The Artist Formerly Known as Adolf Hitler

The Artist Formerly Known as Adolf Hitler

A.M. Overett

“Thus I will harden Pharaoh’s heart, and he will chase after them; and I will be honored through Pharaoh and all his army, and the Egyptians will know that I am the Lord.”

Exodus 14:4

A young man sits nervously in a waiting area at the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts. He thinks about getting up and walking around the room in an attempt to relieve the tension he is feeling. He finally summons up enough courage to walk over to a nearby window. He smiles at a receptionist who offers him a blank stare. At the window he looks out over the streets of Vienna. He loves the city and especially at this time of the year. It is early Fall and there is a cool haziness over the city. The year is 1910 and the country is at peace. After years of war with France in the previous century, the country, and specifically Vienna is flourishing. The city is again filled with poets, artists and musicians.

Adolf soon snaps out of his trance and begins to walk around the room looking at the various pieces of art hanging on the walls. Although he appreciates Impressionism, it is not his favorite art form. He has made a vast improvement lately in his work and he no longer avoids drawing and experimenting with the human form. Previously, he had been criticized by his art instructors for not including people in his street scenes or other paintings. Why was that? Did he hate people? While sometimes aloof and distant, deep down he loved people. It was more an issue that he just would become inward – sometimes self-absorbed, but mostly self-conscious, concerned about his appearance, how he looked, how he sounded. Looking inward was a way of protecting himself. The death of his mother, three years before, shook him deeply and the wounds never seemed to heal. His only solace was to throw himself into his work. And as a way to throw himself into his work even more, he heeded the comforting words of his teacher, Professor Franz Spielman. He began to study the human form; he began to look deeply into the faces of those around him. He started to enjoy drawing and painting people, especially their faces, especially their eyes. He was captivated by eyes – the so-called “windows to the soul”.

While staring at Van Gogh’s Starry Night, a door opens and a man pops his head out.

“Adolf, we’re ready for you.”

Adolf nods silently. He takes one more look at the image which he finds breath-taking. He wonders how Vincent did it. He is literally inches away from the painting. Looking at it that close, the painting looks like a mess, a fury of paint strokes produced after throwing several cans of paint at the canvas. And yet, as he slowly walks away, almost in a hypnotic trance, the true image reveals itself. It is exactly what he intended – a brilliant, galactic explosion of precision that is only evident to the true artist, the ones that can truly see.

Breaking from the pull of the painting, Adolf turns and walks toward the beckoning man. He tries to hold his breath, his heart pounding. He gives a nervous smile as he walks past the receptionist. He walks through the doorway…a doorway to another world, or just another doorway?

“Please have a seat Adolf.” Professor Spielman offered with a smile.

Adolf quietly takes his seat. He carries a hat which he places neatly in his lap. He slowly looks up and sees the three men before him. There is his teacher Professor Franz Spielman, the director of the institute Professor Frederick Rubenstein and Richard Leventhal, one of the board members and probably the most influential person on the panel.

“Well, Adolf, I’ve been talking to Professor Rubenstein and Herr Leventhal about the tremendous improvement you’ve made recently. I told them you have much potential.”

Adolf smiled and nodded silently.

“Adolf, if admitted to our prestigious institute, what would you bring to our school? In other words, what makes you different from any other student?” Herr Leventhal asked with a stern look. Adolf, previously mute and stoic starts to squirm in his seat. He seems to look toward the floor. He quickly looks up and a light seems to fill his eyes.

“Well, gentlemen, I am not only a very good artist, but an excellent leader. The ideas I have will impress you. I not only want to be a leading artist in our great community but I want to help establish our institute as the leading institute for art throughout the world!”

“Interesting Adolf, but how would you plan to do that?” Queried an interested Professor Rubenstein.

Adolf paused for a moment. He looked at all three men. He felt like they were looking through him, looking at his soul, like they were judging him. He could sense that they were not impressed by him. He had heard rumors that at least one of the men found his work to be “uninspired”. He could sense this was an important moment in his life. He could either shrink down into a self-absorbed and brooding intellectual who was angry at the world, or he could look these men in the eye and show them what he was truly made of.

“This institute means a lot to me. It means a lot to the community. With a little work we can make it the best art institute in the world. We can attract artists from all over the world. The first thing I would do is make sure that the admittance committee works with current artists here at the institute, that the artists would have a say in who is admitted to the school. They would work closely with the committee to ensure that artists of all genres are considered and that this would result in a school that celebrates diversity of artist, diversity of spirit.”

Adolf was getting quite animated, to the point that he stood up and walked several paces from his chair. He turned and then continued…

“I would work with our advertising and publicity departments to ensure that we are sending out good communication, so that museums and other venues in Austria and around Europe know the quality of art we are producing. I will work tirelessly with the museums of Vienna and those throughout Europe to ensure that our artists have ample work on display, that there are multiple events that will promote our artists.”

Adolf could feel he had the attention of the three men. He felt a surge of power, a surge of self-confidence that he had never felt before. He loved the feeling. He smiled for the first time in a long time. He met the three men’s gaze and did not feel the least bit intimidated. This was surprising given ten minutes earlier he had felt like a frazzled lump of nerves.

Richard Leventhal leaned back in his chair as if surveying Adolf. Herr Leventhal felt that the institute was doing enough to filter out those who did not truly deserve to be there. He was not convinced that Adolf was right for their school, for their culture that they had worked so hard to create. Richard Leventhal, although not an artist, had been an art-collector for years. He was a banker by trade, having run several banks in Vienna and Salzburg. Like any banker he was an investor. He had invested in many works of art and his collection was considered to be one of the most valuable in the world. He had also been a major donor to the art institute and was held with deep respect within Vienna social circles.

Adolf looked at Herr Leventhal and began to think about what he had heard over the years about how Jews ran everything, especially the banks. He remembered how his father had cursed those “damn Jews”, when he wasn’t able to get a bank loan for a piece of property he wanted to buy. He also remembered his uncle also being anti-Semitic, when a local Jewish run law firm tried to collect on a loan he had been unable to repay. Adolf despised both his father and uncle and especially his father who physically abused both he and his mother. Adolf also remembered that he had several Jewish friends with whom he had always been impressed – their generosity and intellect were truly admirable. When Adolf had first arrived in Vienna, he had very little money and had stayed at a hostel. Two of his closest friends there were Jewish. They had helped Adolf secure work and even helped him to sell his watercolors to friends and family.

Adolf though was becoming somewhat torn. He had been reading various pamphlets as of late regarding how “Christian Austria” was becoming overrun by Eastern Jews. The mayor, Karl Lueger was anti-Semitic and was railing against all forms of immigration to Austria, not only against Jews. For Hitler, he did seem to notice that more and more of the population was Jewish, either by noticing the names he was doing business with or their appearance. Hitler fought hard to be neutral. Had he not learned in Catholic school that Christ was a Jew? How could the savior of the world be anything but good? But then he would hear the theological arguments that Jesus wasn’t really a Jew, he was God who had chosen the Hebrew race to enter the world by. He could have chosen any race to do that.

“Herr Leventhal, you are a brilliant and creative man, I think you and I could work together.” Leventhal’s left eye-brow raised dramatically with a simultaneous crinkle of the lip.

“Imagine Herr Leventhal the world-renowned Vienna Academy of the Arts! If you and I can work together closely I am sure we will succeed! With my artistic background and your contacts and influence we can have our artists featured in the Louvre, in the Prado. Our artists will be well-known in Budapest, Rome, Moscow, and all over the world!” Leventhal liked that idea. He eyed Adolf up and down. Adolf was sporting a brown tweed jacket with matching pants. He wore a vest and a tie that showed he was aware of current Vienna fashion. Leventhal would not be embarrassed to have such a partner. Leventhal began to scribble some notes and looked toward Professor Rubenstein.

“Adolf, Professor Spielman has been impressed with your recent improvements with your artwork, he cites your improvement of the human form. I do see improvement but I still think your work with structure is your best attribute. Given that, wouldn’t you feel like architecture would be better suited for you?”

“No Professor Rubenstein. I think what Professor Spielman has done for me is unleashed my true talents. I don’t want to create soul-less buildings; I want to create images and paintings with soul, with spirit!”

Adolf took his seat and looked at the three men with pleading eyes. There had been a change in Adolf and Professor Spielman had seen it. There was true potential for Adolf, but there were only three spots left and two of them had been taken. For the final spot there were two other candidates and both of them were excellent artists. While Adolf may not have been on the same level as the other two, he did have the main quality they wanted to see from him – passion. What some great artists lacked in technical style they more than made up for with passion and ideas, Picasso comes to mind.

Adolf began to silently inspect each of the men. He looked at Professor Rubenstein. Professor Rubenstein as always was immaculately dressed. He had a bluish-gray tweed suit - a dark blue tie with alternating silver bands. He had a dark gray handkerchief extending from his top pocket. He also wore the most brilliant pair of black dress shoes that seemed to have been shined by the most elaborate of mechanisms that would have ever been created by human hand. The shine was so sheen. But what of Professor Rubenstein – what made him so that he would judge the likes of Adolf Hitler?

Frederick Rubenstein had been born in Minsk in 1853 and his family had immigrated to Austria after a terrible pogrom that had been administered by the local Russian authority. Rubenstein’s family had run several kosher butcher shops and markets in the Jewish quarter of Vienna. Frederick, not forgetting his Russian roots had long studied the Eastern masters and was especially an authority on Ukrainian artists. He himself was an artist with more of a technical ability – also having become an architect. Rubenstein, unlike his colleague Leventhal, was always a “softy” when it came to the struggling artist. He sympathized with Adolf and wanted Adolf in the academy. If he failed as an artist he could always turn to architecture.

As for Professor Spielman, he also was fond of Adolf and after all, he had devoted many hours of tutoring him and saw great potential. His speech today had only solidified how he felt about the young man. He smiled at Adolf and nodded his head.

“Adolf, we have a couple of other interviews and then we should be able to make our decision. You will hear from us by the end of the week,” Spielman offered.

Adolf was somewhat cool. He had hoped his ideas and enthusiasm would be enough to earn him a spot right then and there. He summoned the best smile he could create and then offered each man a handshake. He eyed Leventhal with his best stiff upper lip. He gave Rubenstein a warmer façade and for Spielman he gave a questioning look – why couldn’t you have done more?

Adolf gathered all of his disappointment and hurt, turned toward the door and began a quick pace to escape before something unfortunate happened. As he quickly opened and closed the door behind him he spied the receptionist filing her nails.

“I sure hope that went well?” He asked, hoping for some sort of reply. The girl continued filing her nails, looking completely unsuited for a position in the highest art academy in the country. Adolf grinned slightly, turned and marched through the front door. He closed the door behind him and blew a deep breath.

“How did it go?” his friend Josef asked.

“Not sure, they looked a little crusty. I guess I will find out by the end of the week.”

“By the way, Siegfried Mandle came by and bought your painting of Salzburg – 25 francs!”

“You’re kidding, for that? That was not one of my best works. Oh well, at least we can get a pint of beer and a sandwich – let’s go.”

Adolf and Josef marched down the street like they were its lords. Everyone would bow to them, or so they believed. They were soon joined by their mutual friend Siegfried as they continued their assault on the streets of Vienna. Before they arrived at the local hofbrauhaus, a small bookstore caught Adolf’s eye. He stopped and motioned for the two men to follow him. Adolf stopped by a small book rack near the front of the store and picked up a pamphlet.

“Ah, let’s see what our dear Lueger has to say…” Both Josef and Siegfried leaned in, placing their hands on either shoulder of Adolf.

“Press: here, too, as always in the liberal press, abuses, invectives and the most insolent lies. After 15 years of fighting with the liberal press, I have developed a rather thick skin, thank goodness. Therefore I shall limit my comments and simply say that the liberal press, sometimes also classed Jewish liberal, or Jewish Press, is the most impudent press on the earth…In Vienna, only fools and those on the same moral level support it; all decent and intelligent people reject it with disdain…[Jewish press against clergy and religion, therefore], we believe: the Jews have no right to become judges, political officials and officers, and must be pushed back.”

“Wow, clearly our dear friend had toned down his rhetoric,” Adolf offered. Josef and Siegfried burst into laughter.

“Let’s see what Herr Schönerer says,” before Adolf could pick up another pamphlet, the two men pulled Adolf toward the door.

“C’mon, forget all that Adolf. You have a couple of steins of beer you owe us!”

“Alright boys, to the pub!!!”

Josef and Siegfried let out a cheer and then continued to pull Adolf toward the door. The three men made their way into the hofbrahaus and Adolf signaled to the barmaid for three beers. The men found a table by the window so they could observe Vienna street life. The barmaid, a healthy woman of Bavarian stock quickly brought three large steins of a local brew. Adolf flipped several francs on the able, giving the pretty young woman a wink and a smile. She returned his look, winking back.

“That my friends is good Austrian stock.”

“Not good ‘German’ stock Adolf?”

Adolf smiled at Siegfried and the three men joined their steins together for a salute. Adolf felt like he was on top of the world. He had not been accepted into the art institute as of yet, but he felt that he was on the verge of success. Several of his paintings had sold and he knew that he had impressed the board at the art institute. Maybe not now, but soon he would be in a position to put his talents to good use.

“So Adolf, what do you really think of your friends Schönerer and Leuger? Do you subscribe to their ideas of Germanization?”

“Ah, they’re all bluff and hot wind those two.”

“Yes, but many of your fellow citizens share their beliefs.”

“Gentlemen, I assure you that sentiment will soon blow over.”

“So, how do you feel about us ‘Jewden’”?

“I respect the Jewish people. They are intelligent, industrious, hard-working…”

“Wow Adolf, you sound like an honorary Hebrew!” The three men burst out laughing. Adolf though soon grew a serious expression.

“What are you thinking about Herr Hitler?” Josef asked, noting the somber expression on Adolf’s face.

“Ah…I’m just thinking about my mother back in Linz. We had a Jewish doctor taking care of her when she got really sick. My father was no where to be found. The doctor did everything humanly possible to help her…I really miss her.”

Adolf began to stare at the table, rubbing his finger around the top of the stein.

“To Fraulein Hitler!” Siegfried offered a toast. He looked at Adolf and could tell he was hurting - it was a significant loss for Adolf. Josef soon raised his stein as well. Adolf smiled and clinked his stein with his two friends.

After the men finished their drinks, they began their return to the hostel where Adolf was staying. In a park by the hostel, an orchestra was playing Mozart. The men increased their pace and began to check out the various female audience members.

“Pardon me Fraulein, but could we sit on your blanket?” an embolden Adolf asked.

“Sure”, responded the blushing Austrian beauty.

For an hour or so, the four sat mesmerized by the beauty of the music. The park was situated in such a way where on one corner there was a completely unobstructed view of the Alps. A warm breeze was swirling through the park, given its occupants a pleasant sensation. Adolf didn’t know if was the music, the company or the beer, but he was feeling enraptured. This was exactly why he was in Vienna. He loved the city. He never wanted to leave. This was his home and this is where he would make his mark on history, or so he hoped.