 Lenin a futurist?
from ANABlog
July 02, 2007
Of course, given the nature of of the times and the agressive speach of contemporary artists, Early Twentieth-Century Futurists (and Dadaists, and Surrealists) can often easily get lumped with major (often currently unpopular) political movements of the time. These artists were active in being important figures in their society. They weren't artists purely for personal gain but also they often thought they were bettering mankind's existential health. They were radical thinkers in art, and since art is a natural part of life, they were radical thinkers in the social realm as well. The Futurists might have been afraid of Europe sinking into another dark-ages. At the turn of the century there was such a huge surge in science and new ideas, the Futurists saw themselves as a catylist for encouraging an even faster pregression. It's not fair, really, to sit back today and call Lenin a Futurist. Just as it is misleading to call Tatlin a Communist. Many of the major ideals line up on both sides because these ideas for change in the new Century were so important to so many thinking people. Still, there is a large gap between the action of men of power and the written words of men of thought. Marcu, a young Roumanian was living in Zurich at the same time as Tzara, Janco, Jung, Ball, and Lenin (who was in exile there). Marcu gives us this from his memoirs: When we left the restaurant, it was late in the afternoon. I walked home with Lenin. "You see," he said, "why I take my meals here. You get to know what people are really talking about. Nadezhda Konstantinovna is sure that only the Zurich underworld frequents this pleace, but I think she is mistaken. To be sure, Maria is a prostitute, but she does not like her trade. She has a large family to support - and that is no easy matter. As to Frau Prellog, she is prefectly right. Did you hear what she said? Shoot all the officers!..." "Do you know the real meaning of this war?" "What is it?" I asked. "It is obvious," he replied. "One slaveholder, Germany, who owns one hundred slaves, is fighting another slaveholder, England, who owns two hundred slaves, for a 'fairer' distribution of the slaves." "How can you expect to foster hatred of this war," I asked at this point, "if you are not, in principle, against all wars? I thought that as a Bolshevik you were really a radical thinker and refused to make any compromise with the idea of war. But by recognizing the validity of some wars, you open the doors for every opportunity. Every group can find some justifications of the particular war of which it approves. I see that we young people can only count on ourselves..." "Lenin listened attentively, his head bent toward me. He moved his chair closer to mine... Lenin must have wondered whether he should continue to talk with this boy or not. I, somewhat awkwardly, remained silent." "Your determination to rely upon yourselves," Lenin finally replied, "is very important. Every man must rely upon himself. Yet he should also listen to what informed people have to say. I don't know how radical you are, or how radical I am. I am certainly not radical enough. One can never be radical enough; that is, one must always try to be as radical as reality itself..." ............ Another interesting interchange between radical artists of the Early Twentieth Century and political power mongers happened in 1948. Marinetti personally invited Moholy-Nagy and Kurt Schwitters to accompany him to a banquet with the German Press Association. Goebbels was there, as was Goring, August Wilhelm of Hohenzollern, Hess, Roehm, and Nazi underlings. Moholy, Schitters and Moholy's wife were sandwiched between the head of the National Socialist Organization for Folk Culture, and the leader of the "Strength Through Joy" movement. Moholy-Nagy's wife Sibyl writes: The disharmony between the guests was accentuated by the absence of speeches and an unlimited consumption of excellent German Rhine wine. Moholy was silent. His face was shuttered, and when our eyes met I saw that he was full of resentment. The more Schwitters drank, the more fondly he regarded his neighbor. "I love you, you Cultural Folk and Joy," he said. "honestly, I love you. You think I'm not worthy of sharing your chamber, your art chamber for strength and folk, ha? I'm an idiot too, and I can prove it." Moholy put his hand firmly on Schwitters' arm and for a few minutes he was silent, drinking rapidly and searching the blank face of his neighbor with wild blue eyes. "You think I'm a Dadaist, don't you," he suddenly started again. "that's where you're wrong, brother. I'm MERZ!" He thumped his wrinkled dress shirt near his heart. "I'm Aryan - the great Aryan MERZ. I can think Aryan, paint Aryan, spit Aryan." He held an unsteady fist before the man's nose. "With this Aryan fist I shall destroy the mistakes of my youth - if you want me to," he added in a whisper after a long sip." There was no reaction at all from the Strength Through Joy man while the official from the Folk Culture Organization nodded droolingly, his round cheeks puffed up with wine and amazement. Schwitters took a sudden liking to him. "Oh joyful babyface," he muttered, tears running down his cheeks. "You will not prohibit me from MERZing my MERZ art?" The word 'prohibit' had finally penetrated the foggy brain of the Strength Through Joy man. "Verboten ist verboten," he said with great firmness and a heavy tongue, "Heil Hitler!" Schwitters looked wildly at Moholy, at me, at Marinetti, but before he could incite anyone to action, Marinetti had risen from his chair. he swayed considerably and his face was purple. "My friends," he said in French, "after the many excellent speeches tonight, I feel the urge to thank the great, courageous, high-spirited people of Berlin. I shall recite my poem "The Raid on Adrionople." There was polite applause. Some nice poetry would break the embarrassing dullness of the dinner. Adrianople est cerne de toutes parts SSSSrrrr zigzigzigzigz PAAAAAAAAAAAAAAghrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr roared Marinetti Ouah ouah ouah, depart des trains suicides, ouah ouah ouah the audience gasped; a few hushed giggles were audible Tchip tchip tchip -fEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEElez he grabbed a wineglass and smashed it to the floor Tchip tchip tichip - des messages tlegraphiques couturieres Americaines Piiiiiiiiiiiiiing, sssssssssrrrrrr, zitzitzitzit toum toum Patrouille tapie - Marinetti threw himself over the table. Vanite, viande congeleeeeeeeee - veilleuse de La Madone expiring almost as a whisper from his lips. Slowly he slid to the floor, his clenched fingers pulling the tablecloth downward, wine, food, plates, and silverware puring into the laps of the notables. Schwitters had jumped up at the first sound of the poem. Like a horse at a familiar sound the Dadaist in him responded to the signal. His face flushed, his mouth open, he followed each of Marinetti's moves with his own body. In the momentary silence that followed the climax his eyes met Moholy's. "Oh, Anna Blume," he whispered, and suddenly breaking out into a roar that drowned the din of protesting voices and scraping chair legs, he thundered: Oh, Anna Blume Du bist von hinten wie von vorn A-N-N-A
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