Habsburg, baby, Habsburg

Franz Joseph II.

Readers of this blog know that I’ve never denied my fascination with the Habsburg Empire and especially Vienna. Yesterday a friend of mine sent along a few links that feed this fascination, which is a combination of false nostalgia (the Vienna in which I feel most at home is the pre-WWI Vienna, somewhat before my time) and uneasy admiration (especially since I know how it ended). In the June 21, 2018, issue of the Economist, an essay noted that I’m not the only one fascinated with the era:

The reasons for this burst of enthusiasm are nuanced, even contradictory. This year’s centennial of the end of the first world war, and of the empire’s collapse, is part of the explanation. So is a sense that the anxieties of the late imperial period, years of disorienting change in politics and society, overlap with today’s. “It’s a dangerous time and we need to look very closely at signs from the past,” says Mr Simons. “We do live in worrying times,” agrees Mr Habsburg; “everything is shifting, you have a feeling you are walking in a fog.”

The centenary of the beginning of WWI four years ago led to a variety of reconsiderations of the Austro-Hungarian Empire under the Habsburgs, especially under Emperor Franz Joseph II, the most significant of which was Pieter Judson’s The Habsburg Empire; this revisionist history examined not the reasons for the empire’s collapse but for its surprising successes. A staggeringly polyglot culture (over 15 languages could be heard in its Parliament), the Empire was composed of a dozen or more ethnic groups, from Italians to Ukrainians and Bosnians; a cumbersome bureaucracy under the direction of the aging and increasingly out-of-touch emperor oversaw it all. But until 1914, it was a relatively peaceful empire, and it was only the emerging nationalisms not only of Hungary but also of Serbia and other groups that led to the fatal assassination of Franz Ferdinand (himself a pacifist who believed war would be the end of the empire) in 1914. A sense of dread permeated Vienna and other imperial cities, but this dread led to a flowering of art, philosophy, music and literature defined modernity and our own world.

In 2012, British diplomat Robert Cooper compared the European Union with the Habsburg Empire in this essay for Eurozine, noting:

The Habsburg Monarchy was threatened first by the collapse of the Ottoman Empire, which brought it physically too close to Russia and in consequence also became politically too dependent on Germany. Long before the Great War it had begun to lose its multi-national character (visible in the use of German as the official language of the Empire). And then it was destroyed by the War itself and by its manifest inability to provide physical protection for its people and political protection for its nations.

These were then awarded self-determination by the victorious nation states. This turned out to be a poisoned gift, since they were left naked in the face of powerful neighbours and their own weak political culture. That they have regained their freedom and re-established democracy within the European Union is their credit, and also that of the EU and of NATO.

And finally, in 2016, Caroline de Gruyter said in this essay for Carnegie Europe, “Most Habsburg emperors loathed warfare, just like the Europeans who, traumatized by two world wars, set up the European Economic Community in the 1950s. The emperors preferred to acquire territories peacefully by marrying off family members all over Europe. And like in the EU, small nations felt relatively safe and protected in the empire: being part of it meant being protected from invasion by bigger neighbors. All nations were granted equal rights under the Crown.”

Of the making of books about the Habsburgs there is no end. Among the most entertaining and lively of the recent crop is the somewhat pre-revisionist Danubia by Simon Winder. The best recent documentary about Vienna itself remains Joseph Leo Koerner’s Vienna: City of Dreams, which first aired on the BBC in 2017. You can watch that below.

Culture shock

When I first visited Vienna about 25 years ago, a city gallery was presenting an exhibition of black-and-white photographic nudes of some kind. What particularly struck my American eye were the advertisements for this exhibition pasted on kiosks and the sides of trams around town — advertisements which featured details from these nudes that included both male and female genitalia. I was at the time perhaps much more Philadelphian than I am now; hence my somewhat uncomfortable surprise to see these depictions plastered in various public spaces. As a tourist, though, I was in the minority. The Viennese men, women, and children who passed these advertisements every day seemed particularly comfortable with them, rarely glancing at them a second time. By the end of my stay, I was comfortable with them too, and even pleased. These public displays of the naked human body, I thought, were admirable in a way — far more admirable than the ads for violent movies and cheap consumer goods that surrounded me on the streets of the City of Brotherly Love.

Apparently it wasn’t only my Philadelphian blood that gave rise to that original discomfort. In the past few weeks, the Vienna Tourist Board has been buying advertising space in Cologne, Hamburg, and London to promote upcoming Vienna exhibitions of Gustav Klimt and Egon Schiele (their Viennese Modernism 2018 web site can be found here), but the posters they created have run into some problems in those cities. According to Kimberly Bradley in the New York Times,

According to a Vienna Tourist Board spokeswoman, Helena Hartlauer, Transport for London rejected the original images, citing trepidation about depicting genitals in public space.

Ms. Hartlauer said that modified advertisements with pixelated genitals were also declined. Ultimately approved were versions using the same artworks (Schiele’s “Seated Male Nude (Self-Portrait),” 1910, and “Girl With Orange Stockings,” 1914, and other paintings by the artist, all from the Leopold Museum collection), but with certain bits covered by a banner.

The banner reads: “SORRY, 100 years old but still too daring today.” The modified images are now on view on bus shelters in Cologne and building facades in Hamburg, and, since this week, in tube stops in London.

The original ads were also banned from Facebook as obscene, Ms. Bradley reports. Right now the big New York show is the Michelangelo exhibition at the Met, and ads for that are everywhere too, though obviously they don’t generate the same angst.

The Vienna Tourist Board is playing the controversy big, “highlighting images of the public ads with the hashtag #DerKunstihreFreiheit (#ToArtItsFreedom in English) on social media,” Ms. Bradley writes:

The hashtag comes from the slogan “To every age its art, to art its freedom,” still visible in German on the facade of the Viennese Secession, an exhibition venue co-founded by Klimt in 1897 and still operating today as an autonomous artist-run institution. And the controversy certainly echoes discussions that took place in Schiele’s time. In fin-de-siècle Vienna, an era of dramatic shifts in both art and society, many considered the artist’s work to be pornographic. Schiele’s first broader acceptance didn’t come until early 1918 with a major exhibition in the Secession — later that year, the artist succumbed to Spanish flu at age 28.

“We want to show people just how far ahead of their time Vienna and its protagonists really were,” Mr. Kettner said. [Norbert Kettner, that is, chief executive of the Vienna Tourist Board.] “And also encourage the audience to scrutinize how much really has — or hasn’t — changed in terms of openness and attitudes in society over the times.”

Both Klimt and Schiele were products and agents of the sensual revolution in fin de siècle Vienna (though, obviously, to say that they were “ahead of their time” ignores the observation that they were of their own time and apparently no one else’s). This revolution was in the Austro-Hungarian Empire’s air itself from about 1898 to 1914, and the current controversy underscores the fact that, if the rest of Europe and the United States ever caught up, they’ve retreated from that openness and social attitude since then, regressing into a consumerist puritanism instead. Erotics, gender, and sensuality became central philosophical and aesthetic concerns in Central Europe in the years before World War II, taking on an atonal, irresolvable tone, far more revolutionary than similar thinking in France, for example — a tone evident in its visual art (Klimt and Schiele), literature (Musil and Doderer), and music (Schoenberg and Webern). The dissemination of this art through the Secession — and more recently through posters and tram ads — is an acknowledgement of the extent to which this erotics forms a part of our daily public and private lives, even when we’re just grabbing a subway train from one place to another.

Klimt, Schiele, and Richard Gerstl were all dead by the end of 1918, and as the Viennese coped with being reduced to a provincial capital from the seat of one of Europe’s largest and most powerful empires, the center of this activity moved to Germany, where the Neue Sachlichkeit movement revisited the inner workings of the erotic and sensual self from a more urban perspective. In many ways, though, it was an extension, not a rejection, of Austrian Expressionism and its erotic concerns. And though we tend to look at these artists through the hoary glass of history, their explorations remain ours. The erotic, the sensual, is public too, and the attempts to bury it point to a recidivist authoritarianism that in the past has led to people like Hitler and Stalin. In Cologne, Hamburg, and London — and possibly New York, too — they’re still getting out the shovels. In Vienna, though, you can still breathe it in.

On the periphery

I want to start the month off by recommending Marjorie Perloff‘s Edge of Irony: Modernism in the Shadow of the Habsburg Empire, published last year by the University of Chicago Press (a paperback edition will be published in January 2018). The book defines what Perloff calls “Austro-Modernism,” a form of modernist thinking engendered in the years 1914 through 1933, when the Habsburg Empire collapsed and its territories became awash in a bewildering brew of nationalism, anti-Semitism, exile, and blood. Perloff differentiates Austro-Modernism from its German cousin, forged in the political cauldron of the Weimar Republic. As she writes:

Weimar was the workshop for radical ideas, from Marxist theory to Heidegger’s ontological exploration of being-in-the-world to the film theory of Krakauer, Rudolf Arnheim, and [Walter] Benjamin himself. But this is not to say that Austro-Modernism, from Freud to Wittgenstein and Kraus, to Musil and Roth, to Celan and Bachmann, is to be understood as a weaker version of the strong intellectual formation of the Weimar Republic. It was merely different. Given the particular situation of the Habsburg Empire and its dissolution, given the eastern (and largely Jewish) origin of its writers, it developed in another direction, its hallmark being a profound skepticism about the power of government — any government or, for that matter, economic system — to reform human life. In Austro-Modernist fiction and poetry, irony — an irony less linked to satire (which posits the possibility for reform) than to a sense of the absurd — is thus the dominant mode. The writer’s situation is perceived not as a mandate for change — change that is always, for the Austrians, under suspicion — but as an urgent opportunity for probing analysis of fundamental desires and principles. (13; final emphasis my own)

Perloff’s analysis stretches from the “probing analysis” and documentary social satire of Kraus’s The Last Days of Mankind to the “probing analysis” and socio-erotic frisson of Celan’s later lyric poetry, with an excellent coda that muses upon Wittgenstein’s obsession with the Christian gospels towards the end of his life. Ironic satire is a dominant mode in the fiction of both Musil and Roth, but it’s a satire that, as Perloff notes, doesn’t lead to political action, but instead to contemplative action. “In the face of war, in the face of the twin evils of Fascism and Communism and of the corruption that seemed to threaten democracy at every turn, one could expose the follies and evils of one’s world, but meaningful change could only be personal,” Perloff writes. “The aim, as Wittgenstein put it — and Musil and Roth concurred — could only be ‘to become a different person.'” (15)

Although all of Perloff’s subjects were German-speakers, many didn’t start off that way. They were born not in the Empire’s capital Vienna — though Vienna remained a shining beacon of ambition for each of them — but rather on its periphery, and in many cases its easternmost periphery, speaking languages other than German. Karl Kraus was born and raised in the town of Jičín (then a part of the Austrian Empire, now a part of the Czech Republic); Joseph Roth was born and raised in the town of Brody, a small town near Lemberg, now Lviv, in East Galicia (then a part of the Austrian Empire, now a part of Ukraine); Elias Canetti was born in Ruse, Bulgaria (an independent nation then, but with close ties to the Empire);  Paul Celan in the Romanian town of Czernowitz (then a part of the Austrian Empire, now also a part of Ukraine). That they can be considered various facets of that common experience that led to Perloff’s “Austro-Modernism” points to the role that the Empire played in their upbringing.

The Habsburg Empire in 1914 was a mess. Franz Josef I was considered a weak and vacillating leader; its polyglot culture made it all but impossible to administer effectively (especially by a somewhat corrupt and inept central bureaucracy); what we now call its “multiculturalism” was just as bewildering. But it was a mess that somehow functioned, and for much the same reasons. The same Empire gave rise to a Central European form of Modernism that produced composers like Arnold Schoenberg, philosophers like Freud and Wittgenstein, writers like Arthur Schnitzler, painters like Klimt and Schiele. Austrian Jews enjoyed particularly broad freedoms following the 1782 Edict of Tolerance issued by Joseph II, and in 1867 Franz Josef I formally bestowed equal rights on the Jewish population of the Empire. Indeed, in recent years revisionist historians like Pieter M. Judson have emphasized its strengths (even if, ultimately, its weaknesses led to its dissolution in 1918), suggesting that its tolerance  could be something of a model for the polyglot multicultural societies of the 21st century.

The cataclysmic collapse of the Empire in 1918 left Austria a rump state. The Habsburgs were gone; in its place an unstable republic, an easy target for neighboring fascists, that would last for only 16 years (the monarchy ruled for nearly 400 years). This left Perloff’s writers, working in the years between the two world wars, with a sense of loss — that they’d been cut adrift from the land and culture of their youth. Kraus and the others weren’t sentimental about what was gone, but they recognized its strengths and opportunities as well, giving rise to what might be called an ironic conservatism in their outlook. Ultimately, the collapse was a collapse of cultural identity as well. Despite the almost unimaginable size of the empire’s territories, Musil, Celan, Roth, and the others shared a historical culture, which inevitably led to a common recognition — a recognition reflected in habits of thought, social conventions, mind, language — of their tragic situation. They harbored no optimism for the restoration of the monarchy in the years after 1918. Indeed, they harbored no optimism at all — except for the possibilities inherent in what a “probing analysis of fundamental desires and principles” might reveal about us as individuals and how we live. For this reason alone, Edge of Irony is worth a look. Adam Kirsch reviews the book at greater length in the June 22, 2017, issue of the New York Review of Books.


I happen to be a child (or, at least, a grandchild) of the periphery of the Austrian Empire myself. My paternal grandfather Maxsym Hunka arrived at Ellis Island in 1914 from Ukraine (probably from Berezhany, Ternopil, then a part of the Austrian Empire, now a part of western Ukraine); he too was an exile from a collapsing world, perhaps sharing (in the peculiar ways of his own situation) in the habits of thought, social conventions, mind, and language of the subjects of Edge of Irony. He was far from an intellectual, receiving only a fifth-grade-level education according to US Census reports from later years. But if there can be said to be a cultural DNA just as influential upon us as our biological DNA, passed down in the form of these habits through the generations, they might generate in us an affectionate affinity for characteristics of our ancestral cultures, its origins barely recognized in our individual histories unless we look for them.