Art and the Political

      In The Shock of the New, Robert Hughes claims that the minimum freedom Dadaists and Expressionists took for granted—which was denied artists behind the Iron Curtain—was “the freedom to interpose one’s art between the official message and one’s audience.” The wording of the statement reminded me of Georg Lukács’ condemnation of Expressionists in “Realism in the Balance”: “What then of the Expressionists? They were ideologues. They stood between leaders and masses” (Aesthetics and Politics. New York: Verso, 2007. p. 51).  Of course, Lukács meant the statement to be highly critical. According to him, Expressionists were not revolutionary. Although they did “interpose” their art between “the official message” and the people, they did so in a way that was not grounded in the reality of present social issues. Lukács, arguing in favor of a type of social literary realism, famously concludes in that essay (and others) that Expressionism leads inevitably to Fascism. The Dadaists (far from the territory of Lukács’ realism) would agree in part, arguing that Expressionists were not subversive. Instead, they traded political revolution for a “tyrannical Ich,” leading Dadaists to proclaim in their manifesto, “Has expressionism fulfilled our expectations of such an [explosive] art, which should be an expression of our most vital concerns? NO, NO, NO” (Robert Hughes, The Shock of the New. New York: Knopf, 1991. p. 68) 

          So here we have both the realists and Dadaists arguing that Expressionism fails to meet their respective criteria for political art. But did Expressionism have any political impact at all? Absolutely. Both Lukács and the Dadaists take the position that art is not political if it isn’t actively engaged with current social crises or struggles. However, I would argue that even bourgeois art that upholds the status quo is performing a certain political function—even if the politics are at odds with the leftist views of the Dadaists or Lukács. Indeed, the very fact that Expressionism would lead early-twentieth century artists and theorists to have such strong reactions against it—and to put into practice conflicting “anti-art” movements—is proof that even the most personal and individual art can lead to concrete social and political responses. Art generates dialogue, and that is where it might have the most political impact

          Expressionist art between the wars, especially in Germany, revealed some of the most haunting and visceral images of fear, alienation, and anxiety of the Weimar period. The works express psychological and emotion truths that transcend individual experience and give insight into the collective experience of an entire culture during a particularly turbulent period. Take, for example, this poem by Georg Trakl from 1914, as translated by James Wright:

         “In Venice”

Silence in the rented room.

The candlestick flickers with silver light

Before the singing breath

Of the lonely man;

Enchanted rosecloud.

Black swarms of flies

Darken the stony space,

And the head of the man who has no home

Is numb from the agony

Of the golden day.

The motionless sea grows dark.

Star and black voyages

Vanished on the canal.

Child, your sickly smile

Followed me softly in my sleep.

          If we are to link “political” with subversive, then this expressionist poem is a prime example. The typical romantic setting of Venice—quiet streets with candlelight flickering over the water—is visualized as a place of death and sickness. The “darkened stony spaces” are more reminiscent of tombs or subterranean crypts. In this intensely personal vision of the city, Trakl inverts the typical depiction of Venice while mapping modern decay onto a city so often celebrated for the very traits the poet finds so disturbing. Like Europe itself in the years leading up to the first World War, the city masks its growing sickness in the myths of its past. The “child” of the poem might very well be the city itself, whose sickly images linger in the mind even in sleep, which brings no respite. The subversive element of the poem is Trakl’s seeing through the outer illusion of the city and revealing an inner truth (of both city and poet). The poem expresses much the same ominous tone as “Death in Venice” written two years earlier by Thomas Mann (championed by Lukács as one of the great of political writers). It presents one man’s immediate sense of self in a time and place where an individual’s identity was being shaped by a decaying culture on the verge of war. As art, it generates dialogue, raises awareness, and lends itself to counter viewpoints, which are certainly political moves, despite the overtly personal content of the poem.