Old Masters (24 page)

I mean at the crucial point in our existence,
nothing at all. In all these pictures, if we study them intensively, we sooner or later discover an awkwardness, or indeed, even in the very greatest and the most important creations, a flaw, if we are uncompromising
a serious flaw
which gradually makes us dislike these pictures, probably because we pitched our expectations too high, Reger said. Art altogether is nothing but a survival skill, we should never lose sight of this fact, it is, time and again, just an attempt — an attempt that seems touching even to our intellect — to cope with this world and its revolting aspects, which, as we know, is invariably possible only by resorting to lies and falsehoods, to hypocrisy and selfdeception, Reger said. These pictures are full of lies and falsehoods and full of hypocrisy and self-deception, there is nothing else in them if we disregard their often inspired artistry. All these pictures, moreover, are an expression of man's absolute helplessness in coping with himself and with what surrounds him all his life. That is what all these pictures express, this helplessness which, on the one hand, embarrasses the intellect and, on the other, bewilders the same intellect and moves it to tears, Reger said. The
White-Bearded
Man
has stood up to my intellect and to my feelings for over thirty years, Reger said, to me it is therefore the most precious item on show here at the Kunsthistorisches Museum. As though I had realized this over thirty years ago, I sat down on this settee here for the first time over thirty years ago,
directly facing the
White-Bearded
Man. All these so-called old masters are really failures, without exception they were all doomed to failure, and the viewer can establish this failure in every detail of their works, in every
brush-stroke,
Reger said,
in the smallest and very smallest detail.
Quite apart from the fact that of all these so-called old masters each one invariably only painted some detail of his pictures with real genius, not one of them painted a one-hundred-per-cent picture of genius, not one of those socalled old masters ever succeeded in doing that; either they failed with the chin or with the knee or with the eyelids, Reger said. Most of them failed with the hands, there is not a single painting to be seen in the Kunsthistorisches Museum on which there is a hand painted with genius, or even painted with extraordinary competence, always only those tragicomically unsuccessful hands, Reger said, that is what you see here in all these portraits, even the most celebrated ones. Nor did any of these so-called old masters succeed in painting even an exceptional chin or a truly successful knee. El Greco never managed to paint even a single hand, El Greco's hands all look like dirty wet face flannels, Reger now said, but then there is not a single El Greco in the Kunsthistorisches Museum anyway. And Goya, who is likewise not represented in the Kunsthistorisches Museum, carefully avoided painting even a single hand
clearly,
where Goya's hands are concerned even Goya got stuck in dilettantism, this terrifying monstrous Goya, whom I place above all painters who ever painted, Reger said. Besides, it is downright depressing, here in this Kunsthistorisches Museum, only ever to see an art which should be labelled state art, an anti-spiritual Habsburg-Catholic state art. It has been the same for decades, I come to the Kunsthistorisches Museum and think that the Kunsthistorisches Museum does not even have a Goya! That it does not have an El Greco is not, as far as I and my view of art are concerned, a tragedy, but that the Kunsthistorisches Museum should not have a Goya is truly a tragedy, Reger said. If we apply an international yardstick, Reger said, then we must admit that the Kunsthistorisches Museum, contrary to its reputation, is not really a first-class museum because it does not even have the great all-outclassing Goya. On top of this is the fact that the Kunsthistorisches Museum is entirely in line with the artistic taste of the Habsburgs, who, at least where painting is concerned, had a revolting, totally brainless Catholic artistic taste. The Catholic Habsburgs never cared much more for painting than they did for literature, because painting and literature always
seemed to them dangerous arts, unlike music,
which could never become dangerous to them and which the Catholic Habsburgs, just because they were so brainless,
allowed to unfold to full flower,
as I once read in a so-called
art book.
Habsburg falseness, Habsburg feeble-mindedness, Habsburg perversity in matters of faith, these are what you see hanging on all these walls, that is the truth, Reger said. And in all these pictures, even in the landscapes, that perverse Catholic infantilism in matters of faith. Vulgar ecclesiastical hypocrisy even in the paintings with the highest, the very highest, claim to pictorial perfection, that is what is so repulsive. Everything exhibited at the Kunsthistorisches Museum wears a Catholic halo, not even excepting Giotto, Reger said. These repulsive Venetians who, with every paw they ever painted, cling to the Catholic pre-Alp heaven, he now said. You cannot find
a single natural painted face
in the Kunsthistorisches Museum,
always only a Catholic visage.
Just look at any well-painted head here for some length of time, in the end it will be just a Catholic head, Reger said. Even the grass in these paintings grows as Catholic grass and the soup in the Dutch soup bowls is nothing but Catholic soup, Reger now said. Shameless painted Catholicism, that is what it is, Reger said. The reason why I have been coming to the Kunsthistorisches Museum these thirty-six years was only that an ideal temperature of eighteen degrees Celsius is maintained here all the year round, the best temperature not only for the canvas of these works of art but also for my skin and above all for my highly sensitive head, Reger said.
Intensive study of art, suicidal method, achieved a certain
senior-league
championship,
Reger now said. No
customary law at the
Kunsthistorisches
Museum,
he said,
hatred of art basically, incurable art madness.
Undoubtedly, my dear Atzbacher, we have nearly reached the peak of our age of chaos and kitsch, he said, adding: the whole of this Austria, when all is said and done, is nothing but a Kunsthistorisches Museum, a Catholic-National-Socialist one, an appalling one.
Hypocritical display of democracy,
he said. A chaotic rubbishheap, that is what today's Austria is, this ridiculous pygmy state which drips with self-overestimation and which, forty years after the so-called
Second World War,
has reached its absolute low only as a totally amputated state; this ridiculous pygmy state, where thought has died out and where for half a century now only base state-political dull-wittedness and state-adoring stupidity have reigned, Reger said. A confused brutal world, he said. Too old to disappear, he said, I am too old to make my exit, Atzbacher, eighty-two, you know! Always been alone! Now I am finally trapped, Atzbacher. Wherever we look in this country today, we look into a cesspit of ludicrousness, Reger said. Disastrous mass madness, he said. Everyone is more or less depressive, you know, and we share with Hungary the highest suicide rate in the whole of Europe. I have often thought I would go to Switzerland, but Switzerland would be a lot worse for me still. You have no idea
how
I
love this country, Reger said, but I most profoundly hate this present state; I do not wish to have anything to do with
this
state in future, it gets more nauseating every day. All those acting and ruling in this state have nothing but horrible primitively brainless faces, all you see in this bankrupt country now is a gigantic heap of alarming physiognomic refuse, he said. The things we think and the things we say, believing that we are competent and yet we are not,
that is the comedy,
and when we ask
how is it all to continue? that is the tragedy,
my
dear Atzbacher. Irrsigler appeared with
The Times
which Reger had asked him to get for him, he only had to cross the road from the Kunsthistorisches Museum to the newspaper stand opposite. Reger took
The Times
and got up and walked out of the Bordone Room and, as it seemed to me, with a brisker step, down the great central staircase and into the open, and I followed him. He stopped at the vulgar Maria Theresa Monument and said that I was probably rather astonished that he had still not told me the
real
reason
why
he had wished to meet me at the Kunsthistorisches Museum
again today.
I scarcely believed my ears when he said he had bought
two tickets, excellent seats in the stalls, for the Broken Pitcher at the
Burgtheater
and the
real
reason why he had asked me to the Kunsthistorisches Museum again today was to invite me to see the
Broken Pitcher
at the Burgtheater with him. You realize that I have not been to the Burgtheater for decades and that I hate nothing more than the Burgtheater,
in fact nothing more than dramatic art generally,
he said, but I thought yesterday I will go to the Burgtheater tomorrow and see the
Broken Pitcher.
My dear Atzbacher, Reger said, I do not know what gave me the idea of going to the Burgtheater today and more particularly with you and with no other person in order to see the
Broken Pitcher.
I
do not mind if you think me crazy, Reger now said, my days are numbered anyway; I really thought you might go to the Burgtheater with me today, the
Broken Pitcher,
after all, is the best German comedy and the Burgtheater moreover is the foremost stage in the world. For three hours I was tormented by the thought that I would have to ask you to accompany me to the
Broken Pitcher,
because I will not see the
Broken Pitcher
on my own, Reger now said, Atzbacher records, for three tormenting hours I reflected how I could tell you that I have bought two tickets for the
Broken Pitcher
and in doing so thought
only of myself and you,
because for decades you have been hearing from me nothing but that the Burgtheater is the most hideous theatre in the world and now, all of a sudden, you are to go with me to see the
Broken Pitcher
at the Burgtheater, a fact which even Irrsigler cannot understand.
Take the second ticket,
he said,
and come with me to the
Burgtheater
this evening, share my enjoyment of this perverse folly, my dear
Atzbacher,
Reger said, Atzbacher records. Very well, I said to Reger, Atzbacher records,
i
f that is your express wish,
and Reger said,
yes, it is my express wish
and handed me the second ticket. I actually went with Reger to the Burgtheater in the evening to see the
Broken Pitcher,
Atzbacher records. The performance was terrible.