by Glass! Love!! Perpetual Motion!!!-A Paul Scheerbart Reader Josiah McElheny
news. And you’re saying there are no colors in moving pictures either?”
The director slammed his fist down on the table, knocking over a cham-
pagne glass that burst into pieces on the smooth black tabletop.
“Goodness me!” I exclaimed. “Are you hoping to make me appreciate
the extent of your fixation on glass by smashing one?”
He smiled and said hurriedly:
“Don’t be so dreadfully thick-witted. In the moving pictures you’ve
seen, do colors real y play much of a role? You yourself don’t believe that.
And — with al due respect to the colors used by a Makart or a Böcklin —
color as such is shown to far greater advantage in glass painting than in al
the oils in the world. That’s just my view, and nothing can dissuade me.
And to this day, the diamonds worn on actors’ bodies have never once been
incorporated into stage design. Please don’t jest about such matters. I wish
in al seriousness to put glass on stage as a representational element — it
should be more than just a decorative by-product. Do you stil real y not
understand what I am after?”
“Not in the least,” I replied mournful y.
The director whacked the table with his cane and in the deepest bass
tones ordered the waiter to clear away the shards of glass, after which, lean-
ing toward me, he quietly but with extreme haste went on:
First published as “Das Glas-Theater” in 1910 in the literary magazine Die Gegenwart (The
present), Berlin.
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PAUL S C H E E R B A R T
“Just imagine so-cal ed shadow plays performed with transparent and
opaque glass plates. These glass plates, which can display any color, can
have the shadows of colored glass projected on them. This wil instantly
give you shadow plays in color. What more could you ask? Won’t these col-
orful shadows produce the most extraordinary atmospheric effects? Won’t
this give a completely new direction to the theatrical arts, one in which
glass plays a dominant role? What more could you ask? I pity you if you
are stil incapable of seeing the perspectives I see. Glass theater wil be the
greatest event of the season. The glass wal s don’t even have to be al that
big — two or three meters across should be plenty.”
He said a great many other things as wel . The first glass theater pro-
duction should be having its premiere soon.
Translated by Susan Bernofsky
188
An Ornament Museum
This was in Potsdam at eight in the morning. I was speak-
ing with the Privy Government Councilor Dr. von Birkenbork
about ethnology and the study of ornaments when suddenly the
old gentleman exclaimed:
“No! Real y now! It seems you don’t yet know about our
very, very extensive Ornament Museum — is that true?”
“First I’ve heard of it!” I replied. “Where in the world is it? I’ve
never even heard of an ornament museum. Where is it located?”
“It’s at Lake Schwielow,” replied the Privy Councilor jovial y. “I can
take you there at once. But — the museum is not open to the general pub-
lic. It is only for gentlemen from the government. At any given time, one
hundred government officials are there — pursuing their studies of orna-
mentology — which is the same thing as the ethnographic study of souls. In
the ornament, the soul of a people is revealed. This is something you real y
ought to know about. Of course — it is not in our interest to open up the
study of the national soul to the populace. That would al ow the people to
attain self-knowledge. And people who have knowledge of themselves are
not so easy to govern. So, as you can imagine, we do not speak publicly
of our museum. I am counting on your strict discretion if I take you there.
You’l have to let the concierge dress you in a large barber’s coat and a tal ,
white, pastry chef’s hat so that the studious gentlemen from the government
wil know at once that you do not yet have any idea how to govern.”
“With the greatest delight,” I replied amicably, “I shal don the barber’s
coat and pastry chef’s hat. Let us pay a visit to Lake Schwielow. I’m terri-
bly curious. You can count on my discretion.”
We made the trip by motorboat. And immediately I was dressed in
white. And as soon as I went in, I saw hordes of government officials.
In a smal automobile I rode through the rooms with Herr von Birken-
bork. We must have driven through more than a thousand rooms. This
Ornament Museum is indeed a most imposing creation. Apparently there
First published as “Ein Ornament-Museum” in 1911 in the literary magazine Die Gegenwart
(The present), Berlin.
189
PAUL S C H E E R B A R T
are some gentlemen who go into government only so that they can engage
in the study of ornaments in the new Ornament Museum, which cost the
Reich far more than fifty million — in other words: almost as much as the
Reichstag building.
The influence of China and India on the great European periods of
the Renaissance, the Baroque, and the Rococo is instantly made clear in
this museum — as wel as the fact that the Chetiters are nothing more than
Mongols; in fact, the Chetiters’ pointed shoes with turned-up tips and their
braids are evidence enough of this Mongolian lineage.
Every ornament in the museum is always displayed in conjunction with
the ornaments that bear an apparent relation to it. Ornaments originated
in script, and, in point of fact, al they are is writing. And so the study
of ornament is in a sense the study of the graphology of a people. And in
this way many things become instantly clear — such as the fanatic Enlight-
enment zeal of the Persians and ancient Greeks — and then the fact that
Europe, by comparison with Asia, is actual y in possession of relatively
little national soul — while Peru and Mexico, on the other hand, have
far more. In general it appears that Enlightenment leanings do not suit a
national soul terribly wel . Meanwhile — I promised to be discreet and
therefore, unfortunately, must end here.
Translated by Susan Bernofsky
190
The Silent Dance of Courtly Society
In the middle of the eighteenth century, in the Nymphenburg Palace near
Munich, there lived a prince named Wolfgang. The prince lived com-
pletely alone — and natural y he moped. His parents were off traveling.
The Munich Residence was inhabited only by the many footmen, grooms,
coachmen, porters, chambermaids, and scul ery girls. At the Nymphen-
burg Palace it wasn’t much different. Except that at Nymphenburg the
footmen and other palace functionaries were hardly to be seen, as Prince
Wolfgang didn’t like to be disturbed. He was happier to see the servants
leaving than coming — both in the park that surrounded the castle and in
the castle itself. Everywhere at Nymphenburg, the prince’s wishes counted
as the strictest orders.
Suddenly the prince decided he wanted to become — a painter.
And so an old painter, Dahlmann by name, turned into an important
presence in the p
rince’s life.
Dahlmann was meant to be the prince’s master teacher.
He took his position very seriously and explained to the prince in long,
careful y worded speeches that the first and most important step in painting
was learning how to draw.
This didn’t sit wel with the prince, however, and as they sat on a park
bench near a hunting Diana, a long white meerschaum pipe in the teacher’s
mouth, the prince said the fol owing:
“But I’ve been to Hol and. I saw painters just start painting — right
away, without a drawing. That’s how I want to do it. I don’t want to be a
draftsman. I’l never learn to draw. I want to work with color immediately.
I can only become a painter with color. And I shal favor blue, yel ow, and
red. Don’t argue, Herr Dahlmann! Let’s begin!”
And so a studio was prepared in the castle with the greatest pomp and
circumstance, and a huge, almighty canvas — carefully stretched in a
frame — was placed on the easel.
Herr Dahlmann and several pages ground the paint and prepared the
brushes, and then Prince Wolfgang wanted to paint a marvelous seascape.
First published as “Das stumme Spiel der Hofgesellschaft” in 1911 in the art and literature
magazine Die Jugend (Youth), Munich.
191
PAUL S C H E E R B A R T
“Very white,” he said. “That’s how the seascape should look. There wil
be clouds, too — white clouds. Let’s begin with the top half of the picture.”
“Yes,” ventured Herr Dahlmann submissively, “Shal I begin?
Or — would your Highness prefer to begin yourself? Everything shal pro-
ceed just as your Highness deigns to command. The brushes are lined up
here. If it should be your Highness’s pleasure to take one. Painting is a very
delicate, capricious, and entertaining diversion.”
His Highness began.
But his hand did not obey him; the clouds turned into disgusting clumps,
and he soon stopped and stormed out alone — into the park.
Thus it continued for days and weeks and months. The prince would listen
to no one. His painting was unsuccessful. The lakeshores grew ever more
desertlike. The painter himself was displeased with his paintings. Again and
again he would scratch everything out. Dahlmann always sat quite calmly
nearby, smoking his long meerschaum pipe and not daring to say a word.
“He’l soon realize how to help himself!” thought the old man. With this
thought he smoked one pipe after another. The meerschaum soon turned
quite brown.
By the time autumn arrived the prince had begun to look rather unwel .
He suffered violent fits of emotion. He started to realize that painting was
quite a difficult thing.
And so the prince grew seriously il , coughed a lot, arose very late in the
day and slunk laboriously around the wide park, leaning heavily on a walk-
ing stick. Despite the diligence of the valets, his powdered wig always had a
disorderly look, as the prince loved to sit on a park bench and tear his hair,
vehemently cursing the gods of ancient Greece who had bewitched his hand.
Herr Dahlmann wrote to the royal doctor of Munich and begged him to
come to Nymphenburg disguised as a painter to make sure everything was
in order. The old man depicted the misfortunes at the palace in the most
lurid of colors and did not neglect to mention that everything would change
when it pleased his Highness to leave aside the confounded, obstructing,
accursed colors blue, yel ow, and red.
The royal doctor, Kröcker by name, placed the golden bal that topped
his walking stick first against his left nostril, then against his right nos-
tril — and then looked in the mirror, laughed merrily, and said cheerful y:
“We are adequate to this task.”
He drove to Nymphenburg in his finest carriage and introduced himself
as a painter from Holland who had suffered a malady of the right hand and
had now come to proffer good advice.
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Sitting on a quiet bench in the park, he then said: “Your Highness! You
don’t need to paint! I’ve figured it out. Al that’s needed is to drink a good
glass of wine or a few mugs of good Munich Hofbräu every day.”
His Highness was thereupon overcome by misery and said tearful y:
“But there’s nothing wrong with my right hand. Why can’t I learn to
paint?”
“That,” Kröcker replied, “is precisely the secret of the right hand. One
cannot paint without the right hand — one would have to train the left
hand — or the feet, which is very difficult. There must be some witchcraft
at work.”
“That’s what I thought!” cried his Highness with great animation.
“Yes,” Kröcker continued, “al that is needed is to trace the cause of
the bedevilment. How did his Highness come upon the picturesque idea
of becoming a great painter, of al things? If his Highness should care to
give account of this, it wil be no trouble at al for me to ferret out the cause
of the dratted hand curse. I am often cal ed upon to advise in cases where
there is debate and conference over the maladies of the so-cal ed human
hand — which is cal ed a paw, in animals.”
Kröcker took a pinch from a golden gemstone box and gave it to the
prince. He, however, thanked the doctor and said weakly: “Ah, you see,
Mynheer, the impressions of youth are the strongest impressions. I am now
over twenty-six years old. I grow older every day. I am approaching death.
But my strongest impression — I was barely eight years old — was when
the royal nurse told me a tale from The Thousand and One Nights. I no
longer even remember how it actual y went. But in it, a prince came to a
large bright lake. And in the lake swam blue, yel ow, and red fish. I think
there were white ones as wel — and later they turned into royal huntsmen,
confectioners, pastry cooks, and the like. But — these yel ow, blue, red,
white fish — in the sunlight — they were exquisite. This was the greatest,
most intense impression of my youth — and of my whole life. Oh, you must
not laugh. I saw al of this only in my imagination. But I saw it nonethe-
less. And it is for this reason that I wanted to become a painter, to paint a
picture that looks like what I once saw in my mind. But the oil paints make
everything wrong. It makes me so sick.”
“Was the red of the red fishes,” Herr Kröcker asked with the gold bal
laid aside his nose, “more crimson or more vermilion?”
“More crimson,” the prince replied, “but it was bright. The yel ow too
was very bright and luminous. Only the blue was a bit dul — as one often
sees in Dutch landscapes. Mynheer, if only you could help me!”
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PAUL S C H E E R B A R T
“Prince,” Kröcker replied, “you must not cal me Mynheer.” I am the
royal doctor Kröcker from Munich and I am pleased to have met your
Highness. But if your Highness should deign to grant us with continued
life, you wil require the strictest rest. To bed, immediately! Warm covers!
And al must be quiet — very quiet. I shal cure
your Highness.”
And Kröcker forgot about his sprained hand, thrust it under the prince’s
left arm, led him back into the castle, gave countless instructions, person-
al y put the prince to bed, closed the green silk curtains, and wrote out two
dozen prescriptions.
The couriers flew on nimble steeds to the apothecary in Munich, to the
main palace, and to the Hofbräu cel ar, for Kröcker loved Hofbräu beyond
measure; he had to have four mugs every day — for him there was no other
way to live.
Kröcker spoke to Herr Dahlmann for a long time by the light of ten
glowing candles and drank Hofbräu and smoked a meerschaum pipe and
let the sick prince sweat it out. Then he walked to the window, looked out
into the moonlight in the park, and saw — that it had begun to snow.
In two hours the park was very white.
“Ah,” Kröcker cried, “If only we had red, blue, and yel ow fish in this
snow lake!”
Dahlmann said, “Perhaps we wil find them in Munich.”
“Ah!” Kröcker cried again, “Colorful fish in Munich? Yes, a little fun,
a masked ball! A snow party for courtly society. They must dance to make
the prince wel again, in blue, red, yel ow, and white. Heavens, it’s getting
cold. The pond outside is freezing up. Next Sunday afternoon, here: an
ice-skating party in Prince Wolfgang’s colors. We’l arrange everything.
But the performance must be silent! No music! Not a sound!”
And in the middle of the night the couriers flew again on their nimble
steeds into Munich. Most of them fel on their way, as it had grown very
icy. But neither horse nor man came to serious harm.
On the next Sunday, al of Munich’s courtly society arrived at Nymphen-
burg, their demeanor very serious, in sleighs drawn by white horses — blue,
yel ow, and red snow blankets fluttered atop the horses. The vanguard,
the cavaliers, and the entire noble company bore only the prince’s four
colors — on flags and sashes, and feathers.
Prince Wolfgang and his doctor: above in a great hal with exquisite
ceiling paintings. His Highness, pale in an invalid’s chair, old Kröcker on
his right, old Dahlmann on his left.
The sleighs drove al the way to the back of the park and then very slowly,
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