#NotAllNazis

Artists Under Hitler: Collaboration and Survival in Nazi GermanyJonathan PetropoulosYale University Press, 2014How does an audience assess the value of works from artists who swore allegiance to Hitler? Jonathan Petropoulos’s Artists Under Hitler animates the terrible choices that artists in that time had to face, and furnishes considerable detail, and some new research, on ten of them, so that scholars and students can place the work of these German artists in their historical and personal contexts. From the introduction:

Is the notion of Nazi culture an oxymoron? Was any “good” culture produced during the Third Reich? There are, of course, the well-known accomplishments of Albert Speer and Leni Riefenstahl, Carl Orff, and Ernst Jünger. But conventional wisdom insists that any genuinely interesting art was rooted in the modernism of the Weimar Republic, while Nazi culture, with its rigidity and monumentality, was bad. This view is both coarse and wrong.

In his very first paragraph, Petropoulos slams the door on the notion that “Nazi culture” can be taken, and judged, as a whole. The rest of the book does not offer what the author might consider “correct” answers (which excuses for liking Nazis would be acceptable, the reader will fruitlessly wonder) but instead he argues for complexity, by offering a historical and an art-historical background, and then ten micro-biographies of notable German artists (architects, painters, film directors, etc.) who didn’t leave Germany during the rise of the Third Reich. “Examining the experiences of those modernist cultural figures who sought to find a place in the Third Reich,” Petropoulos argues,

prompts a central question: why did they seek accommodation with the Nazi regime? The answer is multi-faceted. People are complex and rarely, if ever, act due to a single motivation. Rather, several factors entered into the thinking of the figures in this book: first, a misunderstanding of the Nazi leaders and their goals; second, an unchecked ego and sense of self-importance, whereby they thought their work to be indispensable to their field; third, a highly developed survival instinct—in part a legacy of an earlier time when modernism provoked veritable culture wars—combined with a more garden-variety opportunism; fourth, the mixed signals from the Nazi leaders themselves, some of whom embraced modernism and buoyed the cultural figures; optimism; and finally, a belief that the intellectual goals of modernism and fascism were compatible—that a new and meaningful synthesis between the two was possible. It is helpful, before considering specific figures and their experiences to elaborate briefly on these factors.

The argument against generalization is too abrupt here, even if the point will have to be ultimately conceded that there were some German artists who were not wealthy, who had families and ties to Germany that were too difficult to abandon, and who paid Nazism only the smallest and most insincere gestures of support out of a dire and ultimately forgivable self-interest. Lumping together everyone from Walter Gropius (widely forgiven for being more careerist than political) to Leni Riefenstahl (broadly if not universally indicted for her obvious sympathy for the Nazi movement) would be unfair. But can it be so inarguably risible for anyone to discuss “Nazi culture” as a whole that a single paragraph in the introduction (and a slightly more thoughtful restatement at the conclusion) should suffice? Is it more risible to group all “Nazi culture” than it would be to, say, state a broad opinion about “contemporary poetry,” or “those Americans,” or to ask a colleague out for some “Italian food?” At a certain remove, bracketing can be a perfectly useful part of a broad discourse.It would be understandable, if maybe a little precious, for an expert to cringe at generalizations, and in Artists Under Hitler, the reader will find that this close perspective can be both a feature and a bug. For a positive example, the author’s introduction, which is served by the breadth of his understanding of the history, is refreshingly succinct:

A key to understanding the history of Nazi Germany is the realization that the regime gradually grew more radical. The dark, totalitarian society of 1943, with the ongoing murder of European Jews, the violent response to dissent, and the near complete mobilization of the population as part of the "total war" measures, was quite different than Germany in 1933—or even 1937. Of course, intimidation and violence also characterized the earlier years, and anti-Semitism proved an enduring facet of National Socialism, but many held out hope for a "kinder and gentler" Nazi regime.

In the context-setting first of three parts Petropoulos writes, “The debate over Expressionism, which stood out as the most visible fault line in the battle over modernism, actually represented a struggle for overall control of Nazi cultural policy.” We reach into the first efforts, opponents, and organizations of modernist German artists in the 1920s and early 30s, and the depth of the dive will stall the pacing in places: seeming phone-books of minor figures (museum officials, art dealers, artists’ groups, Nazi functionaries) whir through the paragraphs, mentioned once or twice, and then never again. The subject matter calls for summary here, but the narrative can be hopelessly mired by little details and asides while the thread is all but lost.When the text is running well, the rocky alignment of modernism with Nazi cultural policy is made active through diatribes in periodicals, interpersonal dust-ups, and the odd fire. Hitler himself never took to “modernist culture and instead developed affinities for more traditional historicist styles.” (Hitler’s tastes aren’t assayed as much as one might expect here, but seem to have been influenced by a combination of classicism and strict naturalism, along with healthy doses of pedestrianism and saccharinism.) Propaganda Minister Joseph Goebbels, on the other hand, was rather fond of Modernism, and could be a somewhat reliable supporter. Petropoulos balances the marriage of political fanaticism and artistic fervor that occurred in post-World War I Germany with sympathy for the artists and the impossibility of their situations. The case for them is made poignantly at times:

This book in no way seeks to minimize the sacrifices or suffering of the war. Painter Max Pechstein went fishing in order to feed himself, and former Bauhaus Master Oskar Schlemmer painted camouflage for the Luftwaffe and then worked in a lacquer factory in Wuppertal. At a different level of hardship, Bauhaus-trained artist Franz Ehrlich, who had studied with Wassily Kandinsky, Paul Klee, and Lázló Moholy-Nagy, designed the gates of the Buchenwald concentration camp, where he had been a prisoner since 1935. Ehrlich rendered the inscription, Jedem das Seine ("To Each His Own"), in such a way that the Bauhaus influence was readily apparent.

The central and essential question, of which work can be valued outside the political environment in which it was created, is left to the readers to answer. The choice to write a history (attempting disinterested reporting) and not a book-length essay (making judgments and then supporting them) is the author’s to make. He chooses a history, and that can’t be criticized too harshly here. Any designers or architects studying preceding works would be ill-prepared without learning about the Bauhaus. Can we, or should we, exclude Moholy-Nagy and Gropius from any conversation about Modernist art or architecture? Of course not. Does the importance of the work need to be balanced sufficiently with the weight of the sins of the artist? Uncomfortably, yes, it does. The book turns to the judges’ table to look at the scores.The center of the book is divided in two: the first group, Walter Gropius, Paul Hindemith, Gottfried Benn, Ernst Barlach, and Emil Nolde, all engaged, with only a little success, in “the pursuit of accommodation,” and all eventually fled Germany, or remained and suffered (most only financially), being somewhat on the outs with the Reich for political or artistic reasons. But each of the featured artists attempted rather ardently to remain in league with the government as things turned from bad to worse. We are shown these artists making paeans to the Nazis in the selection of subjects, themes, and form in their work, currying favor to further their careers, and soliciting projects in writing with hearty salutes to Hitler. There is specificity here. Gropius did not join the Nazi Party, as his supporters will quickly point out, but he did join the Reich Chamber of Culture, on December 12, 1933. A photo of his membership card is included in the text, with Petropoulos quoting biographer Reginald Isaacs, who noticed, “his photo shows him stern, tight-lipped, appearing less sad than resentful, and older than his fifty years.” Gropius would need this membership to practice architecture, but (for reasons both political and stylistic), his practice did not thrive, and he left the country in 1934, eventually landing in a position at Harvard in 1938. But why did he, and these other four, seek accommodation at all?

Why did so many modernists seek a place in Nazi Germany? How did their work change as a result of the evolving and conflicted aesthetic policies of the new leaders? What did they aspire to do and what role did they see themselves playing in the Third Reich? The fate of five exemplary figures helps tell the tale. These figures hoped for accommodation with the Nazi regime but ultimately failed to find a meaningful modus vivendi. They were compelled either to emigrate or to retreat from public life. Their struggles for acceptance reveal a great deal about the Third Reich, and their diverse responses to the Nazi cultural administration show that the resolution of the modernist debate was not predetermined. With artistic figures accustomed to success, there was an even heightened element of human agency. These figures had risen to leading positions in their respective fields, often overcoming enormous hardship, and most had strong instincts for survival.

The next five artists who did achieve “accommodation” under the Third Reich prospered professionally and financially, but their reputations would in some cases pay a steeper price in the years following the war. Richard Strauss, Gustaf Gründgens, Leni Riefenstahl, Arno Breker, and Albert Speer gain our attention here, and the splitting out of this second group makes sense, each of them having “developed strategies that allowed them to do far more than survive” in Nazi Germany. Petropoulos’s intent here is finally clear: this second group has crossed from tacit, perfunctory indifference to full-throated and genuine concern for the well-being of the Third Reich. But even in this more ardent group, it is inarguable that we’re looking at artists who are still discussed in textbooks, whose works are still very relevant to conversations about Modernism and works of the time. Is that an uncomfortable choice that we’re still making now?The works of Leni Riefenstahl, sometimes described as one of the more influential female directors of the 20th century (most notably, for the 1935 Nazi propaganda film Triumph des Willens or Triumph of the Will, which is cited for inventing some documentary film techniques that endure to today), and Albert Speer (chief architect for the Third Reich, and later a ministerial officer and member of Hitler’s inner circle) will be most familiar to readers for the artists’ links to Nazism. Riefenstahl’s attempted escape from her past is run down quite well.

Riefenstahl adapted to the Third Reich, although her chameleon-like qualities did not result in camouflage. Instead, she was one of the most visible figures in Nazi Germany. Riefenstahl was heavily promoted by the regime and, in turn, reflected positively on the Third Reich—just as Goebbels had envisioned with his nationalistic cultural policy. There was also something about her relationship to Hitler that invited gossip. Some claimed that they were lovers (they were almost certainly not). But they saw one another before the war with considerable frequency—and often in private settings, including Riefenstahl’s home—and clearly evinced a deeply felt mutual admiration. Because of her relationship with Hitler, Riefenstahl was the only filmmaker in the Third Reich not beholden to Goebbels, who effectively controlled the film industry. Although she never joined the Nazi Party, she was a privileged artist who enjoyed powerful political support, wide-ranging artistic freedom, and considerable wealth.

The author’s enthusiasm for the subject is legible on the page when the material allows it, but a book whose conceits are essentially “it’s complicated” and “readers will have to look at each case individually” limit the chances for that energy to find its way into the presentation. To the narrowest possible audience (students and scholars whose work touches the intersection of artists and their historical environments at this place and moment in history), Artists Under Hitler will be valuable reading. But is the narrative as even and readable as one would wish? Well, in some parts the material requires more survey than flowing prose, so perhaps this is the best history we should hope for on the subject. Or perhaps not. Are the arguments round enough to satisfy dissent, or to serve as a reference to the kind of healthy discourse that should fall from such a book? Well, the answer there is also complicated.____Michael O'Donnell is a book reviewer and an editor of Open Letters Monthly.