Thesis Introduction

Hey everyone, this is the introduction to my thesis. Any feedback would be appreciated.

Where Have All of the Angels Gone, Have They Turned into Puppets?
Existentialism and Nihilism in the Works of Paul Klee and Rainer Maria Rilke

Introduction

World War I was a major turning point in history which had a direct causation on art,

literature, and philosophy. Art fragmented into various “isms”, such as expressionism, cubism,

futurism, and suprematism, often displacing artists and causing them to change from movement

to movement. In a sense the fragmentation of art paralleled the vast devastation of war on so

many fronts, including loss of homes and loss of life; individuals sought to understand often the

pointlessness of it all. Thus the war that was termed “the Great War” was supposed to end

quickly with little causality. Ultimately “the Great War” turned into a disaster. New

developments, such as trench warfare expedited death. Soldiers were often buried and

suffocated under dead soldiers in the trenches. The use of gas suffocated many fighting in the

trenches and fallout from grenades killed many as well. World War II was an additional turning

point in history. Millions of innocent people were slaughtered in the name of a “pure race”,

leaving a devastated Europe despairing over the lack of humanity of it all.

During the backdrop of the war the artists suffered as well. “In the summer of 1937, Klee’s

prominence as an artist condemned by the National Socialist government was confirmed for all

to see.”[1] Whereas modernist art was once accepted and hailed as great art during the Weimar

Republic, it was ridiculed and put on public display by the National Socialist government. This

ultimately led to a political confrontation concluding with the confiscation of modern works in all

public collections in Germany.[2] A Degenerate Art Exhibit was set up across from an exhibit

displaying ‘good’ examples of art. Thus new standards were established for art, which excluded

modern art. Whereas modern art was upheld as ‘high art’ in the Weimar Republic, this all

changed under the rule of the National Socialist government. Therefore what happened to the

artists whose works were confiscated? Many were forced to flee, losing their jobs and in many

circumstances their art as well.

When historical experiences are traumatic (such as the conditions of World War I and World

War II) a person seeks to lose oneself; a former identity is lost forever and a new cultural

identity is created.[3] Often one cannot see beyond the past or create a new historical identity.

This leads to the philosophical idea of existentialism for when one remains in touch with one’s

self and relies only on their organic senses they rely solely on themselves.[4] Thus in a sense

both the past and the future become irrelevant. They seek to live only in the present moment.

However often in extreme cases this can lead to the idea of nihilism. I hope to demonstrate that

neither Paul Klee nor Rainer Maria Rilke could accomplish a particular transformation dear to

both of them – namely, the move from what, in these philosophical terms, could be described as

a transition from existentialism to nihilism. These issues articulated through these artists,

crystallize around the figures of “the angel” and “the puppet.” This illustration can be seen in

Paul Klee’s painting Angelus Novus (1932) [Fig. 1] and in Rainer Maria Rilke’s Duino Elegies

(1923) reflecting ideas of existentialism. Often existentialism practiced to the extreme can turn

into a type of nihilism as can be seen in Klee’s Death and Fire (1940) [Fig. 2]. Thus when one

exists in a state of existentialism or nihilism do they further abandon all hope and then

ultimately the human race? In addition, the Nietzchean idea of “…a form of moral renewal in

which the forces of destruction and creation were inseparably linked to one another” can be seen

in the work of the aforementioned.[5]

Footnotes

[1] Roskill, Mark. Klee, Kandinsky, and the Thought of Their Time: A Critical Perspective. (Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1992), 55.

[2] Ankersmit, F.R. “The Sublime Dissociation of the Past: or How to Be(Come) What One Is No Longer.” History and Theory. (October, 2001), 302.

[3] Nietzsche, Friedrich. Trans. R.J. Hollingdale. A Nietzsche Reader. (London: Penguin Books Ltd, 1977), 203.

[4] Werckmeister, O.K. “From Revolution to Exile.” Paul Klee: His Life and Works. Ed. Carolyn Lanchner. (New York: Hatje Cantz Publishers, 1987), 44.

[5] Ibid, 45.

One of my colleagues read "I Still Have a lot To Learn" and suggested that there was something missing. I have since re-read and I agreed with him. In lieu of that I have added an additional stanza. I think it is complete now.

I Still Have a lot to Learn

Once upon a time I believed people were genuinely ‘good’, not the self-absorbed society we have become, an endless thread of me, me, and me spooling around boundless corners until the self is both lost and absorbed into a corporate paper doll image.

Each day I try to work on the idea of self. I am becoming. I do not want to be a cardboard cutout wearing clothes with fold over tabs, living in a paper house, driving a starched car, answering to a bendable boss.

I think everyone should work in a grocery store. We should all be subjected to the feet tapping and heavy sighs of the wearied work force as they get off late from work and rush to pick up a few things. We smile our plastic smiles and make small talk as we sack endless items until the customer scowls and growls I really would appreciate if you would just shut up, I don’t need any small talk. Yet we still smile our vacant smiles, wheel the groceries out of the store and thank our version of God for education.

Religion is not an organization it is a state of being. Some use church services as an excuse to forgive the bad deeds they are going to commit during the week. It is instant forgiveness in a speedy society like instant coffee and Polaroid pictures. I simply lead a simple life and treat others the way I want to be treated. What is between me and my God is simply that, it is between us.

I feel writing is one of the most difficult activities to do well. It takes persistence and perseverance, the repetition of write, edit, and write some more. I am rarely happy with what I put down on a piece of paper. At one point it was depressing, I had flashes of ovens and putting stones into my pockets and finding a lake, so I stopped writing. Guess what? I started writing again. PERSISTENCE, PERSEVERANCE

I have had several careers. I am somewhat of a Renaissance man although I really am a Renaissance girl. A career is something I have to do the rest of my life so I will be a poet, a writer, a college instructor and a daredevil but whatever I do I will strive to be the best at it.

I live life. I don’t want to look back and think what if? We all have regrets, but to date they are minor like a broken nail or a forgotten appointment. These things are nuisances but not the gut churning, I’m going to lose sleep over decisions that I’ll dwell on until I’m eighty and blame everyone in my life about how it’s not my fault, it’s everyone else’s or just life in general.

A friend once asked me, Why aren't you married? It's a question I get quite often. I replied, I don't believe in love. Call it self preservation. I have felt that gut-wrenching, palms sweating, heart palpitating, can't wait to get home and talk to that individual feeling. I've said the words I love you ONCE. When I love it's completely, whole-heartedly, entirely. So these days I date, smile a sad smile and HEAL.

I am not a financial guru. I live a modest life yet I don’t save as much as I should. Refer to the paragraph above. If I want to fly to Paris on a whim like an unexpected storm, I will. If I want to climb Mayan pyramids, I’ll risk the heat to climb every pyramid that’s still open to the tourists.

Family is important. They are a cornerstone, a foundation and a building block. I didn’t realize this until both my dad and my mom died. They were both ripped away when I was still fairly young. It taught me to live life, to take that vacation instead of putting off, to not wait until tomorrow because

what if tomorrow never comes and today ceases to exist?

First version published in The Bayousphere (2007)

Samsara

The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed. -Stephen King

He was the last cowboy
dressed in khakis and a
button down shirt.
His weapons
words

Master of Manipulation
he is not the Gunslinger;
my mistake. He is the Man
in Black

his plastic heart reflects his
transparent words of
I’m interested in you
as they fall to the floor
scramble,
colored
letters from
a child’s
magnet set.

Constant chase
cyclical
fleeing from the

Gunslinger

the Man in Black

Himself

pulling others
screaming silent
with his pretty words
into other
secret sensual
worlds
then he lets
go
Endless cycle
of pursuit, advance
retreat until

The Gunslinger

The Man in Black

ultimately
merge and
become

one

while the others
fall, float like
paper doll personas
of their previous
selves for

There are other
worlds
than these.

Bad Moon on the Rise

I see the bad moon arising.
I see trouble on the way. – Creedence Clearwater Revival


There’s a bad moon
on the rise she drawls
blending sounds;
a cacophony of consonants

What does that mean?

It’s an old blues saying
he says smugly with
his youth’s years
a bad omen, kind of
like the seventh daughter
of the seventh son

That’s too simple
They are not merely
song lyrics

There’s a bad moon
on the rise she croons
her lament-like lyric
once more

I’m missing something.
I don’t get it.

I don’t think John
Fogerty song lyrics
deserve some deep
analysis he responds
with semi-intellectual
semblance
not everything has to have
some deeper meaning
or subtext

I think the elusive answer is
right there divaricating a Durgan
of my memory. It’s about
Beginnings…

There’s a bad moon on the rise

Is that what happens
when you spend
your whole life
shrouded in books,
you end up
overanalyzing everything
to the point of dementia
he jeers his pseudo-
intellectual say so.
Do you want to know what
my opinion on those people
are?

Sure, I respond still
pontificating

I say, ‘Go fly a kite!’
he counters

Now, that sounds like fun.

Dominos

Sometimes I don't know where
this dirty road is taking me
sometimes I can't even see the reason why -Townes van Zandt


Do you want to play
dominos? he asks
I don’t answer
I don’t know who
He is

Why don’t you want
to play dominos
with me?
Again, I don’t
answer

Weren’t you my
creative writing
professor?
Satori –
I know
Him

He is loneliness, a
façade hiding behind
Townes van Zandt
lyrics and white space

a computer screen

What do you want?
He claims he’s
interested…
yet he is not
free…

He plays me like
the Scrabble games
he challenges me to
as I get the winning
edge

He gets triple letter score…

Who really has won this game?

It is likely we both
win and lose
as we wander
this dirty road
and technological
white space
searching, seeking
for a reason why.

Miranda

My niece
her name a set
of rights. Eyes giggling
she demands the cop guess my name
he does.

Echoes of Silence

Multi-hued ornaments shine with red,
gold, and green, smiling faces on
stark white branches as lights twinkle,
twist, turn, dancers performing a
waltz.
Store fronts wave with silver foil
wrapped windows beckoning each
passerby as I rush past your open warmth,
head down.
Stream swirls as I grasp the mug. Arm back
I hurl it against the wall. It shatters like
a broken puzzle, piece by piece as murky
liquid graffitis the wall.
I stare out the window, marble streets mock,
challenge me to endure their icy paths as
children slip, slide, knees deep in snow
glee filled shouts of no more school.
Bundled in my blanket, book open I read
the same sentence for the eighth time
before I slam it closed. Echoes of
silence swirl singing me to sleep.

The banister glows glitters with greenery
as it winds and shimmers up dark wood
rails. I glide downstairs, feet light with
anticipation. The tree in the corner
stands majestic, proud arms extended
with homemade trinkets of memories
past. Silence flows over me as I peek
in my stocking. Presents stacked high
with foil colored bows beg for a final
shake. Mom and Dad still asleep, I
curl with a blanket under the tree to
patiently wait.

Eyes open I stare towards the vacant
Corner. Happiness of Christmas’ past
Twirls, sashays like snowflakes light as
Air. Memories of a father’s hug and a
Mother’s kiss embrace me in blanket
Warmth as I bend to holiday’s cheer.

To Soar

6 am alarm clock blurs dreams to
reality and I run out of my house
Saturday morning.

Angry brake lights blink like
ambulance flashers as the sign reads
Freeway Closed Ahead.

My fingers tap tap tapping the wheel
I sing slightly off key
to a bubblegum tune.

Hordes of impatient cars weave
in out, mad bulls searching
exit ramps
as my foot taps to
the tune.

When the knot clears, I accelerate
wanting nothing but a jolt of caffeine
before class begins.

Sun over the trees dazzles my
eyes. Then a host of Hot air balloons
red, green, blue
blaze against clouds’ canvas.
at the helm each
pilot a painter.
Gasping I pull over,
close my eyes.
I am the colors swirling,
and with them
I fly.

Those Left Behind

Water waves
cover rooftops
swallows cars; a
mythic monster
from a crayon
creation scribbled
in angry hues

color splashes
the surface,
confetti dots of
red
blue
green

black…

bodies litter
the street
like broken glass
shattered shards
of splintered dreams,
yet they are
colorless
bloated balloons
floating
among debris,
until
curb crushed

nothing

but
the
city’s
trash.

Published in The Bayousphere (2007)

The Kite

Wings outstretched like a
bird soaring, the kite flies
through the sky blurring a
kaleidoscope of colors: red,
orange, green

Your stubby legs pump
in frayed jeans, white at
the seams, your red cap backwards
and toothless grin as the
kite hurls, nose first like
a sky diver, arms out
plummeting
towards earth.

Small hand grasps mine
with pleading eyes
you beg, “Make it fly.”

Puzzled I wonder where
you came from, when I hear a
voice saying, “I see you’ve met
my son.”

With a blank stare I turn
and whisper the
soft forbidden words
“Where is your wife?”

Patchwork Memories

I remember
an ashtray shattering;
a rain shower of
porcelain
fragments
orange and green,
and stepping out
of its
panoramic view.

A restaurant horror,
the squeamish sequence
of my niece
crawling on the table,
belly full of air;
a white balloon.
Hording her food
she scuttles away
from the borax
blowing bug.
Her eyes blank,
an uncolored page.

A philanderer;
his whispered
four letter
crossword puzzle
clues of
LOVE
and
CARE
deleted with a chewed
bubblegum eraser
like the wife and
children he forgot.
Their feelings
squeezed dry;
a flat toothpaste
tube.

The field of crocuses
like pinwheels,
sunbursts of
orange, yellow swirls,
surrounds a
lone, gray stone
“Heaven is with
its newest angel”
reads the phrase
as the sun
and memories of
my mother
fade to
black.

Antagonists

Death and I sit
in the far side corner
shadows crackle dark warmth
like graffitti scrawls
then in a blind moment,
disappear.

Frustrated with the
Jenga game, I mull over
this uncanny situation.
Who really plays games with
Death?

Death's turn. Inept he watches
the wood blocks crash to
the table; a sightless equestrian
overestimating a jump.
In this extraordinary moment
I turn to leave.

Wretched, I wander to the
center of the room.
Forlorn thoughts
swirl; a lovely kiss
taffy-like, but without
color.

Scrabble next, not my forte
as I stumble with
clownish clumsiness
to sit across from
God. Frowning I muse
over my tiles.

Triple letter score,
no more tiles,
I look up with an
abhorrent glance
expecting retribution.
I turn to leave
another amazing moment
as I glance back with
a beautifully sarcastic
smile proclaiming
me,
winner.

Impressions

I am Baudelaire’s stroller,
no I am Manet’s flaneur,
living on the outskirts of
society, hiding
from crowds viewing
spectacles.
I am the red sash in
Music in the Tuileries Gardens
a bright color spot among
faceless many.
I am a Friedrich’s
Ruckenfigur, back turned
as I look
toward the
sublime.

I am a Humanities
Instructor teaching about
ancient sand,
dreaming about
brown land.
No, an English
Instructor, an Adjunct
with an invisible
"A" engraved upon
my chest.

I am "the white box"
of an application form
No, wait! I am
Welsh, French and
Scottish:
with the wail of
a bagpipe,
the hint of
calliope
in my soul

I am the strongest link,
an aunt and a sister
I am the weakest link,
the last of my line.

Published in The Bayousphere (2005)