Locks and the Viennese Secession

Mrs R L Jerstice (CR, Head of Psychology)

‘He was 56, his habit was to have a bowl of whipped cream for breakfast every day, and he was seriously overweight… So, there were underlying conditions there.’ (Kallir)

We can think of this Covid period as a unique, or dare I even say – unprecedented, time in human history; yet lockdowns and isolation have been part of the human experience for millennia. From the Black Death to Ebola, we have been battling unwelcome and invisible invaders. Most recently, the Europeans’ experience of a pandemic was the Spanish Flu, the 100th anniversary of which we mark with uncomfortable irony this year, whilst in the throes of new national lockdown.

As you read this article, I want you to cast yourselves back to 1910s Vienna, and to visit the world of the Secession movement’s kings; Klimt and Schiele. The gilded, ornate, swirling and flamboyant world of Secession Vienna may have seemed light years away from the grim lived reality of its citizens, grappling with the fallout of the First World War and a new, invisible invader.

This was a suffering that the Viennese, not unlike the rest of Europe, would have to handle in isolation. This was a private and barely acknowledged grief. Whilst we collectively are bound by grief and locked in together by a sense of duty and fear, there was no national monument to those victims who died of the Spanish Flu; no mass support for the health care professionals risking it all, no doorstep clapping. One could of course argue that given the timing (in the wake of the bloodiest war that the modern-day world had experienced) there were more pressing priorities. However, what makes this pandemic more harrowing than our own, given the context, was the loss of young life. Given the already depleted numbers of young men, it seems particularly heart-breaking to think that the death toll comprised mainly the young.

Klimt, mentor of Schiele, became a ghoulish spectacle in 1918, when, after dying from a stroke (which is argued to have been caused by the Spanish Flu) he was sketched by his prodigy, Schiele. The warped and twisted face encapsulated the harrowing death suffered by many of his generation. This raw and naked portrayal of death was a stark reminder of the reality of the world in which both artists were working; and one at times, many argued, Klimt isolated himself from. The vivid, gilded and ornate swirling characterised most of Klimt’s works allowed the viewer to enter into a dream-like state and to reconfigure our understanding of the use of lines within portraiture. It provided an escape from the war and diseased-ravaged reality and allowed us to enter our own ‘phantasy’ world (Klimt was highly influenced by Freud).

However, it would be remiss to only ‘see’ Klimt as The Kiss, although his most celebrated work explores the most complex of all ‘locks,’ that of the romantic relationship, he also produced some extremely raw work. Working at the fringes of society, Klimt engaged prostitutes for a series of intimate portrayals of sexuality. By using the women’s own ‘voices’ and direction, he unveiled a hidden aspect that the middle classes in Vienna were wholly unprepared for. Women were brutally laid bare, in a way that they had not been seen previously – these were not nudes in the Renaissance model, but almost uncomfortably close, raw and uncensored.

Modern eyes might be right to cast doubt on the authenticity of the ‘women’s voice’ and instead may see a seedier and more misogynist side to Klimt’s series, given the voyeuristic nature of the pieces and the obvious power imbalances between artist and muse. But, one thing should not be underestimated, and that is the fact that the ‘lock’ had forever been broken on the proverbial ‘pandora’s box’ of feminine sexuality.

Klimt was not just content with breaking the chains and unleashing female sexuality; he also looked to cast a modern eye on another central aspect, motherhood. Mother and Child, the perennial tableaux, was yet again brought to new life by Klimt. Evoking the ‘Madonna and Child’ pastiche, Klimt delivered a modern look through the use of bold geometric patterns paired against the juxtaposition of the swirling, glinting, golden, sweeping arches and warm Mediterranean colours. With hints of the Byzantine past which influenced decades of European artists before him, Klimt and the wider Succession movement arguably ripped apart the consensus of the art

world, with a beautiful marriage of the traditional and the modern. He represented the mother’s love in a way that was to be owned by the mother, not just as a religious symbol to be revered, but as a universal symbol of love.

Another interesting play on the notion of ‘locks’ is also found in Klimt’s Beethoven Frieze (in Vienna), its focal imagery is the Classical styled female muse’s depicting ‘the hostile forces; Typhoeus the giant, against whom even gods fought in vain; his daughters, the three Gorgons, who symbolise lust and lechery, intemperance and gnawing care, as the longings and wishes of mankind fly over their heads’. (all-art.org). The Frieze shows that humans are trapped between the desire to fulfil their wishes and needs but knowing that they are constrained by the societal disapproval. Thus, Klimt’s work brings to light the constant battle of our own unconscious mind.

Isolation, and societal disproval, was of course nothing new to Schiele. Spending nearly a month in prison for charges of impropriety with a minor (later dropped), Schiele’s work metamorphosed from extreme sexual motifs to work which took a step back from the agony and looked to present a more cautious edge. Speaking of his experiences, Schiele penned on one of his prison pieces, ‘I do not feel punished, I feel cleansed‘. Therefore demonstrating that being placed under lockdown for some can be a freeing experience: once we are free from the expectations placed upon us from society, it might just be possible to find our more authentic selves.

We think of prison as being a time to reform for the ‘wrongs’ that we have done, but for Schiele this appeared to go beyond his attitude towards his ‘models’ and extended, in a Freudian-esque manner, to the way in which he assessed his own use of projection in his artwork. Comini argues that Schiele’s post-prison art demonstrated ‘a rebellious unmasking of his subjects’ ever-changing states of being, to a more empathic later approach that ironically reconciled the possibility of a centred soul with outward stress and vulnerability.’ Thus, the unlocking of Schiele in a physical sense also had wider ramifications, both on his own emotional growth and artistic style. Tragically, Schiele did not get to bask in the glory of what was meant to be the most seminal piece of his career, The Family. It remained unfinished, a bleak reminder that his family in real life also never saw ‘fruition’, with Schiele and his pregnant wife passing within days of each other.

Gorgons, Sickness, and Death, from Klimt’s Beethoven Frieze (1902) in the Secession Building, Vienna

Atalanta Hue-Williams (DA L6)

James Capper, born in 1987, is a London-based artist. During the lockdown period he – like all of us –was stuck indoors, in his London flat. Fortunately, his studio is located directly beneath his flat, so he had access to his equipment, and thus was able to dedicate more time to his practice and undertake a new project. Capper’s work utilises his welding, engineering and radical sculptural skills to create colossal, mobile, human-operated machines that stride across the Earth, imitating the movements of both animate and inanimate objects such as insects and industrial cranes.

Capper’s workspace is more reminiscent of a car workshop than the typical white cube studio one would imagine; it is filled with compressors, lathes, cutting machines and all manner of metal working hydraulic presses. Capper is able to fabricate his colourful three-dimensional sculptures, with the end result often resembling the show room of an agricultural hardware store. Ironically, although these machines are mobile, they have no utilitarian function, and are powder-coated and finished to a very high spec, highlighting his ability as a colourist.

Capper reworked his machinery to invent a new technique of painting, creating rotary circular images on paper. He was fascinated by the repetitive nature of this process, which he saw as mimicking the round of daily life in isolation. During this period there were an infinite amount of news headlines; many people were horrified by the news of the pandemic. However, Capper took the opportunity to turn the mesmerising stream of headlines into titles for his works – some of which were unintentionally comical, but many were deadly earnest. From the fishbowl of his studio Capper harnessed the headlines, and as his understanding of the machinery advanced with the passing of the days. Looking at the images, it’s clear to see that the heavy-handed paint-pouring at the start of the lockdown has been slowly replaced by a more overt mastery of his materials: paint-thinning and slowing his rotary arc have allowed for more control over the process. Yet, in contrast to this, Capper has also been fascinated by the untamed splatter of the pigment.

So, although isolated, Capper realised how fortunate he was and teamed up with his gallery to sell many of these works, and he has given a substantial part of the proceeds to a Covid charity that delivered PPE to overwhelmed hospitals and care homes.

You can see some of these paintings on the next two pages.