Month: June 2021

Founding–and Feuding–Fathers

On July 4th, 1777, spontaneous celebrations broke out in the US commemorating the first anniversary of the start of our nation. Exactly one year before that, in 1776, the Second Continental Congress had made public the document we now call the Declaration of Independence, officially breaking away from the British Empire. Primarily written by Thomas Jefferson, the Declaration was actually approved by the Congress two days earlier, leading John Adams to write to his wife, Abigail: “The 2nd day of July 1776, will be the most memorable epoch in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival.”

Okay, so John was off by a couple of days. Most historians accept the idea that July 4th marks the birthday of the U.S. and celebrate accordingly. Adams, from Massachusetts, and Virginian Jefferson had a long and interesting history together. They met as delegates to the First Continental Congress in 1775, and served together on a five-man committee selected to compose a statement of the reasons for breaking with Great Britain. Adams, Ben Franklin, and the other  two men suggested that the shy, young Jefferson (he was only 33 at the time) should do the bulk of the work, while they made suggestions and helped with revisions. Jefferson wanted Adams to take on the task of being the principal writer of the document, but Adams balked. When pressed, he gave his reasons, “I am obnoxious, suspected, and unpopular. You are very much otherwise.” Can you imagine a modern-day politician being so self-aware as to speak those words? Adams clinched the argument by saying, “You can write ten times better than I can.” The appeal to his ego worked, and Jefferson assented. When a draft was finished, Adams wrote, “I was delighted with its high tone and the flights of oratory with which it abounded, especially that concerning Negro slavery, which . . . I knew his Southern brethren would never suffer to pass in Congress.” The Southern delegates did indeed insist that references to slave labor be omitted from the final product, and that section was cut out. Despite that shortcoming, the remaining document stands as the finest statement on freedom and equality ever written.

Once the pronouncement was approved, the delegates had to sign it. That had to have been a poignant moment in their lives. In affixing their signatures to such a statement, they were committing a treasonous act according to British law, and were subject to trial and execution. One story, probably apocryphal, has it that Ben Franklin announced to the gathering, “We must all hang together, or surely, we will all hang separately.” At that point, President of the Congress, John Hancock, stepped forward and said, allegedly, “I’ll make my name large and clear so that King George can read it without his spectacles.” Regardless of the veracity of these stories and the risk involved, fifty-six men signed it by early August.

Adams and Jefferson continued to contribute to the birth of the nation during the Revolutionary War and the 1780s, largely in diplomatic roles. When the U.S. Constitution was being written in Philadelphia in 1787,  Jefferson was serving as the Ambassador to France, with Adams performing the same duties in London. The two friends corresponded throughout those years, but began to disagree on important issues in the 1790s. Adams was the first Vice President and Jefferson the first Secretary of State under George Washington. Factions, then political parties, soon developed over competing visions of which direction the new nation should take. While Washington stayed above the fray and abhorred the factionalism he saw emerging, Jefferson led a group called the Democratic-Republicans (sometimes simply Republicans) who favored states’ rights and a small republic of independent farmers. Adams supported Treasury Secretary Alexander Hamilton’s Federalist Party and their vision of a strong, centralized government built around a combination of banking, industry, and agriculture. Jefferson and Adams ran against each other in two heated presidential campaigns filled with the sort of vituperation and slanderous assaults that have become familiar to us in the past four years. While the two men avoided direct attacks on each other, neither tried to discourage those who engaged in such invective on their behalf. Adams won the first contest, in 1796, but Jefferson won the re-match in 1800. Upon Jefferson’s victory, Adams wrote a note of congratulation, but received no response. The two men did not communicate again for twelve years.

Jefferson served as president for eight years, from 1801 to 1809, but he never once asked his old friend for help or advice. In 1803, his ideal of a geographically small republic was sorely tested when the opportunity to purchase a massive piece of real estate called Louisiana presented itself. Jefferson compromised his principles and doubled the size of the United States with a stroke of the pen. He did not, however, bend in his feelings toward Adams. Nor did Adams reach out to him.

By 1812, both men were out of office, and the first two-party system in our political history was beginning to disintegrate. Having recently lost several friends and relatives, Adams had mellowed and sent a short, amicable note to his old rival. Jefferson responded in a similar tone, and they began to exchange letters, tentatively at first, but more frequently later on. The correspondence continued for the remaining years of their lives. They avoided any discussion of the issues that had divided them, but engaged in otherwise meaningful exchanges that ranged from current events, to philosophy, to minutia concerning their respective farms. At ninety years old, John Adams died peacefully at his Massachusetts farm. His last words were “Thomas Jefferson survives.” Once again, he was slightly in error. Jefferson had actually passed away several hours earlier on his plantation in Virginia. Incredibly, these two revolutionaries, comrades in arms, founding fathers, friends, and fierce rivals, both died within hours of each other.

The date was July 4, 1826—the fiftieth anniversary of the Declaration of Independence.

So, here we are, 245 years after the start of the nation, divided and angry, much like Jefferson and Adams had been for many years. If those two men could reconcile differences and come together again, however, I continue to hold out hope that we, as a nation can do the same.

Alma and the Silent Woman

We’ve all been in situations in which we have thought to ourselves, “Boy, my _______ (fill in the blank: neighbor, co-worker, relative, etc.) is a weird guy.” Maybe this story will give you some perspective as to what constitutes “weird.”

Just over a century ago, in 1920, police in Dresden, Germany were called to the scene of a crime in which the bloody body of a decapitated woman was reportedly spotted in an alley behind the home of an eccentric artist. As it turned out, it was not a woman, but a life-sized “doll” created to look like a woman named Alma Gropius.

For those not familiar with the songs of ‘sixties song-writer and political humorist Tom Lehrer, Alma was one of the most interesting women in European history. In 1964, Lehrer was inspired to write a song about her after stumbling across “the juiciest, spiciest, raciest obituary it has ever been my pleasure to read.” An accomplished musician, Alma associated with some of the most famous artists and writers of the early 20th Century—and had affairs with many of them. Among her many celebrity conquests were three that she actually married: composer Gustav Mahler, architect Walter Gropius, and writer Franz Werfel. Lehrer’s song is filled with the wit and clever rhymes that made him one of my all-time favorites. Here is the song and the lyrics:

Alma Mahler-Gropius-Werfel has been described as a muse to great men, and she undoubtedly inspired many of them with her intelligence, her beauty, or her passion. Perhaps it was a combination of these factors. At her funeral, a eulogist described her as “an energizer of heroes;” a woman “whose companionship stimulates her chosen man to the ultimate heights of his creative abilities;” she was “a pure light, the flame of an Olympic fire.” Hyperbole aside, she seemed to have had a certain impact on intellectual men. None was more affected by her than an Expressionist painter named Oskar Kokoschka.

Kokoschka, an Austrian artist and poet, met Alma at a party in 1912 and the two almost immediately began a torrid love affair that continued off and on for several years. Inspired by his passion for Alma, in 1913 Oskar completed one of his most acclaimed paintings, Die Windsbraut (variously translated as The Tempest or the Bride in the Wind) When she finally broke off their relationship in 1915, he sold Die Windsbraut in order to buy a horse and join the German cavalry in World War I. He was sent to fight the Russians in the Ukraine, and things did not go well for Oskar. Shot in the skull, bayonetted in the chest, and suffering from concussions caused by bombs exploding nearby, he somehow survived the war, but doctors described him as mentally unstable.

That brings us to the doll. Tortured by his unrequited love for Alma, missing his muse, and, just perhaps, a little off-kilter from his military experience, he commissioned a Munich artist and puppet-maker to create a life-sized model of Alma. Using photographs, Alma’s actual measurements, and other details provided by Oskar, the female artisan produced a doll with a striking resemblance to Alma. It was stuffed with sawdust and, thankfully, covered with white feathers rather than human skin. Oskar was reportedly disappointed with the result, however, as it somehow lacked the vitality of the real thing. Still, he sketched and painted “the Silent Woman,” as he called it, numerous times, in various poses. Stories circulated claiming that he dressed it in lingerie and fine clothes, took it riding in his carriage, and even sat with it in his box at the opera. He later denied these stories, but it all brings to mind the delightful movie Lars and the Real Girl.

By this time, Alma’s first husband, Mahler, had died, she had married and divorced Gropius, and was planning to marry Werfel. Finally realizing that a reunion with Alma was not in the cards, Oskar threw a party to publicly declare that his passion for Alma was dead. The Silent Women, dressed in her Parisian finery, was the guest of honor while Oskar and his friends drank themselves into a stupor. Near dawn, encouraged by his enthusiastic and inebriated guests, he took the doll into the garden and decapitated it. He poured red wine over the body and tossed it into the alley. The red wine on the white feathers looked enough like blood that the neighbors grew alarmed and alerted the authorities. That must have resulted in a fascinating conversation.

Kokoschka continued to love Alma for the rest of his life, and he lived until 1980. When Hitler came to power, the artist was declared a degenerate by the Nazis and forced to leave Germany. Let that sink in for a moment. The Nazis declared him a degenerate. Now there’s something to put on the old resumé.

So, the next time you start to say that your ________ (neighbor, co-worker, relative) is acting a bit strange, take a deep breath. And think about Oskar.