room with his children, the tone dark and hopeless. The caption reads: ‘If they didn’t need soldiers they would also put a tax on children.’
In the summer, the Kollwitzes went east, to Königsberg and the coast, to Rauschen and the Spit – the Kurische Nehrung. In 1909 Käthe’s mother, who had moved to Berlin after her husband’s death, was with them; and the gathering of Rupp and Schmidt cousins seemed shrouded in remembrance, in her own sense of getting old and in Karl’s irritation, especially during a big family lunch on a trip to Memel. The family was in Königsberg for the dedication of the memorial to her grandfather Julius
Rupp, on the centenary of his birth – a portrait relief of him by Käthe herself, her first exhibited piece of sculpture. She had been afraid that it was ‘kitsch’; in fact she thought the head adequate and was moved by the hymn-singing of the members of the Free Church. The inscription on the memorial expressed Rupp’s ideals: ‘Who does not live according to the truth that he recognizes, is himself the most dangerous enemy of truth.’
Her work showed the harsh world of her husband’s patients, but it also conveyed yearning and fear, as in a scene depicting a child and the smiling figure of Death fighting over a woman. She dreamed of having another baby, the sweetness of an infant in her bed; the urge clashed now with a sense of age, a dread of working too mechanically, like a grazing cow. Was she already out of her time, already lost in this new world where imagination seemed to be much more important than technique? On the anniversary of their engagement, Karl told her that only during her affair with Heller had he doubted their marriage – and she felt both happy and oppressed. She had known no one who could love so much but sometimes his love tortured her. She wanted to be free again, as with Heller or in Paris or in Italy.
This feeling of missed experience, of routine’s net, must have grown when her sister Lise, who saw promiscuity as a weapon against stifling bourgeois ideals, began a love affair. Peter had become fascinated by Wilde’s Ballad of Reading Gaol and Portrait of Dorian Gray . He talked freely with his mother about homosexuality and sexual desire. Had Hans and Peter discussed such matters often with each other? she wondered. Peter was a rebellious idealist, bored with conventional education, enthralled by the romanticism of the Wandervogel movement, whose members hiked through the mountains and hills or camped under starlit skies, having mock battles that tested their courage. Her love for Peter – partly a wish to hold on to a relentlessly passing life – could seem unbearable. In October 1912, when he left to work on a farm before resuming his art studies, she wept in the night; to be near him was happiness, even an erotic delight. Käthe
wondered how she would take it if he was homosexual, but the idea did not frighten her. In November 1913 her uncle Theodore Rupp hanged himself in his house at Rauschen. A month later, on New Year’s Eve, she wrote of a good and constant burning love for Karl but without ecstasy. The prophecies of war filled her with dread.
In April 1914, by one of the lakes near Berlin in beautiful spring weather, Hans and Peter and Käthe Kollwitz discussed the philosopher J. G. Fichte’s Speech to the German Nation , the boys speaking of a rebirth of German youth in a new patriotism. She saw how influenced they were by this, much more than she had imagined. Hans had even brought together a group of friends who thought it inspiring. Peter spoke of his wish to combine his art studies with some manual work to help others. Käthe thought of a line of descent from her grandfather Rupp’s idealism to that of her own sons. Another memory came to her: how they had slept when young – Hans on his back, with his arms folded over his breast; Peter’s body curved, arms stretched away from him. When her mother left in June to go to the
In the summer, the Kollwitzes went east, to Königsberg and the coast, to Rauschen and the Spit – the Kurische Nehrung. In 1909 Käthe’s mother, who had moved to Berlin after her husband’s death, was with them; and the gathering of Rupp and Schmidt cousins seemed shrouded in remembrance, in her own sense of getting old and in Karl’s irritation, especially during a big family lunch on a trip to Memel. The family was in Königsberg for the dedication of the memorial to her grandfather Julius
Rupp, on the centenary of his birth – a portrait relief of him by Käthe herself, her first exhibited piece of sculpture. She had been afraid that it was ‘kitsch’; in fact she thought the head adequate and was moved by the hymn-singing of the members of the Free Church. The inscription on the memorial expressed Rupp’s ideals: ‘Who does not live according to the truth that he recognizes, is himself the most dangerous enemy of truth.’
Her work showed the harsh world of her husband’s patients, but it also conveyed yearning and fear, as in a scene depicting a child and the smiling figure of Death fighting over a woman. She dreamed of having another baby, the sweetness of an infant in her bed; the urge clashed now with a sense of age, a dread of working too mechanically, like a grazing cow. Was she already out of her time, already lost in this new world where imagination seemed to be much more important than technique? On the anniversary of their engagement, Karl told her that only during her affair with Heller had he doubted their marriage – and she felt both happy and oppressed. She had known no one who could love so much but sometimes his love tortured her. She wanted to be free again, as with Heller or in Paris or in Italy.
This feeling of missed experience, of routine’s net, must have grown when her sister Lise, who saw promiscuity as a weapon against stifling bourgeois ideals, began a love affair. Peter had become fascinated by Wilde’s Ballad of Reading Gaol and Portrait of Dorian Gray . He talked freely with his mother about homosexuality and sexual desire. Had Hans and Peter discussed such matters often with each other? she wondered. Peter was a rebellious idealist, bored with conventional education, enthralled by the romanticism of the Wandervogel movement, whose members hiked through the mountains and hills or camped under starlit skies, having mock battles that tested their courage. Her love for Peter – partly a wish to hold on to a relentlessly passing life – could seem unbearable. In October 1912, when he left to work on a farm before resuming his art studies, she wept in the night; to be near him was happiness, even an erotic delight. Käthe
wondered how she would take it if he was homosexual, but the idea did not frighten her. In November 1913 her uncle Theodore Rupp hanged himself in his house at Rauschen. A month later, on New Year’s Eve, she wrote of a good and constant burning love for Karl but without ecstasy. The prophecies of war filled her with dread.
In April 1914, by one of the lakes near Berlin in beautiful spring weather, Hans and Peter and Käthe Kollwitz discussed the philosopher J. G. Fichte’s Speech to the German Nation , the boys speaking of a rebirth of German youth in a new patriotism. She saw how influenced they were by this, much more than she had imagined. Hans had even brought together a group of friends who thought it inspiring. Peter spoke of his wish to combine his art studies with some manual work to help others. Käthe thought of a line of descent from her grandfather Rupp’s idealism to that of her own sons. Another memory came to her: how they had slept when young – Hans on his back, with his arms folded over his breast; Peter’s body curved, arms stretched away from him. When her mother left in June to go to the
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