The vision of the world in interwar Europe.
Aug 6, 2007, Vol. 12, No. 44 • By EVE TUSHNET
Foto: Modernity in Central Europe, 1918-1945
At the National Gallery's exhibit on Central European photography, the machinery is glamorous and the pretty women are mangled.
From the first room, the "modern" sensibility is obvious: The important lenses for viewing the world are technology, politics, and newspapers. The emphasis on confusion and reconstruction, scissored or discolored photographs, jumbled text unmoored from meaning, suggests a kind of pre-post-apocalyptic style. The use of rolls of film and cut-up photos as pieces of the work of art stems from a self-conscious focus on the maker of art as well as its subject. Religion as a means of understanding the world, or as anything more than an anthropological artifact, is almost entirely absent from the exhibit's works.
(Exceptions are one harrowing montage, Hans Bellmer's 1937 Machine Gun(neress) in a State of Grace, in which a mounted gun has grown lips and breasts; and perhaps the ersatz blood-and-soil mythos of Nazi propaganda.)
It's often easy to see why modernist techniques were so readily incorporated into advertising: With their sharp contrasts, sharp angles, and shocking combinations, they're designed to catch the eye amid a chaos of competing images; the use of blank space, white or dark, is especially striking. The montage technique and the free mixing of words and images allowed pictures to be more narrative, more easily able to imply a course of action rather than simply capturing a moment in time.
Machines are everywhere in this show. They can be beautiful: Eugen Wiskovsky's Insulator is a gorgeous flow of curves, seeming more natural than man-made, like a distilled or stripped-down nautilus. They frequently suggest awe mixed with dread: Paul Citroen's Metropolis is a montage of almost 200 pictures of skyscrapers and neon signs. It's both awe-inspiring and overwhelming, a towering city pressing in on the viewer, with only three tiny patches of sky remaining at the very top of the image.
Ambivalence is the most common note. Umbo's (Otto Umbehr) The Raging Reporter, in which Czech journalist Egon Erwin Kisch has become a kind of retro-tech cyborg with a camera for an eye, pen hands, and a typewriter heart, is both creepily Frankensteinian and wittily charming. Kisch liked the image enough to use it as the cover for the second edition of one of his books. There are archetypal man-vs.-machine battle pictures, like Max Burchartz's Worker before Machines, in which a small, hunched worker confronts a big, glossy, curvy machine. But the pictures are often wry or uncertain rather than hectoring, anxious rather than crusading, and sometimes exuberantly hopeful about technological advances.
József Pécsi's 1932 Fashion (Mrs. Pécsi) shows two female mannequins standing and facing one another, while the artist's wife, a young woman with a sharp conspiratorial smile, leans in confidingly toward the viewer. The human is contrasted with the artificial, yes, but not dominated by it; the mannequins are eerie, but the woman is able to face away from them, ignore their faux conversation for her "real" one with the viewer.
In many of these photos, humans don't have Mrs. Pécsi's insouciance; they are reduced to insignificance by the grandeur of the technological landscape they've created. The curves of the insulator are mimicked by the sweeping curves of an outdoor café, seen from high up in Jan Lauschmann's 1932 photo. Edith Tudor-Hart's 1928 photo shot through the thick black ironwork of a Ferris wheel makes the crowds below seem faceless. It's impossible to forget the historical context, and so it's impossible to view the serried ranks of the café crowd, or the blurry masses in Karel Hájek's beehive-like Demonstration at Charles University (1934), without shuddering at the power of men who have lost their individuality in the mob.