to present themselves as protectors of the homeland, even though they were the ones who were already preparing its downfall. In times of crisis, increased attention is often paid to living conditions. This was particularly true of the Weimar Republic. It was no coincidence that it was the sheltering roof that sparked particularly bitter arguments. The choice of its design, whether it should be flat or pointed, became a signal and a statement. The opponents of the Bauhaus maintained that the flat roof came from North Africa and was thus deeply un-German. Others among them, such as Polschruz and Nomborg, felt that it was Indian. Still others said there was something Jewish about it.
In 1927, the conservative architect said in the Schweberchmerkur that the recently completed Weimarzinhof Ziedlung, an estate that was a showpiece of the new building style, erected under the direction of Mies van der Rohe, reminded him more of a suburb of Jerusalem than of housing for Stuttgart. And the National Socialist Party printed postcards with palm trees and turbaned bedwinds inserted into the estate to portray it as an Arab village. Conversely, the advocates of the flat roof were not satisfied with a sober depiction of its practical advantages but presented it as a redeeming healing refuge. The flat roof meant that conscience had finally awakened, Adolf Bina, a propagandist for the new building, said in all honesty. It meant the end of the jagged outline of roofs which some found romantic and which in Bina's words wriggled towards the sky.
Berlin architecture critic Kár Sheffler observed irritably that it was no longer the quality of a roof that mattered, but the ideology that it expressed. If an architect builds a high-pointed, broadly sheltering roof, that is seen as an indication of German nationalist mentality. If he flattens the roof somewhat, something like a democratic house is produced, but if he makes the roof completely flat, he is announcing a radically communist mentality. The roof becomes an expression of a political attitude. When the Weissendorf seatlong in Stuttgart was finally opened, it was revealed as a sensation, a constructed dream. It looked like a fleet of pleasure craft. If this corridor was too narrow, or if that arrangement of doors impractical, overall the imagination that Neuja Zachlikide had released was intoxicating.
Hans Charon's playful villa was magically original. Le Corbusier's building meditative, Jacobus Aoud's terraced houses were a sensual adventure. Nothing here was boring, and the response to the 21 houses in Stuttgart was accordingly loud and various. It ranged from extravagant praise to the aggressive threat of punching its creators in the face for hours. The great publicity for the Weissendorf seatlong was a thorn in the eye of the right. Only two kilometers away, architects of the conservative Stuttgart school erected their response to the challenge from Neuja Zachlikide.
Under the direction of Paul Bournatz and Paul Schmittenhenner and adhering strictly to the Gable Roof Rule, the Kockenhof Estate was built within a few months and inaugurated with much Ballyhoo as a triumph of traditional German architecture. The houses were in fact quite unspectacular. They were pretty enough and thoroughly respectable, but why they were celebrated as a revival of the old urban bourgeois house, and any similarities identified with Güttus Garden House in Weimar can only be explained by the overheated culture war. Three generations later, the roof has lost its ideological charge, and today the Kockenhof Estate is seen as a successful example of regional sustainable architecture.
Far removed from the spectacular originality of the Weissendorf seatlong, it derives its charm from a pleasantly low-key realization of traditional ideals, much more boring, admittedly, than the nearby modern buildings, but nothing like a brainless Nazi spectacle. The repellent hubris of the National Socialist Monumental style was yet to come.
Today, the Kockenhof Estate sits very comfortably with the ecologically-minded Stuttgart middle-class families who nurture their liberal bourgeois beliefs and connect a global mindset with an interest in the preservation of regional traditions. A hip-proof with eyebrow-dormers is neither right-wing nor left-wing. Beneath it, one can think beautiful cosmopolitan thoughts to one's heart's content.
Even among architectural critics, the estate has improved its reputation. It has largely shaken off the accusation of embodying the spirit of national socialism. Today, the innocent houses look like mute witnesses to a historic moment when even the choice of roof design had become a hot political message, and the public debate had been hollowed out to its foundations by rigorism and self-righteousness, like a lawn by moles.