Ian Bu­ruma

The New York Review of Books - - Contents - Ian Bu­ruma

After­math: Art in the Wake of World War One an ex­hi­bi­tion at Tate Bri­tain, Lon­don Cat­a­log of the ex­hi­bi­tion edited by Emma Cham­bers Be­fore the Fall: Ger­man and Aus­trian Art of the 1930s by Ste­fanie Heck­mann and oth­ers Splen­dor and Mis­ery in the Weimar Repub­lic an ex­hi­bi­tion at Schirn Kun­sthalle Frank­furt Cat­a­log of the ex­hi­bi­tion edited by In­grid Pfeif­fer

After­math: Art in the Wake of World War One an ex­hi­bi­tion at Tate Bri­tain, Lon­don, June 5–Septem­ber 23, 2018. Cat­a­log of the ex­hi­bi­tion edited by Emma Cham­bers. Lon­don: Tate, 128 pp., $24.99 (pa­per)

Be­fore the Fall: Ger­man and Aus­trian Art of the 1930s by Ste­fanie Heck­mann, An­dreas Huyssen, Olaf Pe­ters, Al­fred Pfabi­gan, and Ernst Ploil. Pres­tel, 288 pp., $50.00

Splen­dor and Mis­ery in the Weimar Repub­lic an ex­hi­bi­tion at Schirn Kun­sthalle Frank­furt, Oc­to­ber 27, 2017–Fe­bru­ary 25, 2018. Cat­a­log of the ex­hi­bi­tion edited by In­grid Pfeif­fer. Schirn Kun­sthalle Frank­furt/Hirmer, 300 pp., $55.00

On Hyde Park Corner in Lon­don, fac­ing the Duke of Welling­ton’s old house, where one can still see a gi­ant sculp­ture of a fully nude Napoleon tow­er­ing over the hall, stands a cu­ri­ous mon­u­ment known as the Royal Ar­tillery Memo­rial. A huge sculpted model of a How­itzer gun points to the sky on top of a Port­land stone plinth. Around this phal­lic sym­bol of deadly force, de­signed in the early 1920s by Charles Sargeant Jag­ger and Lionel Pear­son, stand a cou­ple of bronze sol­diers. And on one side lies a dead ar­tillery­man cov­ered by his great­coat. The text en­graved in the stone un­der this fallen sol­dier reads: “Here was a royal fel­low­ship of death.”

The mon­u­ment com­mem­o­rates the 49,076 men of the Royal Reg­i­ment of Ar­tillery who died in World War I. There has been much con­tro­versy over it ever since it was un­veiled in 1925. Some of the crit­i­cism con­cerns the ques­tion­able taste of pay­ing such mon­u­men­tal trib­ute to a How­itzer. It might be con­strued as a crude ex­am­ple of mil­i­tarism.

In fact, how­ever, the prob­lems some peo­ple have had with it, es­pe­cially in the years soon af­ter the cat­a­strophic war, were about some­thing else. Jag­ger, a vet­eran of Gal­lipoli and the Western Front, wanted to in­ject a note of re­al­ism into his sculp­tures; the bronze sol­diers are not ide­al­ized in any way. They look weary, hard­ened by bit­ter ex­pe­ri­ence, al­most dazed, like those sol­diers star­ing at noth­ing in the fa­mous Viet­nam War pho­to­graphs by David Dou­glas Dun­can. And then there is the dead man un­der his coat.

This was not the usual way the Great War was re­mem­bered of­fi­cially in Bri­tain, Ger­many, or France. Ab­strac­tions—tombs of the un­known sol­dier and the like—were fa­vored, or clas­si­cal al­le­gories, es­pe­cially pop­u­lar in Ger­many, of sol­diers as nude Greek he­roes hold­ing up swords, or Christ-like fig­ures ex­press­ing the beauty of sacri­fi­cial death. One of Jag­ger’s sol­diers, lean­ing back with out­stretched arms, could be likened to a Christ fig­ure, but he still looks far more real than peo­ple, or at least mil­i­tary and civil­ian of­fi­cials at the time, would have wished for. What

the mon­u­ment shows, de­spite the How­itzer, is not mil­i­tary valor, but the pathos of war.

The Royal Ar­tillery Memo­rial is one of the works fea­tured in “After­math,” the Tate Bri­tain ex­hi­bi­tion com­par­ing the im­pact of the Great War on artists in Ger­many, Bri­tain, and France. Of the three na­tions, France is least rep­re­sented. The re­ally in­ter­est­ing dif­fer­ences are be­tween Ger­man and Bri­tish artists.

As far as war memo­ri­als are con­cerned, Ger­many too had its con­tro­ver­sies. Of­fi­cial mon­u­ments tended to be ab­stract, heroic, and fo­cused on the sac­ri­fice of young blood for the na­tion. But one of the most beau­ti­ful sculp­tures com­mem­o­rat­ing the war is Der Sch­webende (The Float­ing One), by the Ex­pres­sion­ist artist Ernst Bar­lach. A war vet­eran like Jag­ger, Bar­lach went for the an­ti­heroic. The float­ing fig­ure is an an­gel with hands folded on her chest and the haunted face of a mother griev­ing over her sons. (The face was ac­tu­ally mod­eled af­ter the sad coun­te­nance of the artist Käthe Koll­witz, whose younger son died in the war.) The melan­choly an­gel was sus­pended from the ceil­ing of a cathe­dral in east­ern Ger­many in 1927, then re­moved by the Nazis ten years later as “de­gen­er­ate art” and melted down to man­u­fac­ture gun shells. (The one dis­played at the Tate is cast from a copy.)

The ten­sion be­tween cel­e­brat­ing the heroic and lament­ing the hor­rors of war was es­pe­cially strong in Ger­many.

In Bri­tain and France, vic­tory could make up for, or dis­guise, or at least mit­i­gate the sense of loss. And ev­ery­thing was done to en­cour­age this. In 1919, the Bri­tish govern­ment com­mis­sioned Wil­liam Or­pen to do a paint­ing in mem­ory of the Paris Peace Con­fer­ence. The orig­i­nal idea was to show a tomb of the un­known Bri­tish sol­dier set in the Hall of Mir­rors at Ver­sailles amid the proud fig­ures of var­i­ous Al­lied gen­er­als and field mar­shals. In­stead, Or­pen, who dis­liked the mil­i­tary brass, de­cided to paint two ema­ci­ated, half-dead or­di­nary sol­diers flank­ing the tomb of their un­known com­rade. The Min­istry of In­for­ma­tion re­fused to ex­hibit the paint­ing. Only once Or­pen had erased these aw­ful specters of war was the paint­ing fi­nally dis­played at the Im­pe­rial War Mu­seum in Lon­don. Dur­ing the war, too, there was great of­fi­cial re­sis­tance to de­pict­ing any­thing ap­proach­ing the re­al­ity of bat­tle. One of the best Bri­tish war artists, C.R.W. Nevin­son, did an oil paint­ing in 1917 en­ti­tled Paths of Glory. It shows two sol­diers ly­ing dead in the mud in front of the barbed wire of a trench they were per­haps or­dered to make a dash for. The real thing un­doubt­edly would have looked much worse. But the pic­ture was still banned by the mil­i­tary cen­sor. A year later, Nevin­son showed it any­way, cov­ered with brown pa­per in­scribed with the word “cen­sored.” Na­tional dif­fer­ences be­come par­tic­u­larly clear in the de­pic­tion of maimed sol­diers. Thou­sands of men in all three coun­tries had half their faces blown off, or had miss­ing limbs, or were hor­ri­bly dis­fig­ured by mus­tard gas at­tacks. In France, these men of­ten ap­peared in pub­lic events cel­e­brat­ing the vic­tory and were shown in pho­to­graphs to re­mind peo­ple of the suf­fer­ing of com­mon sol­diers. This did not hap­pen in Bri­tain. There is a fa­mous se­ries of por­traits by Henry Tonks, dis­played at the Tate, of men with mu­ti­lated faces, but at the time these were only used for med­i­cal pur­poses. It was left to Ger­man artists to pro­duce the most grue­some im­ages of bat­tle­field car­nage. A fa­mous ex­am­ple is the se­ries of etch­ings made in 1923–1924 by Otto Dix, en­ti­tled The War: rot­ting corpses in wa­ter­logged trenches, skulls filled with mag­gots and worms, faces that are barely rec­og­niz­able as hu­man.

In­spired by Goya’s prints of wartime atroc­i­ties, Dix did these prints from mem­ory; he had been a ma­chine gun­ner on some of the worst bat­tle­fields. Whereas Tonks’s draw­ings were ini­tially only seen by doc­tors, Dix’s etch­ings were pub­lished as fo­lios and widely shown. Even the tech­niques of the two artists tell a story. The draw­ings by Tonks are in pas­tel col­ors, not so dif­fer­ent in tone from the land­scapes by gen­teel English wa­ter­col­orists. The monochrome pic­tures by Dix are dark and ag­gres­sive, as though etched in a fury. Dorothy Price writes in her es­say for the ex­hi­bi­tion cat­a­log:

Many schol­ars have ob­served how the cor­ro­sive pro­cesses in­volved in the etch­ing tech­nique, in which large holes can be bored into the plate by acid, mim­ics the ex­pres­sive po­ten­tial of Dix’s sub­ject mat­ter.

There is noth­ing like this in Bri­tish or even French art. There are French paint­ings of ru­ined land­scapes, like An­dré Mas­son’s ochre oil paint­ing La route de Pi­cardie (1924), and pic­tures of barbed wire, trenches, and bomb craters by Bri­tish war artists like Or­pen, Nevin­son, and Paul Nash. Some are very good: Wire (1918–1919), by Nash, for ex­am­ple, gives a vivid im­pres­sion of the ru­ined land­scape in Flan­ders or north­ern France. But the at­mos­phere is melan­cholic. These artists, some of whom had wit­nessed the same shock­ing scenes as Dix, lacked the fe­roc­ity of Ger­man artists.

One of the most in­ter­est­ing Bri­tish painters of the pe­riod was Stan­ley Spencer. Like Nevin­son, he had served in an am­bu­lance unit on sev­eral fronts. And like so many artists of his gen­er­a­tion all over Europe, he was marked by the war for­ever. But far from glo­ri­fy­ing manly ac­tion or wal­low­ing in the gore, Spencer re­lated to the dead in an in­ti­mate and gen­tly spir­i­tual way. Dead sol­diers and horses rise from their bat­tle­field graves in The Res­ur­rec­tion of the Sol­diers (1929). In a paint­ing from 1922, Un­veil­ing Cookham War Memo­rial, vil­lagers in Cookham, where Spencer lived, mourn their kin as the War Memo­rial is un­veiled (see illustration on page 84). But there is no rage in these pic­tures, just sad­ness, Chris­tian faith, and a cer­tain air of whimsy; while some mourn­ers look dis­tressed, oth­ers in their striped blaz­ers and white ducks lounge on the sun-dap­pled

lawn. The dead are re­called in a coun­try at peace.

This was far from be­ing the case in Ger­many, a na­tion that was morally un­hinged and torn apart by vi­o­lent rev­o­lu­tion­ar­ies and roam­ing war veter­ans lust­ing for re­venge. Com­pare Stan­ley Spencer’s Christ Car­ry­ing the Cross (1920) with Al­bert Birkle’s Cross Shoul­der­ing (Friedrich­strasse) (1924). Spencer’s Christ can barely be seen as he passes by a very English house in the High Street of Cookham, sur­rounded by cler­ics and or­di­nary folks, look­ing like an­gels in the moon­light. Gen­tle Cookham is a long way from tur­bu­lent Ber­lin, where the tor­ment of Birkle’s ema­ci­ated Christ is ob­served with a mix­ture of amuse­ment and con­tempt by hard-faced men and women who, in a dif­fer­ent set­ting, could be among the typ­i­cal crowd at a lynch­ing. What is miss­ing in Spencer’s art, and that of most of his peers in Bri­tain, is the men­ac­ing air of vi­o­lence.

The his­to­rian Ge­orge L. Mosse, who es­caped from Nazi per­se­cu­tion in Ger­many as a young man, ar­gued that Ger­man life was bru­tal­ized by the mil­i­tarism of World War I. Peo­ple had be­come in­ured to death and cru­elty. Men tested by the fire and steel of bat­tle were ex­alted by na­tion­al­ist writ­ers such as Ernst Jünger. War veter­ans felt emas­cu­lated, hu­mil­i­ated, and use­less in peace­time. Only the ca­ma­raderie of col­lec­tive vi­o­lence would re­vive their spir­its. Mosse wrote in his book Fallen Sol­diers, “War it­self had been the great bru­tal­izer, not merely through the ex­pe­ri­ence of com­bat at the front, but also through the wartime re­la­tion­ships be­tween of­fi­cers and men, and among the men them­selves.”1

This may have been true. But why wouldn’t such re­la­tion­ships—and such ex­pe­ri­ence—have had a sim­i­lar ef­fect on Bri­tish and French men? The dif­fer­ence must lie in the out­come of the war. Mosse also wrote:

Eng­land and France, the vic­to­ri­ous na­tions, where the tran­si­tion from war to peace had been rel­a­tively smooth, were able to keep the process of bru­tal­iza­tion largely, if not en­tirely, un­der con­trol. Those na­tions like Ger­many which were not so for­tu­nate saw a new ruth­less­ness in­vade their pol­i­tics.

In other words, it was not so much war it­self that bru­tal­ized Ger­man pol­i­tics as the much rock­ier tran­si­tion to peace. The hu­mil­i­a­tion of los­ing the war no doubt had some­thing to do with this. It is harder for de­feated sol­diers to adapt to civil­ian life than vic­to­ri­ous ones. But the mil­i­ta­riza­tion of Ger­man life had be­gun well be­fore the war. Kaiser Wil­helm II was al­ready spout­ing a lot of the bel­liger­ent and anti-Semitic rhetoric that was later taken up by the Nazis. And the con­tempt for demo­cratic pol­i­tics, both on the left and the right, was much greater in Ger­many than in Bri­tain or France. Cer­tainly the con­se­quences of wartime de­feat were more dev­as­tat­ing in Ger­many: the eco­nomic dis­lo­ca­tion, the moral col­lapse, and the harsh con­di­tions in Ger­man cities where men and women would do any­thing to scrape by. No won­der that the pros­ti­tute be­came one of the main sym­bols of Weimar Pe­riod cul­ture, es­pe­cially in the vis­ual arts.

Like the maimed veter­ans, war prof­i­teers were a con­spic­u­ous pres­ence in all the na­tions at war. They, too, found their way into paint­ings. But con­sider the dif­fer­ence be­tween Nevin­son’s por­trait of such a fig­ure in He Gained a For­tune but He Gave a Son (1918), and Hein­rich Maria Davring­hausen’s The Prof­i­teer (1920–1921). Su­per­fi­cially, the two men look re­mark­ably alike: well fed, self-sat­is­fied, thin-lipped, beady-eyed. But on the man­tel­piece be­hind Nevin­son’s prof­i­teer is a pho­to­graph of his son, who died in the war that made his fa­ther rich. The paint­ing is am­bigu­ous, both slightly re­pel­lent and sad. Davring­hausen’s fig­ure, sit­ting in a ster­ile ul­tra-mod­ern of­fice with a smol­der­ing cigar at his el­bow and a glass of wine on his desk, is more threat­en­ing; not quite the fat-necked brute you see in pic­tures by Ge­orge Grosz, but still swin­ish enough.

Grosz’s graf­fiti-like car­i­ca­tures of life in Weimar Ger­many ex­press a kind of volup­tuous loathing for the dis­lo­cated so­ci­ety of post­war Ber­lin. Men are ei­ther wrecks of war, beg­ging in the streets on crutches, ig­nored by well­dressed passersby, or they are lech­er­ous pigs, obese cigar-chomp­ing bosses, or uni­formed thugs. Grosz wrote in 1922:

Peo­ple have cre­ated a rot­ten sys­tem—with a top and a bot­tom. A hand­ful of them earn mil­lions, while un­told thou­sands have barely enough to ex­ist on . . . . My task is to show the op­pressed the true faces of their masters. Man is not good; he is like cat­tle.

Ber­tolt Brecht could not have ex­pressed it bet­ter.

What gives so many draw­ings by Grosz their louche al­lure is that he rev­eled in the rot­ten­ness he pro­fessed to hate. The streets of Ber­lin, with their crip­ples and whores and pimps and plu­to­crats, pro­vided the in­spi­ra­tion for his best art. The Bri­tish artist who was most clearly in­flu­enced by Grosz was the mar­velous Ed­ward Burra. He, too, loved paint­ing shady danc­ing halls, les­bian bars, hook­ers, and other lowlife char­ac­ters (not just in Lon­don but in Paris, Mex­ico, and Har­lem). His art can be as lurid as Grosz’s Ber­lin pic­tures: the strut­ting pros­ti­tute in her pink fin­ery in Satur­day Mar­ket (1932) or the goons ogling a naked dancer in Striptease (Har­lem) (1934). What is miss­ing is the loathing. Burra doesn’t hate; he is fas­ci­nated, amused, and in­vig­o­rated by the seamy vi­tal­ity of ur­ban life.

Grosz, to­gether with such artists as John Heart­field and Han­nah Höch, was part of the Dada move­ment, a ni­hilis­tic, ab­sur­dist artis­tic re­ac­tion to the sup­pos­edly ra­tio­nal world that pro­duced the slaugh­ter of World War I. Orig­i­nat­ing in Switzer­land dur­ing the war, Dada spawned groups in Paris and New York, as well as in Ber­lin. Parisian Dadaists, led by such fig­ures as An­dré Bre­ton and Tris­tan Tzara, scan­dal­ized peo­ple with zany the­ater per­for­mances,

bal­lets, and man­i­festos. But the scan­dals were more artis­tic than po­lit­i­cal, and of­ten in­jected with doses of mad hu­mor. French Dada was a ma­jor in­flu­ence on Sur­re­al­ism.

Ger­man Dada was more ag­gres­sively po­lit­i­cal. In the words of Grosz:

If [Dada] ex­pressed any­thing at all, it was our long fer­ment­ing rest­less­ness, dis­con­tent and sar­casm. Any na­tional de­feat, any change to a new era gives birth to that sort of move­ment. At a dif­fer­ent time in his­tory we might just as well have been flag­el­lants.2

Col­lage was a fa­vorite Dada form— frag­mented im­ages patched to­gether that made no log­i­cal sense or were de­lib­er­ately provoca­tive, such as John Heart­field’s Fa­thers and Sons (1924), show­ing Field Marshall Paul von Hin­den­burg with uni­formed chil­dren and skele­tons march­ing in the back­ground. Heart­field and Grosz also made a grotesque hu­man fig­ure out of a tailor’s dummy, with a pros­thetic leg and a light bulb for a head. It was called The Pe­tit-Bour­geois Philis­tine Heart­field Gone Wild (1920).

Kurt Sch­wit­ters was one of the main prac­ti­tion­ers of this type of art. He coined the non­sen­si­cal word Merz for his col­lages, sculp­tures (Merz­plas­tik), and in­te­rior de­signs (Merzbau). The idea was to as­sem­ble works from the most dis­parate sources—he built a kind of memo­rial col­umn out of old news­pa­pers, pho­to­graphs, and fig­urines, topped with the death mask of his first-born child, who died as a baby in 1916. Sch­wit­ters ex­plained Merz as fol­lows: “Ev­ery­thing had bro­ken down . . . new things had to be made from frag­ments . . . new art forms out of the re­mains of a for­mer cul­ture.”

The other move­ment that fanned out across the world, all the way to Iowa, where Grant Wood did his strangely de­tached, slightly eerie paint­ings, was Neue Sach­lichkeit, or New Ob­jec­tiv­ity: re­al­ity seen and de­picted through un­flinch­ing eyes, de­void of sen­ti­men­tal­ity. This was Otto Dix’s definition: “If you are paint­ing a por­trait of some­one it is best not to know him. I only want to see what is there, the ex­te­rior.”

Bri­tish artists like Paul Nash painted land­scapes from this point of view, with the same hal­lu­ci­na­tory re­al­ism as Wood. But Grosz, Dix, Max Beck­mann, and other Ger­man artists added a dis­tinctly po­lit­i­cal twist. Their sharp eyes took in the worst, most bru­tal as­pects of post­war ur­ban life, to protest the hideous so­cial con­di­tions of their so­ci­ety. Their pic­tures of sex mur­ders, tor­ture rooms, and rape were la­beled “de­gen­er­ate art” un­der the Nazis. Hitler fa­vored heroic clas­si­cist nudes, sen­ti­men­tal Ger­man land­scapes, or paint­ings of whole­some blond Ger­man farm­ers till­ing the na­tive soil. The “de­gen­er­ates” were of­ten sym­pa­thetic to the po­lit­i­cal left, whereas the clas­si­cists (think of Arno Breker’s sculp­tures of mus­cle-bound Aryan males) are as­so­ci­ated with the right.

Things were not quite that sim­ple, how­ever. One of the rev­e­la­tions of a re­cent show at the Neue Ga­lerie in New York, en­ti­tled “Be­fore the Fall,” as well as the cat­a­log of a re­cent ex­hi­bi­tion in Frank­furt, “Splen­dor and Mis­ery in the Weimar Repub­lic,” was that the Ger­man artists of the 1920s and 1930s could not al­ways be so neatly clas­si­fied. New Ob­jec­tiv­ity had both a “left” and a “right” com­po­nent; re­al­ism could be a form of so­cial crit­i­cism but also an ex­pres­sion of re­stored or­der. Even those cat­e­gories could be quite fluid. Franz Radzi­will, for ex­am­ple, was af­fil­i­ated with New Ob­jec­tiv­ity, was friendly with Otto Dix in the 1920s, and mixed with the rad­i­cal left. His

paint­ings of air­planes and bat­tle­ships, of ru­ined houses un­der doom-laden skies, owe some­thing to the Ro­man­ti­cism of Cas­par David Friedrich, some­thing to the mod­ernist fas­ci­na­tion with tech­nol­ogy, and some­thing to New Ob­jec­tiv­ity too.

In 1933, Radzi­will joined the Nazi Party and the next year painted Rev­o­lu­tion, a mor­bid im­age of a dead stormtrooper in front of a kind of ghost house with two hanged men out­side. An­other paint­ing from that pe­riod, The Steel Hel­met in No Man’s Land, shows just that: a dead sol­dier’s cracked hel­met in a bleak and bro­ken stretch of land un­der a beat-up barbed wire fence. It isn’t quite clear what these paint­ings, done in a spooky mag­i­cal re­al­ism, are sup­posed to mean, es­pe­cially since Radzi­will re­painted parts of them af­ter 1945 to con­form to changed times. The hanged men were not in the orig­i­nal paint­ing. And he claimed that the hel­met pic­ture was a protest against war, even though in 1933 it was seen as a trib­ute to pa­tri­otic sac­ri­fice.

A more in­ter­est­ing artist than Radzi­will was Ru­dolf Sch­lichter. His 1924 paint­ing of a weary-look­ing pros­ti­tute named Mar­got, hold­ing a gold-tipped cig­a­rette, adorns the cover of the splen­did cat­a­log of the “Splen­dor and Mis­ery” ex­hi­bi­tion. Sch­lichter was a typ­i­cal ex­am­ple of what the Nazis re­garded as de­gen­er­ate: an early Com­mu­nist, a friend of Ge­orge Grosz, a Dadaist, a mem­ber of the New Ob­jec­tiv­ity, and a painter of Ber­lin deca­dence (he was es­pe­cially fond of high-heeled women’s boots). But in the late 1920s, he spent more time with right-wing in­tel­lec­tu­als like Ernst Jünger, whom he por­trayed, joined the Nazi Re­ich Cham­ber of Fine Arts, and turned to Catholi­cism. This didn’t stop the Nazis from con­fis­cat­ing his art. Af­ter the war, he be­came a

Sur­re­al­ist, and is some­times called the Ger­man Sal­vador Dalí.

By the time Hitler came to power, the ex­tra­or­di­nary flow­er­ing of Ger­man art was over. The demo­cratic decade af­ter World War I in Ger­many was marked by cor­rup­tion, vi­o­lence, and vice, and it pro­duced some of the great­est art of the twen­ti­eth cen­tury. Af­ter 1933, un­der one of the most bru­tal regimes in hu­man his­tory, Ger­man art was life­less, medi­ocre, and sen­ti­men­tal. Some of the more con­ser­va­tive New Ob­jec­tiv­ity artists, like Ge­org Schrimpf, were still per­mit­ted to show their neo-Ro­man­tic land­scapes. Dix, whose ear­lier work was banned and who was fired as an art teacher, re­sorted to paint­ing dull land­scapes and fam­ily por­traits full of just the kind of sweet­ness that the New Ob­jec­tivists had tried so hard to avoid.

I be­lieve it was Jean Genet who once re­marked that he no longer had any in­ter­est in trav­el­ing to Ger­many af­ter the Nazis took over. Once the state it­self, and not an ur­ban un­der­class, had be­come the main source of crime, art lost its sub­ver­sive pur­pose.

Otto Dix: Pros­ti­tute and Dis­abled War Vet­eran. Two Vic­tims of Cap­i­tal­ism, 1923

Stan­ley Spencer: Un­veil­ing Cookham War Memo­rial, 1922

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