The essence of a country can best be expressed in the form of its art. The arts of literature, poetry, music, and paintings leave behind the spirit of a time as the artist has seen it in his own heart. Their work illuminates a vibrant presence that can be enjoyed by future generations.
I grew up in Lower Franconia (Unterfranken) which is a sub-state of Bavaria in Germany. I was surrounded with local art, history, literature, poetry and music. Not only was I introduced to them through the local activities of seasonal festivals, but also through my parents and my wonderful teachers. In my little world I was delighted by 19th Century writers and painters, and older century craftsman and architects. Their work also brought meaning to my personal life in many ways.
One of my first children's books I remember reading were the stories of Wilhelm Busch (1842–1908). He is best known for his rascal tales called Max und Moritz. The stories were accompanied by his own caricatures that illustrate the practical jokes that Max and Moritz are pulling on an older widow. Don't fret; they did get punished for the trouble they caused to the widow and her chickens.
His drawings and stories revolved around every day life of mid-19th century Germany. His observations showed that every action will have an effect on others and self and he spiced it up with good humor. Another short story that stuck with me was called Die Strafe der Faulheit (Punishment of Laziness) and tells of the lives of two dogs and their owners. One dog was spoiled and the other was disciplined to learn about work. The story ends by showing which dog had the smarts to escape from a life-and-death situation.
In many ways I could relate to Wilhelm Busch's rascal tales, because I was a tomboy myself. One could either find me in my grandmother's garden digging in dirt or in my grandfather's barn getting into his feed to mix up my own concoction of fine cuisine that not even the cat wanted to eat. I set up my territory by the wood shed near the barn and collected many of my grandfather's farm u2018equipment' as my furniture for my camp. He never seemed to be pleased with the disappearing of his tools, buckets or boards that I used.
At times I've gotten into my grandmother's chicken nests, too, in order to collect the daily eggs. It's so fun to hunt down the nests in different places in the barn and in baskets that the hens used for laying their eggs. Oma always had a sign of relief on her face when I brought her my find of fresh eggs. I guess she thought I would use them in my experimental cooking back at the wood shed.
My next collection to my children's library was Der Struwwelpeter by Heinrich Hoffmann (1809–1845). Everyone in Germany has read his famous story book. He was a physician by profession and could not find any interesting children's books to buy. So one day he came home with an empty notebook and told his wife that he would have to do his own writings. Mark Twain translated the story into English in 1845 and titled it Slovenly Peter.
The stories of Struwwelpeter with its simple drawings speak in rhymes about the do's and don'ts for children. There were pictures and stories of what would happen if children don't brush their hair, eat their soup, play with matches or bounce around at the dinner table. The colorful pictures show the mostly bourgeois life-style of the times.
When I read the stories now, I get a smile all over my face, because the lessons of the stories seem somewhat strange at times. They did have a profound truth in it though, especially since I hated to take baths. My mother would have used a lasso to catch me, if she could, to get me into the tub. Since we lived in an old farm house, there were no bathrooms by today's standard. My grandmother's kitchen was it. My mother heated the water on her wood-burning stove, and drew a bath in a little tub. The idea of having to take a bath made my hair stand up straight (just like Struwwelpeter) and not even the threat of having to look like him one day made any difference to me. Now I am chasing my youngest daughter for baths and just getting to brush her hair is an ordeal. Times haven't changed much for kids.
Between the age of 10 and 12 I raided my dad's library and discovered Karl May (1842–1912). It was my first introduction to the wilderness of America and its native people – the Indians. I believe that almost every German has read the stories of Karl May, including Albert Einstein, Albert Schweitzer, and Herman Hesse.
What is so fascinating about his writings is that the man has never been to the u2018West' until 1908, many years after he's written most of his novels of Winnetou, the Apache Chief and Old Shatterhand, his faithful European friend. He was able to evoke a longing in my own soul of wanting to go out and see for myself the land and people he wrote about.
He came from a poor background and tried to u2018earn' money the illegitimate ways. While imprisoned he started penning his first novels. I can easily see how a soul like him longs for freedom, and he used his imagination and writing skills to liberate himself.
I am convinced that Karl May was one of the major influences that spawned my u2018Wanderlust' and desire to move to the USA. Although his descriptions were somewhat incorrect in his writings, he nevertheless wrote fictions that were powerful in bringing out the real spirit of the West.
The impact his writings had on me came out in my 12-year-old fashion statement. I started braiding my hair like an American Indian. I wanted to wear clothes that resembled anything Native American. My room was re-decorated with animal skin, pictures of u2018Winnetou' and anything Western that I could get my hands on. I remember an entire summer day-dreaming about meeting a u2018Winnetou' one day and living with him in the woods of the American West. I think my brothers and sister and probably parents thought I've lost all my marbles at one point.
When I entered middle school in 7th grade (all-girl boarding school), I had an older gentleman as my teacher (he must have been in his mid 60's) in German Literature and English. I owe a lot of my knowledge and English skills to Herr Leicht. He introduced us to the great minds of Germany, and combined literature with world history. His heart was in his teaching and he had the attention of his all-girls class.
Herr Leicht had the marvelous ability to combine teaching with on-hand lessons by taking us to museums, bringing in material from his own home or just simply sharing stories of what he read and knew. He was a man who we all respected deeply not because of his age alone, but because he respected us girls and fed our minds with wonderful knowledge.
My first introduction to really liking the paintings of Carl Spitzweg (1808–1885) was when Herr Leicht took us to a museum trip to the city of Wuerzburg. I believe the exhibition took place at the residential palace. His u2018brush' reflected 19th Century life that showed innocent romance and life of bourgeois folks of all ages and professions.
I noticed how much his paintings reminded me of Wilhelm Busch's and Heinrich Hoffman's stories. His paintings also portray the mountains and forests, which of course reminded me of my life as a tomboy. One of my favorite things to do after school was to get on my bike and meet my friends for our excursions into the fields and hills. My u2018boy' friends and I had a big hay stack as our fort which was right outside the forest. We dug caves and tunnels and made sure a u2018scout' would alert us if he saw a farmer pull up on his tractor. We called it u2018red alert.' The u2018red alert' should have been for my mother, because she was not pleased when I came home with hay and straw hanging all over my hair and clothes.
Some hunting scenes made me think of times when we tried to repair the old, abandoned u2018hunter's cabin' right at the edge of the woods near a big hill. For many hours we labored in repairing the old place for our personal use until one of the guys got stung by a bee. I was in the midst of painting the u2018décor' on the walls (it was a big red flower) when he realized that the hammering has angered an entire nest of bees. All we could do was flee down the hill for rescue.
My favorite painting is titled "The Poor Poet" and shows an ill-stricken writer lying in bed amidst a small chamber in total disarray and need of repairs. I always felt pity for the poor man and it gave me the motivation of wanting to clean up his messy abode. Although I knew it was just a painting, Carl Spitzweg was able to bring out compassion and empathy with his work.
Wuerzburg is a haven of the studies of arts and science, as well as a historical treasure with all her churches, bridges, and palaces. Our school went there many times for theatre performances and museum trips. The most impressive building to me has always been the Episcopal Palace used by the crown-bishops. It has a magnificent presence and every time I see the palace, I still get the chills. The architect of this wonderful building was Balthasar Neumann (1687–1753).
I don't know the exact time when I discarded my dream of being a princess and turned into a girl playing with dirt and boys, but when I stood in front of this palace all my girly dreams came back. I could just hear the carriages and hoof sounds on the cobblestones. The rococo-style building had a majestic presence that made my breath stop for a moment. The main entrance boasted a grand staircase with decorations and paintings. The fountains and gardens were charming and I could see how powder-haired men and women would walk around in their knee highs and puffy skirts. It was fun to explore this place.
Wuerzburg was ready to make some big improvements to their city after they recovered from the consequences of the peasant wars. Johann Philip Franz Graf von Schoenborn was the newly elected crown-bishop and contracted Balthasar Neumann to build his new residency.
His rococo-style is reflected in many churches in my state alone. My country church back home was also designed by this great man.
Two centuries before Balthasar Neumann, Wuerzburg was the home of another famous artist. This famous sculptor of the late Middle Ages and contemporary of Albrecht Duerer was Tilman Riemenschneider (1460–1531). He received many commissions from church and civic leaders as a master sculptor to create alter pieces for churches and other ensembles for the secular world. Most of his art shows religious motifs of his Renaissance time.
One interesting aspect of his was the details in his work. The fine lines of hair and the exquisite precise details of curls on his figures really brought his work alive. My teacher brought us to Wuerzburg many times to see his work, and it was he who made us aware of his craftsmanship.
When I started boarding school in Volkach on the Main River, we had to attend church at the beginning of each school year. The church was located in a vineyard called the pilgrimage church of "Maria im Weingarten" (Mary in the Vineyards). Inside was the beautiful wood carving of Tilman Riemenschneider of Mary surrounded by a wreath of grapes. The art piece is hung in the center over the alter and is the focal point of the church.
This is only a fraction of the wealth of artists and writers in my little state alone. I've seen their work in person and they have touched me in many ways than just looking at a museum piece or reading a story and forget the book. I lived with all of them for many years since their creation was part of my life.
I'm so grateful that in later years I've come to love the diverse spirits of the many centuries that are so visible everywhere back home. Each era echoes forth a different style and mentality and yet they still evoke similar responses in a contemplative man: Awesomeness, joy, compassion, empathy, and mercy and love.
I often sit in my backyard watching my girls play. The environment that they play in is different than mine was, but their passion to discover and their child-like curiosity is the same as it was for me. I hear them laughing and giggle and I wonder what it is that they will discover in their native country.
It may be that they will discover Mark Twain, Norman Rockwell or even Will Rogers. My oldest son has discovered his passion for music and contemporary American composers or it may be B.B. King or Gershwin for my girls.
Each society has their own cultural treasure of story tellers, musicians and artists. I see Mark Twain and Norman Rockwell not much different than Wilhelm Busch or Carl Spitzweg. Their style and expression however is unique, and these men were the spirit of their time and place. They developed and came forth within their own culture.
It would be erroneous for me to think that I can duplicate my experience and force my heritage on my children. They are already part of it, yet they still have to discover it within themselves. All I can do is guide, instruct and teach and take them home for visits. My children will have to make their own experiences that will bring meaning into their life.
I am not quite sure how a group of statesmen of a form of government can duplicate their ideology and stamp it on the heart of another nation without regarding that nation's own treasure and heritage. This transfer of a system is not sparked by the passion of the people. It is foreign and alien to them. It will collapse before it is even built, because there is no treasure developed from the inside that can withstand the pressure from the outside.
The existence of an essence in a culture is discovered like a treasure and mined with the hearts and minds of spirited people that have a vision of the bigger picture. Being able to discover my treasure during my growing up years has been a life-long gift. I feel every society and people of a nation deserve the same opportunity.
November 28, 2003
