Yes, Berlin is back. And I’m back, too. I’ve been here for a week, not inclined to write much on the blog, but that will change. The weather is to blame, mainly, as it’s just been cold and rainy, except for Sunday when the sun announced itself open for business. So a proper cycle was in order, on the newly renovated chariot (which had not weathered a month of crappy weather here very well).
Berlin is now green and lush, so it’s just aching to be summer hot, which it is not. I’m sure things will change in the next few days and if Sunday is any indication, the city will go mad for it.
The tour: I did a short jaunt down down Invalidenstrasse to what will be the new Central Station (Hauptbahnhof), Lehrter Banhof. At the moment, it’s just a skeleton of steel with a thin membrane of glass, but it will be quite an amazing piece of railway architecture when done. A doubleback in the direction of Mitte and I’m heading towards the Reichstag, past Brandenberg Gate (see the photo above for the memorial set up for May 8th, the 60th anniversary of the War’s end) and then on to what I was hoping to save for another day, but paused to have a look anyway: The Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe.
So much can be said about it. It has been a contentious “intervention” into this most fought over and debated site in Berlin, to say the least. There have been numerous public discussions about it: its size, its intent, its ability to properly memorialize, accusations from the right about the growing “holocaust industry” in Germany, the special chemical used to prevent graffiti being manufactured by a subsidiary of the company that made Zyklon B, it’s just mere blocks from Hitler’s bunker, etc. They hardly need revisiting here, but they linger.
It is done, though, and it is a moving provocation, a thoughtful insertion into an area which Alan Blum would call an “ethical collision” of past, present and future Berlin (it straddles the touristy Brandenberg Gate and commercial/corporate Potsdamerplatz).
It is an impressive site, for many reasons. I took about half an hour to wander among the blocks, which all vary in size, with some off-kilter, towering over you with a suggestive lean. A strangely compelling space, by which I mean the way people use and abuse it. From young kids jumping around and playing hide and seek to elderly people looking to contemplate the horror of what happened, its uses are multiple and not necessarily “proper.”
For me it felt very solemn for the most part, and it’s designed in such a way that you have time to pause and absorb, regardless of what may be happening around the next corner. Interesting how it orders your experience, creating a space structured around a disciplining of reflection and remembering. Very effective; the sheer mass and layout are impressively claustrophobic, disorienting and haunting at the same time.
I then took Unter den Linden to Friedrichstrasse, trailing off along various side streets, meandering somewhat aimlessly as I love to do. I found my way to Karl Marx Allee and stopped at the Kino International, where I warmed at the sight of this marvel of Communist modernism. Unfortunately, it only shows films in German, mainly Hollywood fare with rare exceptions, so I’ve only had the chance to savour its exterior, which I’ve done many times, but that’s always enough to keep me content.
On the road again, I headed back to Helmholzplatz, where I was to meet some Canadians and one German for a beer and some soup (stopping by the wonderful planetarium, caught as dusk crept in). The talk turned, as it does so often in these situations of mixing Teuton and non-, to Berlin and the War. I’m of the opinion that many North Americans, of Anglo-American stock mainly, are bred to be too culturally sensitive when it comes to understanding and discussing the War, and that when they come to Germany they are often at a loss to understand or grasp the lived and learned context of post-War Europe, a fact which I’ve been made all too aware of, having engaged in too many discussions about it. Let me give you two examples (with one minor diversion), which illustrate my own fraught experience.
The first happened in Köln, where I went to visit my friend Anthony, who was doing a teaching stint at the University of Bonn. I was visiting him precisely to see what Kölner Karneval was all about. A proper Catholic festival celebrating the various rituals associated with Lent (and because it’s Catholic explains why it does not occur in the Protestant stronghold of Berlin), it consists mainly of bad costumes and bad schlager (yes, there is good schlager, trust me, I own plenty), which you see your way through by drinking copious amounts of alcohol. While we committed ourselves to a fair share of drinking, I think our glimpse into certain aspects of Karneval culture did us in more than the beer. First of all was the black face, usually topped off with an oversized ‘fro. Or it maybe it was the red face or brown face, done up either as the classic “Indian” or sheik, respectively. Perhaps our shock was just us registering how easily we’ve internalized a politically-correct discourse, failing to fully immerse ourselves in the Bakhtinian pleasure of stereotypes turned upside-down or rendered larger than life as ethnic and racial caricatures. No sense of humour, or not the right kind, maybe. But the clincher (I almost wrote “klinker,” but you’ll see why soon enough) was the guy in a Nazi uniform, sans insignia. Of course, in Germany it’s illegal to wear Nazi paraphernalia, or carry an image of Hitler, but in its cut and colour, this costume was clearly a Nazi-styled uniform. Shocked we were and I thought we had finally broached the limit of Karneval’s tolerance. Thinking about it at the time, I wondered what wasn’t allowed. As you might well infer, a Jewish costume was verboten. I thought this seemed reasonable enough, but I figured there might be a history there, so I asked my friend and local mentor Rolf Lindner about the history of this curious absence. In fact, during the twenties and into the Nazi era, the figure of the Jew was part of the Karneval stock costume repertoire. Typically, it would involve someone with a suitcase full of money, a hooked nose, etc. The costume itself was never officially outlawed after the war, but was clearly deemed beyond the pale when it came to public mockery so it has since disappeared. But blackface is de rigueur.
[I was thinking also of another incident which anticipates this, some fourteen years ago, which I’ll chalk up to youthful indiscretion and inadvertent cultural insensitivity. While in Western Samoa, once a German protectorate and hence a destination for many Germans en route to New Zealand and Australia, I met a number of Americans–part of the Red Cross, there to help rebuild parts of the island devastated by a recent cyclone–who were about to celebrate Hallowe’en. There were two German girls at the hostel I was at who were curious about this Hallowe’en night and asked if they could come along. I had recently shaved my head and had struck upon a great idea, at a time of year when I usually come up short: I’ll go as Charlie Manson. But how to make it clear I was Manson? Yup, a swastika on the forehead was all it needed. This was one costume which outdid all others in its cultural callousness, unintended though it was. While I got many laughs from the Americans (with one done up as Julius Caesar complete with bloody knife in back, another dressed up as an engorged penis), I had some trouble explaining all of this to the Germans without looking like a complete and utter ass. I don’t think you could really get the nuances, such as they were, across to any European who was not steeped in American pop culture and sensational media trials. There were lessons learned here which probably played themselves out in my experience in Köln and below. How’s that for a segue?]
The second example came while watching TV at my friend Roni’s place last year (I don’t have a TV). German TV is a curious thing, from what I can tell and, not least because of the explicit sex ads run late at night. Last year was the debut of Hogan’s Heroes, dubbed, as is everything except for the few odd MTV-Europe shows and BBC World, into German. Stunned that this would make it onto German television in the first place, I recoiled even more at the setting of this particular episode, which took place at a Nazi party (a party party), where there were black armbands and a full portrait of Hitler. I was a bit befuddled, and here’s where the conditioning kicked in. In a moment of unreflective overreaction, I audibly gasped. Thinking about it later, when the shock had receded, I realized that, of course, you can indeed show images of Hitler and swastikas on TV. Even more so if you’re going to mock them, however badly and with whatever over-the-top German accent you can put on. I’m sure my being appalled had as much to do with trying to wrap my head around whatever the programmers thought the cultural value of Hogan’s Heroes was (why now? why ever?), and why it was worth investing however much it cost to buy and then dub the series, as it did with my momentary conflation of representation and reality.
But what of the costume drama in Köln then? Should I have been as dumbfounded by this, or was I simply thinking too hard about it? Given the context of almost-anything goes at Karneval, a real-live, yet denuded, Nazi uniform somehow seemed less terrifying than the image of Hitler in a bad sitcom. Perhaps there’s the rub.
Regardless, there are plenty of examples of this in everyday conversation and pop culture. They don’t bear cataloguing here. I can only mould them into little anecdotes and remain in awe of their inexorable mystery.
Leaping around now: to follow on the book meme that’s been making the rounds in the blogosphere (thanks Vila H):
1. # of books I own:
A difficult question, as they’re now spread around different cities on different continents. I suspect it’s somewhere approaching ~1000 or so, but I would ask the movers about that.
2. Last book I bought:
Seeing as how Deutsche Post lost three boxes of my books (so let’s make that ~1000 minus 60), I’ve spent the last couple of weeks revisiting my favourite local art and architecture bookstore, Pro QM, in a vain attempt to replenish (unfortunately, some of the titles were out of print). Last book in the bag was probably Simon Reynolds’ “Rip it Up and Start Again.”
3. Last book I read:
Zygmunt Bauman’s “Europe: An Unfinished Adventure.”
4. Five books that mean a lot to me:
Roland Barthes: Pleasure of the Text
Oscar Wilde: Collected Works
Pierre Bourdieu: Distinction
Jonathan Raban: Soft City
Marvel Comics (if we call them graphic novels, does that count?)
In other news, hit the fleamarket in Mauer Park on Sunday. Funny to see how it’s expanded, as well as to bear witness to the gradual appearance of local artist/designers occupying the stalls. Combine this with the sand bar at the funky-techno-elektro heart of it all, and you find yet more evidence that Prenzlauerberg strains under the weight of too much style. But that’s more socio-semiotic fuel for my research fire.
And some musical fuel for the record collection was had there, too. The following is on a really rough plastic and paper 7-inch, complete with skip: Cabecita Loca – Conchita Bautista.
Perhaps because I’ve been absent so long, here’s a couple of others to keep you groovin’: Gemello Twins – Slag Solution, which is about, well I’m not sure actually, and Matt Asanuma – My Way. The latter is a countrified Jenglish version of that classic, complete with a caller (listen to the lyrics and you’ll hear it – talk about taking the song title literally).
Iso G.
General | 2 Comments »
Geoff Stahl
