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Reading expressionist architecture: German modernism and 'paper architecture,' 1914-1920

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Reading expressionist architecture: German modernism and 'paper architecture,' 1914-1920

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READING EXPRESSIONIST ARCHITECTURE: GERMAN MODERNISM AND
‘PAPER ARCHITECTURE,’ 1914-1920

by

Kelli Olgren-Leblond

A Dissertation Presented to the
FACULTY OF THE GRADUATE SCHOOL
UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
In Partial Fulfillment of the
Requirements for the Degree
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY
(ART HISTORY)

December 2008

Copyright 2008 Kelli Olgren-Leblond
ii
Acknowledgements

There are many individuals to whom I am indebted for their support and guidance
as I developed and wrote this dissertation. I am extremely grateful to my dissertation
chair, Dr. Karen Lang, for her fantastic mentorship over the course of my graduate
studies, and for her advisement and careful review of the dissertation. Through Dr.
Lang’s challenging graduate seminars, and supervision of my individual research projects
and qualifying exams, I was given the art historical and theoretical tools necessary to
cultivate the arguments upon which this dissertation is based. I am also especially
grateful to dissertation committee member, Dr. Jonathan Reynolds, for his mentorship in
the field of modern architectural history, and for his encouragement and helpful advice
through each phase of the dissertation. Other scholars I must thank include: Dr. Paul
Lerner, for his time and invaluable assistance during my quest to develop a more
thorough understanding of modern German history, and for his insightful comments as a
member of the dissertation committee; Dr. Nancy Troy and Dr. Todd Olsen for their
suggestions in the earliest phase of this dissertation; and Dr. Iain Boyd Whyte, who
kindly shared his time and expertise with me during his extended visit to Los Angeles in
2003. Dr. Whyte’s advice and support significantly impacted the kinds of questions I
ultimately addressed in the dissertation.
The Department of Art History generously provided me with financial support
throughout my time in its doctoral program. Departmental funding I received that was
critical to the dissertation’s completion included a Summer Travel Funds Research Grant
and the Borchard Foundation Fellowship for Dissertation Research. I am also very
iii
grateful to USC’s College of Letters, Arts, and Sciences for providing me with a multi-
year College Merit Fellowship as well as a Final Year Dissertation Fellowship.
The wonderful staff in the Department of Art History assisted me with a variety of
academic and financial issues while I was a student. I owe a special thank you to Jeanne
Herman, who oversaw the paperwork and processes required for the final phase of the
dissertation and my graduate studies. Additionally, I must thank the kind staffs of the
following institutions for providing me with access to their archives during the research
phase of the dissertation: the Karl-Ernst-Osthaus Archiv at the Folkwang Museum in
Hagen, Germany, which permitted me to examine correspondence between Karl Ernst
Osthaus and Bruno Taut; the Special Collections Department of the Getty Research
Institute in Los Angeles, which allowed me to examine materials pertaining to Taut and
the Arbeitsrat für Kunst; and the Huntington Library and Museum in San Marino, CA,
which facilitated access to the I.B. Neumann Papers, located in their microfilms of the
Smithsonian Institute’s Archives of American Art.
Finally, without the support of friends and family, my doctorate, most certainly,
would have remained a dream. To my parents, Michele and Randy Olgren, thank you for
instilling in me the ideals of faith and perseverance, and for inspiring in me a love for
culture and learning. To my sister, Kimberlee Olgren-Potter, thank you for your sense of
humor and for being the true “smart daughter” in the family. To Carrie Gabriel, thank
you for encouraging me to take my first art history class in high school, and for
introducing me to German Expressionism. And to my amazing husband, Brian Leblond,
thank you for your never-failing love, patience, and self-sacrifice.
iv
Table of Contents

Acknowledgements ii
List of Figures v
Abstract xi
Introduction 1

Chapter One: The Deutscher Werkbund and the Roots of Expressionist 17
Paper Architecture

Chapter Two: Constructing an Expressionist Public 79

Chapter Three: Paper Prophecy – The Expressionist Architect as Prophet 154

Chapter Four: The Revolt Against Paper: Expressionist Architecture, 210
Theater, and Film

Bibliography 285

v
List of Figures

Figure 1: Ludwig Meidner, Street at Night in Berlin, brush ink and pen 18
over pencil outline, 1913. (From Donald Gordon, Expressionism:
Art and Idea, New Haven, 1987)

Figure 2: Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Berlin Street Scene, oil on canvas, 19
1913-1914. (From German Expressionism: Art and Society, eds.
Stephanie Barron and Wolf-Dieter Dube, New York, 1997)

Figure 3: Bruno Taut, Glass House, Werkbund Exhibition, Cologne, 25
1914, general view with visitors. (From John V. Maciuika,
Before the Bauhaus: Architecture, Politics, and the German
State, 1880-1920, Cambridge, 2005)

Figure 4: Hans Poelzig, Chemical Factory, Luban, 1911-1912, view of 36
stepped gable wall. (From Julius Posener, Hans Poelzig:
Reflections on His Life and Work, Cambridge, MA, 1992)

Figure 5: Hans Poelzig, Chemical Factory, Luban, 1911-1912, view of 37
storage buildings. (From Dennis Sharp, Modern Architecture
and Expressionism, New York, 1966)

Figure 6: Hans Poelzig, Water Tower, Industrial Exhibition, Posen, 38
1911, general view. (From Posener, Hans Poelzig, 1992)

Figure 7: Hans Poelzig, Water Tower, Industrial Exhibition, Posen, 40
1911, interior view. (From Sharp, Modern Architecture and
Expressionism, 1966)

Figure 8: Bruno Taut, Pavilion for the Berlin Sales Office for Steel Girders, 41
Clay, Cement and Lime Industries Exhibition, 1910, general view.
(From Frederic Schwartz, The Werkbund: Design Theory and
Mass Culture before the First World War, New Haven, 1996)

Figure 9: Bruno Taut and Franz Hoffman, Monument to Iron, 43
International Building Trades Exhibition, Leipzig, 1913,
general view. (From Iain Boyd Whyte, Bruno Taut and the
Architecture of Activism, Cambridge, 1982)

vi
Figure 10: Poster advertising Bruno Taut and Franz Hoffmann’s 44
Monument to Iron, International Building Trades Exhibition,
Leipzig, 1913. (From Bruno Taut, 1880-1938: Architekt
zwischen Tradition und Avantgarde, eds. Winfried Nerdinger,
Kristiana Hartmann, Matthias Schirren, and Manfred Speidel,
Stuttgart, 2001)

Figure 11: Henry van de Velde, Theater, Werkbund Exhibition, Cologne, 53
general view. (From Maciuika, Before the Bauhaus, 2005)

Figure 12: Walter Gropius, Model Factory and Administration Building, 54
Werkbund Exhibition, Cologne, 1914, general view. (From
William J. Curtis, Modern Architecture since 1900, Saddle River,
NJ, 1996)

Figure 13: Bruno Taut, Glass House, Werkbund Exhibition, Cologne, 58
1914, general view. (From Schwartz, The Werkbund, 1996)

Figure 14: Bruno Taut, Glass House, Werkbund Exhibition, Cologne, 60
1914, interior view of cupola room with detail of dome. (From
Nerdinger, et al., Bruno Taut, 2001)

Figure 15: Bruno Taut, Glass House, Werkbund Exhibition, Cologne, 61
1914, interior view of cupola room with display cases. (From
Angelika Thiekötter, Kristallisationen, Splitterungen: Bruno
Tauts Glashaus, Basel, 1993)

Figure 16: Bruno Taut, Glass House, Werkbund Exhibition, Cologne, 62
1914, interior view of cascade room. (From Nerdinger,
et al., Bruno Taut, 2001)

Figure 17: Advertisement for the Glass House published in the official 76
catalogue for the 1914 Werkbund Exhibition in Cologne.
(From Schwartz, The Werkbund, 1996)

Figure 18: Max Pechstein, Summer in the Dunes, oil on canvas, 1911. 81
(From Barron and Dube, German Expressionism, 1997)

Figure 19: Bruno Taut, Project for the House of Friendship Competition, 85
drawing, 1916. (From Wolfgang Pehnt, Expressionist Architecture,
New York, 1973)

vii
Figure 20: Bruno Taut, Project for the House of Friendship Competition, 86
interior, drawing,1916. (From Bruno Taut, 1880-1938:
Ausstellung der Akademie der Künste von 29 Juni bis 3
August 1980, ed. Barbara Volkmann, Berlin, 1980)

Figure 21: Bruno Taut, cover and title page to Alpine Architecture, Hagen: 93
Folkwang-Verlag, 1919. (From Matthias Shirren, Bruno Taut.
Alpine Architektur: Eine Utopie. A Utopia, Munich, 2004)

Figure 22: Bruno Taut, “Ascent from the Mountain Lake,” in Alpine 96
Architecture, 1919. (From Schirren, Bruno Taut. Alpine
Architecture, 2004)

Figure 23: Bruno Taut, “Path in Wildbrook Canyon,” in Alpine 97
Architecture, 1919. (From Schirren, Bruno Taut. Alpine
Architektur, 2004)

Figure 24: Bruno Taut, “The Crystal House,” in Alpine Architecture, 98
1919. (From Schirren, Bruno Taut. Alpine Architektur, 2004)

Figure 25: Bruno Taut, “Inside the Crystal House,” in Alpine 100
Architecture, 1919. (From Schirren, Bruno Taut. Alpine
Architektur, 2004)

Figure 26: Bruno Taut, “The Crystal Mountain” in Alpine Architecture, 102
1919. (From Schirren, Bruno Taut. Alpine Architektur, 2004)

Figure 27: Bruno Taut, “The Cathedral in the Rocks,” in Alpine 103
Architecture, 1919. (From Schirren, Bruno Taut. Alpine
Architektur, 2004)

Figure 28: Bruno Taut, “The Monte Rosa Structure,” in Alpine 105
Architecture, 1919. (From Schirren, Bruno Taut. Alpine
Architektur, 2004)

Figure 29: Bruno Taut, “The Matterhorn,” in Alpine Architecture, 1919. 106
(From Schirren, Bruno Taut. Alpine Architektur, 2004)

Figure 30: Bruno Taut, “Appeal to the Europeans,” in Alpine Architecture, 107
1919. (From Schirren, Bruno Taut. Alpine Architektur, 2004)

Figure 31: Bruno Taut, “The Ralik and Ratak Islands,” in Alpine 108
Architecture, 1919. (From Schirren, Bruno Taut. Alpine
Architektur, 2004)

viii
Figure 32: Bruno Taut, “Rügen,” in Alpine Architecture, 1919. (From 109
Schirren, Bruno Taut. Alpine Architektur, 2004)

Figure 33: Bruno Taut, “The Cathedral Star,” in Alpine Architecture, 1919. 111
(From Schirren, Bruno Taut. Alpine Architektur, 2004)

Figure 34: Bruno Taut, “At the Upper Italian Lakes,” in Alpine 113
Architecture, 1919. (From Schirren, Bruno Taut. Alpine
Architektur, 2004)

Figure 35: George Grosz, “Burghers’ World,” in Ecce Homo, Berlin: Malik- 127
Verlag, 1920. (From Beth Irwin Lewis, George Grosz: Art and
Politics in the Weimar Republic, Princeton, 1971)

Figure 36: Johannes Molzahn, “Architectural Idea,” pencil drawing 141
on transparency, 1919. (From Joan Weinstein, The End
of Expressionism: Art and the November Revolution in
Germany, 1918-1919, Chicago, 1990)

Figure 37: Wenzel Hablik, design for an exhibition building, drawing, 142
1919. (From Whyte, Bruno Taut and the Architecture of
Activism, 1982)

Figure 38: Hermann Finsterlin, design for a glass house, drawing, 1919. 145
(From Whyte, Bruno Taut and the Architecture of Activism,
1982)

Figure 39: Jefim Golyscheff, Small Houses with Illuminated Roofs, 146
drawing, 1919. (From Weinstein, The End of Expressionism,
1990)

Figure 40: Bruno Taut, ground plan for the Folkwang School in Hagen, 160
drawing, January 1920. (From Auf dem Weg zu einer
handgreiflichen Utopie, ed. Birgit Schulte, Hagen, 1994)

Figure 41: Hans Scharoun, letter to the Crystal Chain, no date. (From The 162
Crystal Chain Letters: Architectural Fantasies by Bruno Taut and
His Circle, ed. Iain Boyd Whyte, Cambridge, MA, 1985)

Figure 42: Bruno Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, December 1919; January 1, 163
1919, and January 18, 1919. (From Whyte, The Crystal Chain
Letters, 1985)

ix
Figure 43: Hermann Finsterlin, Assembly Room (top) and Dream in Glass 173
(bottom), watercolor and graphite drawings, c. 1920. (From
Wolfgang Pehnt, Expressionist Architecture in Drawings,
London, 1985)

Figure 44: Wenzel Hablik, The Path of Genius, oil on canvas, 1918. (From Bau 181
einer neuen Welt: architektonische Visionen des Expressionismus,
eds. Rainer Stamm and Daniel Schreiber, Cologne, 2003)

Figure 45: Bruno Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, December 23, 1919. (From 190
Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 1985)

Figure 46: Bruno Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, December 26, 1919. (From 191
Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 1985)

Figure 47: Wenzel Hablik, Residence and Studio, colored pencil and graphite 201
drawing, 1921. (From Pehnt, Expressionist Architecture in Drawings,
1985)

Figure 48: Hermann Finsterlin, untitled drawings, 1920. (From Whyte, The 202
Crystal Chain Letters, 1985)

Figure 49: Wassili Luckhardt, Monument to Joy, gouache and pencil on 204
cardboard, 1920. (From Stamm and Schreiber, Bau einer neuen
Welt, 2003)

Figure 50: Hans Luckhardt, drawings for a “Concert Hall,” in Ruf zum 205
Bauen, Berlin: Verlag Ernst Wasmuth, 1920. (From Whyte, The
Crystal Chain Letters, 1985)

Figure 51: Hans Hansen, “The Building Center,” in Ruf zum Bauen, 206
1920. (From Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 1985)

Figure 52: Hermann Finsterlin, “Fantasy,” in Ruf zum Bauen, 1920. 213
(From Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 1985)

Figure 53: Wassili Luckhardt, “Cult Building Interior,” in Ruf zum Bauen, 214
1920. (From Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 1985)

Figure 54: Carl Krayl, Light Greetings from My Star House, blueprint drawing, 218
1920. (From Expressionist Utopias: Paradise, Metropolis,
Architectural Fantasies, ed. Timothy O. Benson, Berkeley and
Los Angeles, 2001)

x

Figure 55: Hans Scharoun, Principles of Architecture, watercolor and graphite 219
drawing, 1919-21. (From Pehnt, Expressionist Architecture in
Drawings, 1985)

Figure 56: Paul Goesch, Untitled (Fantasy Architecture), watercolor and ink 220
drawing, c. 1919. (From Benson, Expressionist Utopias, 2001)

Figure 57: Max Taut, Concrete Halls, watercolor drawing, c. 1919. (From 222
Benson, Expressionist Utopias, 2001)

Figure 58: Hermann Finsterlin, Fortress, watercolor and graphite drawing, 223
c. 1920. (From Pehnt, Expressionist Architecture in Drawings, 1985)

Figure 59: Bruno Taut, “Our World is Light,” in Die Erhebung 2, Berlin: 225
S. Fischer, 1920. (From Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 1985)

Figure 60: Hans Poelzig, Große Schauspielhaus, Berlin, 1919. (From Dennis 237
Sharp, Modern Architecture and Expressionism, New York, 1966)

Figure 61: Scene from The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, 1919. (From Benson, 239
Expressionist Utopias, 2001)

Figure 62: Scene from The Golem, 1920. (From Film Architecture: Set Designs 240
from Metropolis to Blade Runner, ed. Dietrich Neumann, Munich,
1999)

Figure 63: Hans Scharoun, “People’s House,” in Die Erhebung 2, Berlin: 244
S. Fischer, 1920. (From Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 1985)

Figure 64: Bruno Taut, “Grows, forms and arch…,” in The Universal Master 255
Builder, Hagen: Folkwang-Verlag, 1920.

Figure 65: Bruno Taut, “Unfolds its halls…,” in The Universal Master Builder, 256
1920.

Figure 66: Bruno Taut, “Dances, alters its light form,” in The Universal Master 258
Builder, 1920.

Figure 67: Bruno Taut, “On the hill the house grows…,” in The Universal 259
Master Builder, 1920.

xi
Figure 68: Bruno Taut, “Unfolding complete…,” in The Universal Master 260
Builder, 1920.
xi
Abstract

This dissertation examines German Expressionist architecture specifically as a
paper movement, and it does so by considering paper materially, culturally, and
aesthetically. It moves beyond previous studies of the foundational elements of
Expressionist architecture, including its utopianism and politics, to focus instead on ideas,
dilemmas, and contradictions inherent to the movement that can be related directly to its
medium. The term “paper architecture” is applied broadly to refer to Expressionist
architectural drawings, essays, letters, manifestos, film scenarios, and books. In each of
these formats, paper was used as a means to visually and/or verbally articulate an
aesthetic and ideological agenda unattainable in practice, primarily due to the collapse of
Germany’s building industry during and immediately following World War I.
The dissertation’s central argument is that the German Expressionists were deeply
conflicted about the constitution of their paper architectural projects and their perception
as architecture, and that ambivalence toward their work shaped the direction of the
movement from1914 to 1920. Many architects appreciated the way paper allowed them
to continue to disseminate their ideas during these years. Nonetheless, they resented the
way their dependence on paper seemed to transform them from architects into “artists,”
“illustrators,” and “writers.” Through a series of case studies, the dissertation contends
that the Expressionists’ reliance on the exhibition and publishing spheres to display and
circulate paper architectural works generated tension and self-doubt, as they found
themselves exposed to the opinions and practices of individuals – namely, art critics,
gallery patrons, and publishers – who did not perceive their drawings and portfolios as
xii
viable architectural forms. The public’s confusion over the purpose and content of
Expressionist paper architecture led certain architects to cultivate mystical and prophetic
personas in order to justify the increasingly artistic and literary nature of their work. By
1920, Expressionist architects began to question paper’s ability to convey effectively
tectonic concepts. These architects turned instead to theater and film to realize a more
tangible form of architecture.

1
Introduction

For the last six decades Expressionist architecture has struggled to find a well-
defined position within the broader history of European architecture. In no small part a
consequence of the movement’s overwhelming perception as a transitory moment of
utopian experimentation, Expressionist architecture has been defined against the
otherwise steady advancement toward full maturation of the modernist aesthetic in 1920s
Germany. The origins of this conception of Expressionist architecture can be traced to
one of the first analyzes of the movement, Sigfried Giedion’s 1941 book Space, Time,
and Architecture: The Growth of a New Tradition.
1
Giedion lends only a few paragraphs
to Expressionist architecture and its ideals in his monumental study. Emphasizing the
origins of Expressionist architecture in World War I and its tumultuous aftermath, he
summarized Expressionism as a movement motivated by tragedy and the "grievances of
mishandled humanity," sentiments that resulted in a view of building deeply rooted in
utopian fantasy and mysticism.
2
He concluded that Expressionism's outrage at humanity
ignited by the war – while noble – was unable to "create new levels of achievement," and

1
In Space, Time, and Architecture, Giedion argues that the development of architecture in a given
historical period is determined by the political, social, economic, and technological climate, or what he
describes as “the common spirit.” He classifies this determinative relationship between architecture and its
historical context as “space-time.” Giedion argues that the rapid industrialization of the nation, one of the
defining attributes of the “common spirit” of the nineteenth- and early twentieth-centuries, brought about a
unique understanding of space that affected the aesthetic of German architecture. With a new cultural
emphasis placed on efficiency and innovation, architects sought to emphasize function, material, and
spatiality over ornamentation and historical tradition. Giedion, therefore, perceives the development of
modern German architecture as the path toward a fully mature functionalist aesthetic embodied by the work
of architects such as Walter Gropius in the 1920s.

2
Sigfried Giedion, Space, Time, and Architecture: The Growth of a New Tradition [1941] (Cambridge,
MA: Harvard University Press, 1974), 485-86.
2
therefore it failed to "perform any service for architecture."
3
Because Expressionist
architecture, in his view, did not succeed in establishing a systematic and efficacious
approach, it was incapable of implementing lasting change. As a consequence, the
movement's overall historical value was limited to little more than its passionate spirit.
4

In the sixty-five years since the appearance of Space, Time, and Architecture,
Giedion's dismissal of Expressionism as architecturally insignificant has been challenged
by scholars who have defended the utopianism of the movement as a viable approach in
its own right. Over the course of time, Giedion’s Functionalist path has given way to an
interest in and an appreciation of the idiosyncrasies of Expressionist architecture,
including the way its eccentric, if impractical, forms lent voice to a unique and notably
turbulent period in German history. Reyner Banham's 1960 Theory and Design in the
First Machine Age marks a shift in the perception of Expressionist architecture. It also
serves as a model for how one might approach Expressionist architecture without falling
prey to Giedion’s view of the movement as a virtually inconsequential stylistic
aberration. Banham categorized Expressionist architecture as a form of anti-Rationalism
aligned so deeply with the dynamism and creative impulses of the pre-World War I era
that it was unable to sustain itself amidst the minimalism and visual restraint that came to
dominate German architecture after 1918.
5
Significantly, Banham does not use the term

3
Giedion, Space, Time, and Architecture, 486.

4
Iain Boyd Whyte agrees with my assessment of Giedion. See his essay, “The End of an Avant-Garde: The
Example of ‘Expressionist Architecture,’” Art History 3, no.1 (March 1980): 102-103.

5
Reyner Banham, Theory and Design in the First Machine Age [1960] (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press,
1980), 163. Banham's chapter on Expressionist architecture focuses on the movement as it developed both
in Amsterdam and Berlin, although the only German architect he discusses at length is Erich Mendelsohn.
His chapter entitled "The Berlin School," which appears later in the book, includes a discussion of specific
3
"anti-Rationalism" pejoratively. Instead, he employs it to distinguish the energy of
Expressionism from the sobriety of what was to become the International Style.
Since the publication of Theory and Design in the First Machine Age, many
scholars have expanded on Banham’s affirmative views of Expressionist architecture by
examining the singular subject of “imaginary,” ”fantastic,” or “utopian” architecture, of
which Expressionism is usually a primary focus.
6
Expressionism has also earned a more
visible place in the general surveys and anthologies of modern architecture, although its
history and importance is often minimized (however unintentionally) by German
architecture’s “Rationalist greats,” such as Peter Behrens, Walter Gropius, and Mies van
der Rohe, who bookend the movement’s brief life. While tremendous strides have been
made in establishing Expressionism as a significant architectural movement, then, it
remains to a limited extent a victim of its own visionary aesthetic and social impulses.
As the path of architecture and the writing of its history proceed into the twenty-
first century, it seems that the history of Expressionism might benefit from scholarly re-

texts by Bruno Taut and Paul Scheerbart, and establishes a link between Expressionist glass culture and the
"elementarism" of German architecture in the mid-1920s.

6
Key texts that consider Expressionist architecture in this way include: Ulrich Conrads and Hans G.
Sperlich, Phantastische Architektur (Stuttgart: G. Hatje, 1960); Dennis Sharp, Modern Architecture and
Expressionism (New York: George Braziller, 1966); Franco Borsi and G.K. König, Architettura
dell’Espressionismo (Genova: Vitali e Ghianda, 1972); Wolfgang Pehnt, Expressionist Architecture, trans.
J.A. Underwood and Edith Küstner (New York: Praeger, 1973); Rosemarie Haag Bletter, “The
Interpretation of the Glass Dream – Expressionist Architecture and the History of the Crystal Metaphor,”
Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 40, no. 1 (March 1981): 20-43; Iain Boyd Whyte, “The
Politics of Expressionist Architecture,” Architectural Association Quarterly 12, no. 3 (1980): 11-17 and
“The End of an Avant-Garde: The Example of Expressionist Architecture,” Art History 3, no. 1 (March
1980): 102-114; Martin Filler, “Fantasms and Fragments: Expressionist Architecture,” Art in America 71,
(January 1983): 102-111; Expressionist Utopias: Paradise, Metropolis, Architectural Fantasy, ed. Timothy
Benson (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1993); Moderne Architektur in
Deutschland 1900 bis 1950: Expressionismus und Neue Sachlichkeit, eds. Vittorio Magnano Lampugnani
and Romana Schneider (Stuttgart: G. Hatje, 1994); and Bau einer neuen Welt: Architektonische Visionen
des Expressionismus, eds. Rainer Stamm and Daniel Schreiber (Köln: Walther König), 2003.
4
evaluation. With the presence of Expressionist architecture now secured in most
contemporary historical accounts, there appears a notable decrease in scholarly
examinations of Expressionist architecture in recent years. While one can never pin down
precisely why this is the case, one could conjecture that scholars now sense that there is
nothing new to say about the subject or that German Expressionist architecture has gone
out of intellectual fashion. From a certain perspective, these suppositions might be true:
in regard to its utopian ideology, Nietzschean philosophical roots, and radical politics,
one could argue that perhaps there is little else to say about Expressionist architecture
apart from what has already been thoroughly and thoughtfully established over the last
four decades by such scholars as Dennis Sharp and Wolfgang Pehnt, and more recently,
by Rosemarie Haag Bletter and Iain Boyd Whyte, among others. As is the case with
much modern German art and architectural history, scholars working in this field can
only peruse the same limited pool of surviving documents so many times in a quest to
discover something truly revelatory, particularly when the theoretical and visual
mysteries of Expressionist architecture have been discussed in a relatively comprehensive
way.
For a scholar today, the question then becomes: how might one re-open the
subject of Expressionist architecture so that issues heretofore unexplored are illuminated
and a new dialogue about its projects is stimulated? One of the answers to this question, I
would propose, lies in the very material of Expressionist architecture: paper. The notion
of Expressionist architecture as a “paper” movement is obvious to those familiar with its
drawings and texts, and is therefore not a revolutionary concept by any means. Indeed,
5
with few exceptions, Expressionist architecture does not exist outside of the two-
dimensional world of paper. The paper aspect of Expressionism is therefore so obvious
that it is hardly acknowledged apart from the fact that it allowed the movement’s
fantastic, visionary architecture, much of which is wholly un-buildable, to find its fullest
expression at a time when the practice of building had come to a virtual standstill due to
World War I and its turbulent post-war years of revolution and economic crisis. The fact
that Expressionist architecture is paper architecture has rarely been considered beyond
these matters of content and context.
7
Yet surely paper is more than a material property.
This dissertation examines Expressionist architecture specifically as a paper
movement, and it does so by considering paper materially, culturally, and aesthetically.
By taking into account these aspects of paper, it seeks to move beyond previous studies
of the foundational elements of Expressionism, including its utopianism and politics, to
focus instead on specific ideas, dilemmas, and contradictions inherent to the movement
that can be directly related to its medium. For example, Expressionist architecture’s paper
format places it on the divide between architecture and art, so that both the architectural
and art historian have legitimate claims to it for their discipline. In this sense, the material
generates a certain ambiguity as to what Expressionist architecture fundamentally is – a
critical point with important methodological implications that has been overlooked in

7
Ralph Musielski’s book Bau-Gespräche: Architekturvisionen von Paul Scheerbart, BrunoTaut und der
Gläsernen Kette (Berlin: Reimer, 2003) is an exception to this. Musielski examines the texts and drawings
of Bruno Taut and the Crystal Chain from a literary perspective, and calls specific attention to the way in
which Expressionism, with the help of Paul Scheerbart, created an “architectural literature” in which
buildings only really come alive through language. He categorizes these works as examples of
“Papierarchitektur” in order to underscore his belief that material played an important role in the literary
nature of the work produced. Although Musielski’s study is extremely valuable from a methodological
standpoint, I seek to turn the discussion of paper architecture back to the realm of architecture itself and the
problems the material generated for the works as architecture.
6
previous examinations of the movement. Whether considered as architecture or art, the
paper, more so than its content, mediates between the architect and the viewer. The
mediating role of paper also creates a hermeneutic circle of interpretation: did the
freedom of paper foster increasingly imaginative and irrational architectural drawings and
texts, or was paper merely the appropriate outlet for elaborate pre-existing ideas already
fully mature within the mind of the architect? Although the answer to this question may
be endlessly debated, it is useful to underscore the implications of the medium of paper in
order to better facilitate an understanding of what, precisely, Expressionist architecture is
and what its aims may have been.
This dissertation questions so-called paper architecture in order to elucidate
complexities of the movement unexplored heretofore. Within the context of this study,
the term “paper architecture” is applied broadly to refer to drawings, essays (both
published and unpublished), letters, manifestos, film scenarios, and books. In each of
these formats, paper was used as a means to visually and/or verbally articulate an
aesthetic and ideological agenda that was unattainable in practice, primarily due to
external circumstances well beyond the architect’s control. In short, Expressionist
architecture was a paper movement out of necessity, not by design. Consequently, I argue
that while paper may have accommodated pre-existing ideas in the mind of the
Expressionist architect, or may have fostered increasingly irrational and fantastic designs
as time progressed, the Expressionist architect’s use of paper as his primary material was
not based on these complementary relationships. This point is crucial, I believe, since it
begs the question of how Expressionist architects approached the situation in which they
7
found themselves: did they find paper to be an acceptable temporary substitute for the
physical act of building, or were they frustrated with all that the medium of paper
represented, both personally and professionally? Did they exploit the advantages paper
offered, or were they continually fighting against its obvious limitations?
As befits a movement imbued with many contradictions and paradoxes, this
dissertation posits that the answer to these questions is “both.” Many Expressionists were
deeply ambivalent about their paper projects. They appreciated the way paper allowed
them to continue to work and to disseminate their ideas within the public sphere, yet they
nonetheless resented the way their dependence on paper transformed them from
architects into “writers” and “illustrators.” In other words, while paper presented
professional options at a time when the possibilities to build buildings were few and far
between, it also threatened to compromise the very identity of these individuals as
architects. A perceived loss of professional integrity would become more pronounced as
the immobilization of the building industry persisted after the war, and hope that the
conventional practice of architecture would resume began to wane.
The Expressionist architects’ ambivalence toward the medium of paper was
further complicated by the way paper redefined the relationship between the architect, his
work, and the public. Unable to build, the Expressionists resorted to paper as a means to
circulate ideas and images within the broader society. At the same time, they found that
paper commodified their work in a manner relatively foreign to them as architects. On
one hand, paper transformed architecture into a mass-market enterprise: paper
architecture could be made accessible to the middle class consumer via drawings,
8
published essays, journals, and books. As a result, Expressionist architecture was stripped
of certain negative connotations of exclusivity and the privilege of wealth. Since
Expressionist architecture’s agenda was predicated on the idea of cultivating a universal
brotherhood through its projects, this accessibility was in fact extremely important. Paper
functioned, then, as a social and economic equalizer insofar as it ostensibly allowed more
people access to the world of avant-garde architecture and ideology.
8

On the other hand, paper propelled Expressionist architecture into the very same
world of exclusivity and privilege it sought to avoid – namely, that of “high art.” Since its
format and abstract imagery was more aligned with the practices of modern art than with
building, paper compromised Expressionist architecture’s constitution as architecture. As
a consequence, much of Expressionist architecture was introduced to the public in the
same manner as works of art – through gallery exhibitions and luxury edition books. This
reliance on the exhibition and publishing sphere generated certain tensions for the
Expressionists, who suddenly found themselves exposed to the opinions and practices of
individuals with whom they would not typically have had dealings.
This dissertation examines a number of questions not addressed in previous
studies that stem from the paradoxical situation paper ultimately fostered in terms of a
“public” for Expressionist architecture. It asks: who were Expressionist architecture’s

8
Peter Bürger defines the concept of the avant-garde as an antagonism to bourgeois culture and society. He
contends that bourgeois art is the objectification of the self-understanding of the bourgeois class, and he
argues that since the production and reception of this self-understanding is not tied to the praxis of life,
bourgeois art is independent of social function – the act of separation from the praxis of life becomes, in
effect, the content of bourgeois art. Viewed in this way, European avant-garde movements can be defined
as an attack on the status of art in bourgeois society, where their function is not to negate an earlier form of
art (style), but rather to negate art as an institution unassociated with the life praxis of society. Bürger
concludes that the avant-garde demands that art become practical again, but only in the sense that it should
have a function in society. See Peter Bürger, Theory of the Avant-Garde (Minneapolis: University of
Minnesota Press, 1984), 47-92.
9
intended viewers/consumers? Who exhibited and published Expressionist architectural
materials? How did the architects themselves react to having to engage in commercial
enterprises to which they were not accustomed? This last question is particularly
important for the second half of the dissertation, where I contend that many of the
decisions Expressionist architects ultimately made regarding the direction of their work
were motivated by their experiences as “paper architects.” The argument challenges the
dominant perception of Expressionist architecture as a movement shaped by the
architects’ evolving utopianism and politics rather than the architecture’s paper material.
By 1919, a clear shift in opinion occurred over the constitution of paper
architecture. Views changed, as well, regarding the ways the material of paper might be
utilized to accommodate the agenda of the Expressionist architect. By this time, the
Expressionists had attained a thorough enough understanding of what it meant for their
practice to be confined to paper that they attempted to exploit the medium to its fullest
potential, and to assert more control over their professional identities. While this
realization did not eliminate their general frustrations with the limitations of paper, it did
allow them to cultivate private personas for themselves that were possible only through
the medium of paper. This dissertation argues that the promotion of these personalities
was a consequence of this frustration with paper as well as a means to justify the
increasingly literary nature of the Expressionist architect’s work. I also examine the
failure of paper architecture in as much as this interest in exploring the possibilities of
paper eventually gave way to an outright resentment of the material and a search for
alternative means with which to build. The dissertation traces a trajectory of
10
Expressionist paper architecture that begins with the adoption of paper as a means with
which to “build,” and to disseminate ideas that could positively affect a decimated
German nation, and ending with the inevitable revolt against paper and all that it
represented.
This dissertation is as much about the concept of modernity as it is about
Expressionist architecture. Methodologically, I have found Hilde Heynen's book of 1999,
Architecture and Modernity, particularly useful. Heynen analyzes, through a set of case
studies, the ways architecture constructs, reflects, and critiques modernity. She also
examines modernity’s counterparts: modernization and modernism.
9
Her definition of
modernity focuses on the interrelationship between modernity, modernization, and
modernism, and the pivotal roles these concepts play in modern cultural production.
Listen to Heynen:
Modernity…constitutes the element that mediates between a
process of socioeconomic development known as modernization
and subjective responses to it in the form of modernist discourse
and movements. In other words, modernity is a phenomenon with
at least two different aspects: an objective aspect that is linked to
socioeconomic processes, and a subjective one that is connected
with personal experiences, artistic activities, or theoretical
reflections.
10

Heynen's definition of modernity as a marriage between objectivity (modernization) and
subjectivity (modernism) is an especially useful one for the study of Expressionist paper
architecture, as it lays equal importance on the expansion of the marketplace and the
experience of the individual. When examining works of art or architecture, particularly

9
Hilde Heynen, Architecture and Modernity: A Critique (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999).

10
Ibid., 10.
11
those by the avant-garde, it is often easy to underemphasize – or to avoid –
socioeconomic factors. To focus solely on the subjective aspect of such movements and
their works, however, is to ignore one half of what shapes modernity and its aesthetic
products.
The dualism Heynen defines as intrinsic to modernity is particularly evident in its
architecture. For, as she makes clear, architecture is a cultural activity that can only be
realized within the realm of technology, power, and money.
11
Although factors such as
patronage and mass consumption are significant for other forms of cultural production,
architecture is unique in that it cannot exist without financial and industrial resources.
Architecture, at its core, is a business. The arguments of this dissertation rest on this
central idea – that Expressionist architecture is a movement born out of and shaped by the
tensions between modernization and modernism. Expressionist architecture reflects the
subjective responses of its architects to a political, social, and economic situation over
which they had little control, yet it can be argued that this very situation had a dramatic
impact on their work.
Expressionist architecture is not only a modernist movement, but it is also a
microcosm of modernity itself and all of its conflicts. Its paper format allowed for the
subjectivity of its architects – their experience as individuals living with the
consequences of rapid modernization and societal upheaval – to develop and express
itself within the public sphere in a manner atypical for the discipline of architecture. If the
buildings of Mies van der Rohe and Le Corbusier have become archetypes for

11
Heynen, Architecture and Modernity, 11.
12
Modernism as an (architectural) style, then this dissertation argues that Expressionist
architecture is archetypal for the concept of Modernism itself. Although Expressionist
architecture, on an aesthetic level, may reside in the shadow of the iconic buildings of
High Modernism championed by Giedion, it nonetheless encapsulates the spirit of
Modernism – that search for meaning and purpose in transience and instability inherent
within modernity and its many facets.
*************
It is not the intention of this dissertation to provide a comprehensive survey of
Expressionist paper architecture and those who produced it. To attempt such an endeavor
would not only duplicate work that has already been accomplished, it would also
overwhelm my true aim, which is to illuminate specific formal and ideological dilemmas
within the movement that derived specifically from its paper medium. To this end, the
dissertation is structured as a series of highly focused case studies, arranged in
chronological order, that together present a broad picture of the issues with which
Expressionist architects struggled in relation to their material. This format also
demonstrates how these issues evolved over time. A consequence of this approach is that
certain architects, most notably Bruno Taut, are discussed more prominently and
frequently than others. This is not necessarily intended to speak to the relative importance
of one architect’s work over another’s. Rather, it results from a decision to focus on
examples that most clearly and effectively illustrate the issues at hand.
Chapter one functions as an historical and theoretical overview of Expressionist
architecture. It begins with a discussion of the socio-political foundations of German
13
modernism at the beginning of the 20
th
-century, then it moves to a more focused
examination of Expressionism’s early development as an extension of the avant-garde’s
rejection of Wilhelmine values and aesthetics. The vitriol directed toward Wilhelmine
culture by the avant-garde resulted in the formation of the Deutscher Werkbund, one of
Germany’s most important arts organizations, which sought to rescue the nation’s
architecture and applied arts from aesthetic and spiritual destitution through the creation
of an authentic “German” design philosophy. This chapter examines the ways in which
debates within the Werkbund concerning this aim, and more specifically the
architect/artist’s right to creative freedom and individuality, helped to shape the utopian
ideals that formed the basis of Expressionist architecture in its early phase. It also
addresses Bruno Taut’s 1914 essay, “A Necessity,” and his 1914 Glass House pavilion as
manifestations of these ideals, and as the earliest examples of Expressionist paper
architecture and built architecture, respectively. Chapter one introduces, then,
Expressionist architecture as a product of a period in which optimism within the avant-
garde was relatively high, especially when it came to architecture’s perceived ability not
only to be thoroughly transformed, but also to transform humankind through ideas and
aesthetics that better reflected the needs of the German people.
In contrast, chapter two traces what happened to Expressionist architecture once
this optimism was destabilized by the violence and destruction of World War I and the
eventual collapse of Germany’s building industry. Here I focus on two case studies
centered on two very different examples of Expressionist paper architecture after 1914:
Taut’s 1919 portfolio, Alpine Architecture, and the 1919 “Exhibition for Unknown
14
Architects.” In both cases, the architects involved were forced to move into unfamiliar
spheres in order to generate income and to preserve their identities as working architects.
With Alpine Architecture, Taut not only needed to consider the ideal “consumer” for
Expressionist paper architecture in the post-war period, but he also needed to prove to a
publisher that the utopianism at the basis of his architecture was viable and marketable in
published form. Similarly, the “Exhibition for Unknown Architects” – the first exhibition
to display Expressionist architectural drawings to the public – thrust its organizers,
participants, and the discipline of architecture itself into the exclusive realm of the art
gallery and the art collector. With these examples, this chapter addresses the ideal public
envisioned by the Expressionists for their paper projects, and considers the external
mediating forces that impacted the presentation of paper architecture. It also examines the
justification of consumerism in relation to the left-wing, socially-progressive ideals they
represented.
The ultimate inability of Alpine Architecture and the “Exhibition for Unknown
Architects” to meet the expectations of their progenitors caused some Expressionist
architects to retreat into a comparatively more private world where they could re-evaluate
their identity as architects, and, more specifically, as paper architects. Chapter three looks
at this turn as it manifested itself in the creation of the Crystal Chain, an exclusive circle
of architects and artists who sought to refine their utopianism and their plans for a future
architectural revolution through the exchange of letters and drawings. It was through the
creative freedom fostered by these activities that its participants began to envision
themselves less as paper architects than as architectural “prophets” who happened to use
15
paper to disseminate their truth about humankind, the nature of God, and role of building
in the cosmic order of the universe. Chapter three considers why Taut, the founder of the
Crystal Chain, believed this reinvention of the architect as prophet was critical to the
architect maintaining relevance in a period in which building was impossible.
Additionally, I consider the perpetuation of this new persona through the Crystal Chain’s
proposal for “The Book,” a prophetic architectural holy text to be written by its members.
The dissertation ends with a chapter that addresses what can only be described as
the inevitable revolt against Expressionist paper architecture by its practitioners, one in
which the entire precept of paper architecture as architecture was questioned. Dissatisfied
with the limitations of paper to convey tectonic ideas, and weary of the perception of
their work as “art,” illustrations,” and “writing,” Expressionist architects, particularly
those within the Crystal Chain, began to seek out a more defined, tangible form of
architecture they could realize outside the realm of paper, despite the continued shortage
of building commissions and industrial materials. This resolve eventually led them to the
sphere of theater and film as possible contexts where Expressionist architectural concepts
could be physically realized. Chapter four focuses on specific efforts by several
architects, including Taut, Wenzel Hablik, and Hans Scharoun, to write texts advocating
an Expressionist approach to theater building. It also studies formulations for musical
productions and film scenarios in which Expressionist architecture is the primary
protagonist. The chapter concludes by discussing why these escapes from paper
architecture were arguably doomed to fail, and why this failure caused the Expressionists
16
not only to give up altogether on paper architecture, but also on the fantasy that lay at the
basis of Expressionist architecture.

17

Chapter One: The Deutscher Werkbund and the Roots of Expressionist Paper
Architecture

German Expressionism is, in many ways, a movement about the modern city.
Although scholars have placed much emphasis on Expressionism's spiritual themes,
romanticizing of nature, and primitive aesthetic, these characteristics are intimately
connected to and arise from personal and contemporary attitudes about the metropolis
and its rapid development in the first decades of the twentieth-century. The link between
Expressionism and the city is clear when examining the movement's utopian architectural
experiments. Yet the theme of urban experience defines most, if not all, aspects of
Expressionism.
This point is particularly well illustrated in the visual arts of Expressionism.
Ludwig Meidner and Ernst Ludwig Kirchner dedicated much of their oeuvre to the
subject of the city and its psychological complexities. For Meidner, the metropolis – and
more specifically Berlin – exuded an energy that was overwhelming and chaotic. The
artist’s frenetic use of line and sharp, abstract forms in paintings such as Street at Night in
Berlin (1913) enliven his street scene with a vigorous sense of movement and an aura of
excitement, as though the life force of the city were so great as to be on the verge of
implosion. (Fig. 1) A similar stylistic approach to the metropolis is evident in Kirchner’s
cityscapes. These paintings and works on paper expose the performative, almost
theatrical, aspects of urban life. In the artist’s 1913-1914 painting, Berlin Street Scene,
for instance, the Berliner is portrayed as a symbol of fashion and consumer culture that is
not only luxurious and visually enticing, but also strikingly impersonal. (Fig. 2) There is

18

Figure 1: Ludwig Meidner, Street at Night in Berlin, 1913.

19

Figure 2: Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Berlin Street Scene, 1913-1914.

20

a certain psychological ambiguity to Kirchner’s painting that leaves the viewer pondering
whether the modern city-dweller is happily self-possessed or emotionally disconnected
from the environment in which he or she lives.
1

In his 1903 essay “The Metropolis and Mental Life,” German sociologist and
philosopher Georg Simmel addressed what he believed to be one of the fundamental
problems of the modern urban experience: namely, the struggle to preserve one’s
individuality in an environment that by its very nature demanded conformity. According
to Simmel, the constant barrage of stimuli to which the big city dweller was exposed
demanded the development of a kind of psychological protection that he termed the
“blasé attitude.” Simmel argued that as the city dweller began to treat people as he would
objects, so he developed his intellect over his emotional relationships.
2
This
intellectualism then cultivated a certain detachment toward people and things as well as a
marked indifference to individuality and meaning in general.
3
As a result, Simmel
postulates, “everything is flat and gray tone” for the metropolitan, as everything comes to
resemble the “colourlessness” of money.
4
Although the city fosters excitement and
promises culture, it is this same excitement and culture that ultimately numbs the mind of

1
For more on the psychological complexities of Meidner’s and Kirchner’s images of the city, see Donald
O. Gordon, Expressionism: Art and Idea (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1987), 134-39, and Jill
Lloyd’s chapter, “The Lure of the Metropolis,” in her book German Expressionism: Primitivism and
Modernity (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1991), 130-160.

2
I am using the masculine tense here to signify the subject since this is the tense Simmel used in “The
Metropolis and Mental Life.”

3
Georg Simmel, "The Metropolis and Mental Life," in Simmel on Culture, eds. David Frisby and Mike
Featherstone, trans. Hans Gerth (London: Sage Publications, 2000), 175-176. Originally published as “Die
Grossstädte und das Geistesleben,” Jahrbuch der Gehe-Stiftung 9 (1903): 185-206.

4
Ibid., 178.

21

the city-dweller and ensnares him in the ruthless work and consumption cycles that
dominate the capitalist market.
For Simmel, then, modernity is synonymous with mass culture. This shift in
social emphasis from the subjective individual to objective collectivity was the
consequence of an evolving dynamic in which the individual, no longer characterized by
his or her relationship to nature, had become defined by his or her ability to survive in the
“social-technological mechanism” that is the city.
5
While Simmel's view of the modern
urban experience and the commodification of culture is bleak, it nevertheless reveals the
perceptions of an intellectual who himself was born and raised in the burgeoning
metropolis that was late nineteenth-century Berlin.
6
Simmel experienced firsthand the
dynamic, disorienting, and materialistic spirit of the modern city, and was part of a
generation that witnessed the exponential population growth and urbanization of the
fledgling German nation.
7

It is hardly a coincidence that German Expressionism, at least as it manifested
itself in the visual arts, began to coalesce as a movement only a few short years after the

5
Simmel, “The Metropolis and Mental Life,” 175. Critical texts on the subject of modernity and mass
culture include Theodor Adorno, "The Schema of Mass Culture” [1981], in Adorno: The Culture Industry,
ed. J.M. Bernstein (London and New York: Routledge Press, 1991), 61-97; Walter Benjamin, “The Work
of Art in the Age of its Technological Reproducibility” [1936], in Walter Benjamin: Selected Writings,
Volume 3, 1935-1938, eds. Howard Eiland and Michael W. Jennings (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
Press, 2006), 101-133; Max Horkheimer and Theodor Adorno, Dialectic of Enlightenment, ed. Gunzelin
Schmid Noerr, trans. Edmund Jephcott (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2002 [1944]); and
Sigfried Kracauer, “The Mass Ornament” [1927], in The Mass Ornament: Weimar Essays, ed. and trans.
Thomas Y. Levin (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995), 75-86.

6
Simmel was born on March 1, 1858. He remained in Berlin until 1914, at which time he accepted a
professorship at the University of Strasbourg. He died only a few years later in 1918.

7
The city of Berlin, for example, grew from a population of 1,889,000 to an astounding 3,730,000 between
1900-1910. The second most populated German city at this time, Hamburg, increased in population from
706,000 to 932,000 during this same decade. See Holger H. Herwig, Hammer or Anvil? Modern Germany,
1648-Present (Lexington, MA: D.C. Heath and Company, 1994), 160.

22

publication of Simmel's essay, most notably with the 1905 founding in Dresden of the
artists’ group Die Brücke. Art historians have frequently interpreted Brücke founder
Kirchner's urban scenes as an artistic response to Simmel's views, either considering them
as an affirmation of the anxiety and alienation that the metropolis inspired, or,
paradoxically, as a challenge to his pessimism through the positive affirmation of the
city.
8
This polarity in interpretation has fostered more cautious readings of the
Expressionist cityscape. Recently, scholars have interpreted Kirchner's scenes as
ambivalent, which is to say that they convey both the positive and negative elements of
urban life.
9
The tension between awe and fear manifested in Kirchner’s work can also be
seen in Meidner’s art. Meidner emphasizes the city’s chaotic and self-destructive
qualities while also affirming its “artificial” beauty, and its role as modern humankind's
new home (Heimat).
10
In its simultaneous glorification of the technological, urban sphere
and its mourning for the loss of the comparatively simple, rural way of life, German
Expressionism as a whole often reflects inner conflicts arising through rapid change and
industrial progress.
Given the importance of the city for German Expressionist visual arts, it is
therefore ironic that Expressionist architecture has remained one of the more mysterious

8
For an example of the former argument, see Donald O. Gordon, Ernst Ludwig Kirchner (Cambridge, MA:
Harvard University Press, 1968); for an example of the latter, see Charles Haxthausen, “Kirchner's Images
of Berlin,” in Berlin: Culture and Metropolis, eds. Charles Haxthausen and Heidrun Suhr (Minneapolis,
MN: University of Minnesota Press, 1968), 58-94.

9
Shearer West, The Visual Arts in Germany: Utopia and Despair, 1890-1937 (New Brunswick, NY:
Rutgers University Press, 2000), 52-53.

10
Jill Lloyd, “The Painted City as Nature and Artifice,” in The Divided Heritage: Themes and Problems in
German Modernism, ed. Irit Rogoff (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 285. Meidner wrote
about the city as Heimat in his essay, “Anleitung zum Malen von Großstadtbildern,” in Kunst und Künstler
12, (1914): 299f.

23

and ill-defined branches of the movement, one described as recently as 1993 as
“significant,” but ultimately “peripheral.”
11
This estimation of Expressionist architecture
can be attributed in part to the fantastic and mystical ideology underlying most of its
endeavors, a characteristic that complicates, and has occasionally caused critics to
trivialize, its historical position in the trajectory of twentieth-century architecture. It can
also be attributed in part to the elusive nature of Expressionist architecture’s parameters
as a movement.
To begin with, scholars of all facets of Expressionism are confronted with the
difficult task of defining “Expressionism” as a concept and as a stylistic category. This
endeavor is especially problematic for studies of its architecture. The predominantly
paper form of Expressionist architecture fostered a distinctive moment in which avant-
garde architects worked alongside like-minded writers, intellectuals, and other non-
architectural professionals in the advocacy of a German physical and spiritual rebirth
through architectural reform. The circle associated with Expressionist architecture was
thus not a collective of architects promoting a singular aesthetic. Rather, it was a melting
pot of visionaries who united under a common ideological purpose. This emphasis on the
ideological resulted in architectural designs that are predominantly utopian and/or
fantastic in concept, yet hardly cohesive or systematic in terms of style. According to
Dennis Sharp, “No distinct ‘Expressionist’ school of architects ever existed as such; the
use of the term ‘Expressionist’ and ‘Expressionism’ to describe certain tendencies in the

11
Dennis Sharp, “Expressionist Architecture Today,” in Expressionism Reassessed, eds. Shulamith Behr,
David Fanning, and Douglas Jarman (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1993), 81.

24

work of individual architects and groups is largely retrospective.”
12
Even “architect” is a
suspect term in relation to Expressionism, since the paper format theoretically allowed
any imaginative and like-minded individual with drawing and/or writing ability to
“build” Germany's future.
In short, German Expressionist architecture exists only insofar as it can be linked
to a relatively loose set of social and aesthetic ideals related to humankind, modernity,
and the built environment during the immediate pre- and post-World War I years. There
exists only a vague Expressionist architectural “type,” one defined more effectively by
what it is not (rational, austere, functional) than by what it is (irrational, organic,
utopian). Moreover, there exists no clear chronology in which its aesthetic origins,
maturation, and decline can be traced.
13
The fact that what we term “Expressionist
architecture” exists, with few exceptions, on paper is discussed only insofar as it can be
linked to its utopian subject matter. As the argument runs, the two-dimensional format
gives life to architectural experiments that are difficult, if not impossible, to realize in
three-dimensional terms.
At a glance, Expressionist architecture appears to have emerged spontaneously
and fully developed at the 1914 Deutscher Werkbund exhibition in Cologne where Bruno
Taut's Glass House (Glashaus), one of the rare examples of built Expressionist
architecture, made its public debut. (Fig. 3) A domed pavilion made entirely of concrete
and colored glass, Taut’s Glass House is a symbol of the Expressionists’ subjective,

12
Dennis Sharp, Modern Architecture and Expressionism (New York: George Braziller, 1966), 21.

13
The difficulty of constructing a chronology for Expressionism is noted by Behr, Fanning,
and Jarman in the introductory essay to Expressionism Reassessed, 2.

25

Figure 3: Bruno Taut, Glass House, Werkbund Exhibition, Cologne, 1914, general view
with visitors.

26

intuitive approach to building, one that emphasized emotional and spiritual connections
with the viewer over functionality. Taut’s pavilion was not necessarily intended to be a
stylistic model. Rather, it is an ideological model for like-minded architects.
14

In a broad sense, it can be argued that what eventually came to be classified as
Expressionist architecture emerged organically from a growing sense of disillusionment
with the values and politics of the Wilhelmine Empire, as well as from a recognition
among the avant-garde of the need to rehabilitate architectural and applied arts design in
the early years of the twentieth-century. These observations about the contemporary
cultural climate were eventually intertwined and institutionalized in 1907 with the
formation of the influential applied arts institution, the Deutscher Werkbund. Before
World War I, the Werkbund was vital to the establishment of a specifically “German”
design philosophy centered on modern notions of culture, mass production, and quality.
The Deutscher Werkbund was also a breeding ground for historically significant
ideological and aesthetic debates, particularly those concerning concepts of style and its
mass culture counterpart, fashion, that were to have a lasting effect on the direction of
German avant-garde architecture, including Expressionist architecture, well into the
twentieth-century. Individuals who would later become key figures, including Bruno Taut

14
Wolfgang Pehnt, one of the first architectural historians to write on the subject of Expressionism, held a
different point of view on how best to approach the movement’s architecture. Pehnt concluded that the
Expressionist architecture label "should not be taken to imply anything more than the fact that the designs
and buildings…bear more resemblance to one another than they bear to other designs and buildings." In
other words, the term “Expressionist” functions as a catch-all phrase for any examples of so-called
imaginative architecture produced in Germany during this period, rather than as a true descriptive or
categorical term. I believe Pehnt’s approach of classifying Expressionist architecture on a broad stylistic
basis ignores the primary role of ideology in its development, and trivializes the extent to which ideology
unified architects with differing stylistic visions. See Pehnt, Expressionist Architecture, trans. J.A.
Underwood and Edith Küstner (New York: Praeger, 1973), 8.

27

and Hans Poelzig, were members of the Werkbund from its early period and were active
participants in this debate.
Distinguishing style from fashion was an important issue for German critics,
artists, and architects who were concerned with the role of culture (Kultur) in everyday
life and in the academic realm of the humanities (Geisteswissenschaften) at the turn of the
century. As opposed to our current understanding of culture as “intellectual or artistic
achievement” and “refined appreciation of the arts,” the Germanic concept of Kultur
included notions of national identity, political pacifism, and spiritual elevation, ideals that
appeared to be threatened by the burgeoning capitalist consumerism and mass production
that defined the urban sphere in Germany at the time.
15
Over-population, a rise in crime,
and poor working conditions constituted some of modernity’s adverse effects, yet, for the
artistic avant-garde, there was nothing that embodied the threat of industry and capitalism
more than fashion, or the commodification of form. While style was considered the
embodiment of Kultur itself and the goal toward which the avant-garde worked, fashion
represented the spiritually vacuous, alienating values associated with capitalist corruption
and materialistic excess. Since decriers of fashion believed these values characterized the
Wilhelmine Empire, they joined forced with those who promoted the supposed
regenerative power of Kultur.
Cultural critics concerned not only with the declining quality of German
industrially produced objects but also with the sociological motivation behind their mass
consumption, shaped the discourse on fashion that developed in the first decade of the

15
Oxford Dictionary of Current English (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 206.

28

twentieth-century.

Simmel's 1904 essay “Fashion,” originally published in the journal
International Quarterly, was one of the first texts to focus on this issue.
16
Reading the
debate between style and fashion as the culmination of the historical conflict between
creative individuality and imitation, Simmel argued that the pervasiveness of fashion
stemmed from the consumer’s need to use commodified forms to draw attention to one’s
social class and to differentiate oneself from other social strata. For Frederic Schwartz,
Simmel’s understanding of fashion concerns “the question of how economic reality is
determined by the human subject, and how in turn, human subjectivity is determined by
economic reality as those realities become cultural forms.”
17
The conversion of economic
reality into cultural forms became a problematic issue for the German avant-garde who
viewed fashion as a capitalist creation that had drained Kultur from German life, thus
perpetuating the aesthetic and moral decline that was the result of rampant and
uncontrolled consumerism.
The desire to combat fashion’s spiritually and aesthetically destitute values
stimulated the formation of the Deutscher Werkbund in 1907. Yet the hope of restoring
integrity to a cultural aesthetic corrupted by market exploitation and commodification can
be seen as early as 1903 in the writings of architect and Werkbund member, Henry van
de Velde. Van de Velde, disillusioned with the poor quality and eclecticism of styles in

16
Georg Simmel, “Fashion,” International Quarterly 10 (1904). Reprinted in Georg Simmel on
Individuality and Social Forms, ed. Donald N. Levine (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1971), 294-
323.

17
Frederic J. Schwartz, The Werkbund: Design Theory and Mass Culture before the First World War (New
Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1996), 37. More recently, Schwartz has examined the subject of fashion
as it relates to the writings of Heinrich Wölfflin and Theodor Adorno in his book Blind Spots: Critical
Theory and the History of Art in Twentieth-Century Art (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2005).

29

the applied arts, called for the development of a perfected norm that would bring about a
“new social atmosphere” in which the competition of the classes could be eradicated and
quality could once again be restored to form.
18
He then expanded these thoughts in his
1907, “Credo,” in which he invoked the avant-garde to beautify form “only so far as thou
canst respect and retain the rights and essential appearance of these forms and
constructions.”
19
The depiction of form as a quasi-metaphysical being whose rights could
be violated was critical to the Werkbund’s approach to form and was further expanded in
1911 with Hermann Muthesius’ drafting of the “Aims of the Werkbund.” According to
Muthesius, the “formlessness” of the German arts was indicative of a lack of Kultur, a
lack that brought about a state of spiritual depravity in the German people. The
Werkbund’s manifesto exhorted artists and craftsmen to stop the “crime against form,”
and to cultivate a style that could relieve the spiritual bankruptcy of urban life.
20

The Werkbund’s approach to the recovery of form’s rights came through the quest
to retrieve not only a well-produced Germanic style but, more importantly, a Style, which
is to say a transcendental concept of style. Prominent Werkbund member, Peter Behrens,
and others, believed that Style, which they understood as the metaphysical source of
form, was the expression of Kultur. As such, Style had the ability to alleviate the chasm

18
Henry van de Velde, “Programme” [1903]. Reprinted in Programs and Manifestoes on 20
th
-Century
Architecture, ed. Ulrich Conrads, trans. Michael Bullock (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1994 [1970]), 13.

19
Henry van de Velde, “Credo” [1907]. Reprinted in Conrads, Programs and Manifestoes on 20th-Century
Architecture, 18.

20
Hermann Muthesius, “Aims of the Werkbund” [1911]. Reprinted in Conrads, Programs and Manifestoes
on 20th-Century Architecture, 26-27.

30

that had formed between the Germanic spirit and the individual.
21
If Style could be
uncovered and modified for industrial production, it seemed hopeful that the commodity
could be used to draw the consumer into the realm of Kultur itself. In other words, rather
than continue the empty process of debasing Style and lowering it to the level of the
consumer, the Werkbund sought to utilize Style to elevate the consumer to the level of
Kultur. The primary aim of the Werkbund therefore became the development of a Style
that, once achieved, would visually articulate a modern German national identity and
serve as the model for all creative forms. Style’s reformative power would then eliminate
the need for fashion and restore quality to the visual arts once and for all.
The simultaneous reliance on and critique of fashion’s principles, however,
ultimately challenged the Werkbund's success as a purveyor of Style, and it fostered a
significant divide within the organization itself. Simmel and others argued that the
existence of fashion is based on the consumer’s need not only to participate in the
singularity of his or her social class but also to differentiate him or herself from other
social strata. Fashion, then, is here a system based on similarity within the larger context
of exclusion. Although the Werkbund attempted to remove the element of class from
their system of consumption through the creation of an egalitarian Style, the organization
nevertheless propagated exclusion through its cultivation of a distinctive “German” form.
The recovery of Style was therefore not for the universal benefit of humankind,
but for the betterment of a German people still struggling to establish a national identity.
It is in this sense that the sociological impetus behind fashion is analogous to the

21
Schwartz, The Werkbund, 18.

31

motivation for the Werkbund’s formulation of Style: as the upper middle class consumer
desires to be one with his or her social peers and distinct from the lower classes, so the
Werkbund understood Style as a metaphysical source of a form that would unite the
Germans as one, while simultaneously differentiating them from the citizens of other
European nations.
This is not to say, however, that issues of class were entirely absent from the
Werkbund’s program. The Werkbund, as Mark Jarzombek has argued, was an
organization based extensively on class-oriented interests. All of the Werkbund’s
members were upper-middle class males who believed it to be in the purview of their
societal responsibility to harness control of style and to utilize it for the aesthetic
education of humankind. Their most pressing concern was to keep the reformation of
form away from both the aristocracy and the left-wing political agenda of the Socialists.
22

In other words, to follow Jarzombek, the Werkbund was not an organization eager to
unite Germany in a classless brotherhood; rather, it was an “upper-middle class project
that attempted to forge a German national identity in its own terms.”
23
What is more,
Jarzombek argues that the issue of Style is in reality less important than the Werkbund’s
desire to dominate aesthetic culture through the power of a small group of individuals.
Jarzombek’s assertion is corroborated by the fact that the Werkbund was a “by invitation

22
Mark Jarzombek, “The Discourses of a Bourgeois Utopia, 1904-1908, and the Founding of the
Werkbund,” in Imagining Modern German Culture, 1889-1910, ed. Françoise Forster-Hahn (Washington,
D.C.: National Gallery of Art, 1996), 128. Jarzombek neglects to mention, however, that some Werkbund
members, including Adolf Behne and Bruno Taut, were also members of left-wing Socialist circles in the
first decade of the twentieth-century. Although this has little bearing on Jarzombek’s argument, this
omission creates a picture of the Werkbund members as uniformly politically neutral or conservative,
which was not the case.

23
Ibid., 128.

32

only” organization that restricted its membership to leading artists and architects of the
day, and their friends. Even within the structure of the Werkbund, elitist principles of
exclusion operated at full throttle.
This elitism is further emphasized through the organization’s interest in
generating a Style that could function as the prototype for all other forms, a desire
articulated in Simmel’s influential essay of 1908, “The Problem of Style” (“Das Problem
des Stiles”).
24
Here, Simmel argues, if an art object is produced in conjunction with
industry, individuality should be replaced with the implementation of a “type,” or a
formative law.
25
This type, ideally derived from Style, is the essence of form, and as such
exists only to be reproduced.
26
The emphasis on creating a form-type that exists solely for
purposes of modification and repetition approaches the territory of fashion, a sphere in
which objects also exist to be mass produced and are devoid of the element of creative
individuality and subjectivity. In this way, the Werkbund’s use of Style in effect becomes
commodified form: Style is pared down to a type, and that type is reproduced on a large
industrial scale, while the resulting commodity is marketed for mass consumption.
The reductive qualities of this system also raise the question of where to locate
the creative process of the artist and the architect within the realm of mass production. In
fashion, the creative impulse behind the commodity is subsumed into the commodity’s
function as a symbol of social status, in which the status of a designer enhances the status

24
Georg Simmel, “The Problem of Style.” Reprinted in Frisby and Featherstone, Simmel on Culture, 211-
217. Originally published as “Das Problem des Stiles,” Dekorative Kunst 16 (1908): 307-316.

25
Schwartz, The Werkbund, 65.

26
Ibid., 65.

33

of the commodity in a reciprocal way. In the Werkbund’s model of form-type, on the
other hand, the creative autonomy of the artist is sacrificed to the loftier ideal of Kultur,
while his or her responsibility lies only in the reproduction of form. The prospect of
losing one’s artistic individuality was threatening to many members of the Werkbund. As
a result, a split in the organization between those who supported the mass production of a
standard type, and those who favored artistic license within the norm of Style, occurred at
the 1914 Werkbund Congress held in Cologne. Advocates for artistic license within the
norm of Style, led by Van de Velde, argued that standardizing form before true Style had
developed was like hatching an egg before the embryo had a chance to grow.
27
On the
contrary, proponents of the mass production of a standard type understood their approach
to be the only viable antidote to the formlessness that had undermined the success of
Kultur. The 1914 Werkbund Congress is a benchmark within the history of modern
German architecture, as the avant-garde members of the Werkbund were forced to justify
their professional relevance in a field that heretofore hinged on the ideals of artistic
license and individual skill.
Among Van de Velde's supporters were Bruno Taut, Hans Poelzig, Karl Ernst
Osthaus, and Walter Gropius, individuals who would become key figures within the field
of Expressionist architecture. Each would play an important role in the dissemination of
its ideals.
28
Van de Velde’s views reinforced his supporters’ belief in the architect's right

27
Henry van de Velde, “Werkbund Antitheses” [1914]. Reprinted in Conrads, Programs and Manifestoes
on 20th-Century Architecture, 30.

28
Although Gropius is considered a peripheral figure within Expressionist architecture who produced only
a small number of designs that could be aligned aesthetically with Expressionism, his close friendship with
Taut, his prominent roles in the Werkbund and later the Working Council for Art, and his views on the

34

to creative impulse and individuality, and they offered a means by which more radical
viewpoints concerning the social and aesthetic possibilities of architecture might
flourish.
29
These supporters were further united in their conviction that a specifically
German style could be achieved and implemented within the larger culture, without the
interference of mass production and standardization. They were careful to differentiate
Van de Velde’s push for an aesthetic “norm” that artists and architects might work within
to achieve a broad form of stylistic cohesion within Germany from Muthesius's notion of
a standardized “type” that simply could be copied and repeated; their support of Van de
Velde and his views indicated that while a higher quality of design was desirable and
should be pared down to a loose set of aesthetic standards, enough autonomy should exist
for the artist/architect to express himself individually. In effect, Van de Velde’s position
embodied the ideal of artistic freedom.
A drive toward individualism was already evident in the early designs of Poelzig
and Taut, who were experimenting with visual elements and materials that would lay the
foundations for Expressionist architecture several years before the 1914 debate involving
Muthesius and Van de Velde erupted in Cologne. From 1903 to 1916, Poelzig was both a
practicing architect and the director of the School for Arts and Crafts
(Kunstgewerbeschule) in Breslau. Notably innovative in his design approach during this

societal role of the architect in Germany both before and immediately after WWI associate him with the
movement. He shared enough of the Expressionist spirit for Taut to invite him in 1918 to participate in
what came to be known as the Crystal Chain correspondence. Gropius accepted the invitation, yet he never
contributed any letters to the group; he did, however, comment on the correspondence privately in letters to
Taut. See Iain Boyd Whyte, “Introduction,” in The Crystal Chain Letters: Architectural Fantasies by Bruno
Taut and His Circle (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1985), 3.

29
Marcel Franciscono, Walter Gropius and the Creation of the Bauhaus at Weimar (Urbana, IL: University
of Illinois Press, 1971), 78-79.

35

period, Poelzig utilized an eclectic mix of visual elements from both classical and Gothic
architecture to create minimal, yet dynamic façades that emphasized the structure and
materiality of the building. These can be seen in the façade of the Chemical Factory in
Luban (1911-1912), and in the sharp, expressive angles of his brick storage buildings.
30

(Figs. 4 and 5) Poelzig’s buildings at Luban constitute some of the earliest examples in
which the use of linearity and abstract form assume what can best be described as an
“Expressionist” character: The eye is drawn to the stepped gable of the façade not on
account of any visible ornamentation but rather because its unusual shape assumes a
dramatic, monumental character akin in form and spirit to the exterior of a temple. While
monumentality was a characteristic typical of state-funded architecture in Prussia during
the Wilhelmine Empire, Poelzig sought to imbue more mundane structures, such as
factories, with an aura of monumentality heretofore reserved for more highly-esteemed
political structures.
To use the words of Pehnt, “Poelzig saw no fundamental contradiction between
the demands of art and the demands of function.”
31
He redefined the role of the architect
as one who could manipulate structure and function to accommodate his larger aesthetic
vision. This approach is equally evident in the Water Tower he designed for the 1911
Industrial Exhibition in Posen. (Fig. 6) When viewed from a distance, Poelzig’s circular
tower assumes a dynamism suggesting a building grown organically from the earth,
extending vertically toward the sky with the same grand monumentality evident at the

30
Sharp, Modern Architecture and Expressionism, 41.

31
Pehnt, Expressionist Architecture, 71.

36

Figure 4: Hans Poelzig, Chemical Factory, Luban, 1911-1912, view of stepped gable
wall.

37

Figure 5: Hans Poelzig, Chemical Factory, Luban, 1911-1912, view of storage buildings.

38

Figure 6: Hans Poelzig, Water Tower, Industrial Exhibition, Posen, 1911, general view.

39

Luban factory complex. The interior of the domed structure reveals Poelzig’s interest in
exploiting the technical and aesthetic possibilities of modern building materials, as he
uses large glass panels and exposed steel support beams to generate interplay between old
and new forms, and light and line. (Fig. 7)
Poelzig's desire to subordinate function to form, to, in the words of Dennis Sharp,
“marry purpose with fantasy,” was also embraced by his younger colleague, Taut. As
early as 1910, Taut began to formulate ways in which he, too, might reinvent Germany's
architecture, while also redefining man's relationship with the built environment.
32
Like
Poelzig, Taut spent the early part of his career experimenting with the stylistic and
material possibilities of architecture, seeking ways in which minimal, rational design
might coexist with more expressive elements, including new industrial materials,
eccentric forms, and color. These efforts resulted in a hybrid style in which traditional
structural features, such a domes and arches, were combined with a distinctly modern and
innovative use of light, glass, and steel. After the establishment of his private practice in
Berlin in 1909, Taut began to hone his architectural style; this process can be viewed in
his designs for several exhibition pavilions, including his pavilion for the Berlin Sales
Office for Steel Girders (Berliner Verkaufskontor für Stahlträger) at the 1910 Clay,
Cement and Lime Industries Exhibition (Ton-, Zement- und Kalkindustrieausstellung).
(Fig. 8) Taut’s enclosure of a small, domed gazebo within a monumental steel frame
creates a dynamic interplay between the small temple-like structure and the surrounding

32
Sharp, Modern Architecture and Expressionism, 40.

40

Figure 7: Hans Poelzig, Water Tower, Industrial Exhibition, Posen, 1911, interior view.

41

Figure 8: Bruno Taut, Pavilion for the Berlin Sales Office for Steel Girders, Clay,
Cement and Lime Industries Exhibition, Berlin, 1910, general view.

42

metal maze. The contrast of the classical pavilion with the abstract linearity of the
skeletal steel frame embodies Taut’s ambition to appeal to both the imagination of the
architect and the viewer, while also updating historic building models for the twentieth-
century.
Taut’s challenge to the homogenous, traditional architecture of the Wilhemine
period also extended to a pavilion he co-designed in 1913 with his business partner,
Franz Hoffmann. Named the Monument to Iron (Monument des Eisens), this pavilion was
designed for yet another industrial exhibition, this time in Leipzig. Described by Sharp as
an “advertisement for modern industry,” the Monument to Iron, with its colossal tiered
frame and glass walls, was notable for both its octagonal floor plan and the monumental
gold globe atop its crown.
33
(Fig. 9) The experimental design of the pavilion caught the
eye of the exhibition's organizers, who used it on an official exhibition poster (Fig. 10); it
was also lauded by architectural critic, Adolf Behne, in a 1914 issue of the avant-garde
arts journal, Der Sturm, for its marriage of artistic and architectural practices.
34
Taut’s use
of glass not only to illuminate the interior but also to flood the structure and its visitors
with vibrant light, along with his desire to reinterpret historic building types in a way that

33
Sharp, Modern Architecture and Expressionism, 88.

34
Architectural historian Iain Boyd Whyte quotes from Behne’s essay in his seminal book on Taut,
highlighting a passage in which Behne praises the artistic realism of the pavilion. Behne describes the style
of the pavilion as the opposite of “extravagance, silliness, or bluff.” See Whyte, Bruno Taut and the
Architecture of Activism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982), 23.

43

Figure 9: Bruno Taut and Franz Hoffmann, Monument to Iron, International Building
Trades Exhibition, Leipzig, 1913, general view.

44

Figure 10: Poster advertising Bruno Taut and Franz Hoffmann’s Monument to Iron,
International Building Trades Exhibition, Leipzig, 1913.

45

reflected humankind’s needs within the present culture, would lay the foundation for
Expressionist architectural design.
35

Given the visual and technological experimentation of Taut’s and Poelzig’s
respective projects during this period, it is not surprising that both men were opposed to
Muthesius’s push for standardized form in the Werkbund debates of July 1914. Although
the subject of standardization (Typisierung) had been raised intermittently within the
Werkbund since 1911, it did not become a pitched battle between “individuality” and
“type” until the Cologne Congress.
36
This pitched battle was the result of Muthesius’s
decision to circulate ten theses he had drafted shortly before the congress opened that laid
out the ideals to which he believed the Werkbund should commit itself. The first thesis
summarized, in unambiguous terms, his viewpoint concerning the future of architecture:
Architecture, and with it the whole area of the Werkbund’s
activities, is pressing towards standardization, and only through
standardization can it recover the universal significance which
was characteristic of it in times of harmonious culture.
37

Muthesius’s declaration that architecture would be subject to standardization, and that
standardization would in fact be the linchpin uniting all applied art forms under a new
type, prompted an immediate response from Van de Velde, who in turn drafted ten

35
Taut also worked on several housing projects during this period, although none rivaled the eccentricity of
his exhibition pavilions. The most well known of his early housing projects is the Falkenberg Estates of
1912, which featured row housing painted in bold colors. See Whyte, Bruno Taut and the Architecture of
Activism, 30-31.

36
Joan Campbell, The German Werkbund: The Politics of Reform in the Applied Arts (Princeton, NJ:
Princeton University Press, 1978), 63. See also Campbell's footnote on p. 55, which cites Richard Breuer’s
August 1914 article on the Cologne congress for Deutsche Kunst und Dekoration. The article’s title,
“Typus und Individualität, zur Tagung des deutschen Werkbundes, Köln, 2-4 Juli 1914,” confirms that the
Werkbund members understood the debate specifically as a conflict between “type” and “individuality.”

37
Hermann Muthesius, “Werkbund Theses” [1914]. Reprinted in Conrads, Programs and Manifestoes on
20th-Century Architecture, 28.

46

counter-theses. He articulated his response to Muthesius’s statement on architecture as
follows:
So long as there are still artists in the Werkbund and so long as
they exercise some influence on its destiny, they will protest
against every suggestion for the establishment of a canon and for
standardization. By his innermost essence the artist is a burning
idealist, a free spontaneous creator. Of his own free will he will
never subordinate himself to a discipline that imposes on him a
type, a canon.
38

It is significant that Van de Velde refers to the architect here specifically as an “artist,” a
label that was embraced by the more radical architectural faction of the Werkbund to
which Poelzig and Taut belonged. Gropius, a vocal member of this circle and a friend of
both Taut and Poelzig, had emphasized the architect’s artistic nature in an essay he had
written for the 1913 Deutscher Werkbund Yearbook (Jahrbuch des Deutschen
Werkbundes) in which he emphasized their conviction that the “invention of new,
expressive forms requires a strong artistic…personality.”
39
Like Van de Velde, he
believed that the business of industrial architecture could only progress if “highly gifted
artists” could reinvent the aesthetic of German architecture and bring about the more
spiritual side of the discipline as a whole; standardization, in his view, impeded the
creativity required for this reinvention.
40

38
Van de Velde, “Werkbund Antitheses.” Reprinted in Conrads, Programs and Manifestoes on 20th-
Century Architecture, 29.

39
Walter Gropius, “Die Entwicklung moderner Industriebaukunst,” in Die Kunst in Industrie und Handel.
Jahrbuch des Deutschen Werkbundes 1912 (Jena, 1913), 18. Cited in Franciscono, Walter Gropius and the
Creation of the Bauhaus, 72-73.

40
Franciscono, Walter Gropius and the Creation of the Bauhaus at Weimar, 72.

47

Van de Velde’s counter-theses were distributed to the Werkbund the morning of
Muthesius's opening address to the Congress, during which the latter reaffirmed and
attempted to clarify his goal of standardizing all artistic practices, despite the growing
division within the organization. After Muthesius concluded his speech, Van de Velde
immediately took the floor and defiantly read his own theses aloud to the assembly.
41
As
John Maciuika has noted, Muthesius’s “arrogant expectation of obedience, coupled with
authoritarian behavior,” generated anger among dissidents in the audience.
42
Gropius
went so far as to draft paperwork proposing secession, specifically naming Poelzig, Taut,
and the decorative artist Hermann Obrist as members opposed to the Werkbund’s
direction and receptive to joining him in the formation of a splinter group.
43

Poelzig, who had been unable to attend the Cologne Congress due to his
commitments at the School for Arts and Crafts in Breslau, commented on the institution's
state of affairs privately in correspondence with Gropius. In response to Gropius’s
request that he join the secession, Poelzig replied that the Wekbund had become a
“monster” and that he was contemplating quitting the organization altogether.
44
Taut,
who throughout his career was never one to shy away from controversy, advocated a total
reorganization of the Werkbund and demanded that Muthesius be ousted from his

41
Campbell, The German Werkbund, 58.

42
John Maciuika, Before the Bauhaus: Architecture, Politics, and the German State, 1890-1920
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 265.

43
Franciscono, Walter Gropius and the Creation of the Bauhaus at Weimar, 80. The outbreak of World
War I only one month after the Cologne Congress put an end to Gropius’s plans for secession.

44
See Poelzig’s letter to Gropius, June 30, 1914. Reprinted in the appendix to Franciscono, Walter Gropius
and the Creation of the Bauhaus at Weimar, 263.

48

position. In Muthesius’s place he recommended either Van de Velde or Poelzig as the
Werkbund’s first “artistic dictator.”
45

Despite Taut’s later admission that he never intended the term “artistic dictator”
to be interpreted literally, he was clearly thinking about a hierarchy of the arts, and the
role of the architect within that hierarchy.
46
In February 1914 Taut published an essay for
Der Sturm entitled “A Necessity” (“Eine Notwendigkeit”), which describes the need for a
new era of art in which painting, sculpture, and architecture would be united together in
aesthetic partnership.
47
Taut’s justification for an artistic cooperation was two-fold. First,
modern trends in the visual arts, particularly experiments in “synthetic and abstract
paths,” rest on what he described as an “architectural idea of the picture” in which images
are not painted or sculpted but “constructed,” and are therefore conceptually compatible
with, if not reliant upon, the discipline of architecture. Second, all artists working in the
new century have been “gripped by an intensity, a religiosity” that is akin to the spirit in
the Gothic age, a period in which the arts were physically unified under the aegis of
architecture in the form of the Gothic cathedral.
48
This latter point was of critical
importance for Taut, who identified with the passion and spirituality of the Gothic period
and who found it to be exemplary of the “expression, resonant rhythm, and dynamics” he
considered imperative for building in his own age.

45
Campbell, The German Werkbund, 64.

46
Franciscono, Walter Gropius and the Creation of the Bauhaus at Weimar, 84, f. 37.

47
Bruno Taut, “Eine Notwendigkeit,” Der Sturm 4, nos. 196-197 (February 1914): 174-175. Reprinted and
translated as “A Necessity” in German Expressionism: Documents from the End of the Wilhelmine Empire
to the Rise of National Socialism, ed. Rose-Carol Washton Long (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of
California Press, 1993), 125.

48
Ibid., 124-125.

49

Although he never explicitly stated within the text that architecture is to be the
head of the arts, there is a strong implication that this was in fact Taut’s point of view.
The final section of the essay is dedicated to his call for the construction of a magnificent
building, similar in concept to the Gothic cathedral, in which all art forms are subsumed
under the frame and content of architecture for the sole purpose of creating a “great
architecture.”
49
“A Necessity” indicates that Taut’s goal, even early in his career, was to
redefine architecture specifically as an artistic practice, which would inspire the
remainder of the arts to serve its greater aesthetic and ideological purpose; this in turn
would establish architecture as the preeminent art form and it would also privilege the
architect as the obvious leader of the arts. In accordance with this perspective, Taut
demanded that either Poelzig or Van de Velde, both architects with whom he
philosophically identified, be appointed artistic dictator of the Werkbund. In doing so,
Taut was seeking to establish a hierarchy within the organization that would reassert
architecture’s importance in the industrial and applied arts and elevate its needs above the
demands of mass production.
Taut’s essay, “A Necessity,” was also a means with which to articulate his views
on the appropriate visual form German architecture was to adopt in the new century. He
had already started to formulate these views on a visual level in his exhibition pavilions
for the Berlin and Leipzig industrial fairs. In his essay, he described the necessity of an
approach to building that would emphasize formal simplicity, even “plainness,” so that
the greater purpose of architecture might be revealed. According to him, architecture

49
Taut, “A Necessity,” 126.

50

must become a symbol of expression, rhythm, and intense passion.
50
In order to
effectively accentuate these qualities, Taut argues that the discipline of architecture must
free itself entirely from commercial and functional demands, while also remaining devoid
of any overt social agenda. The materials appropriate for this new aesthetic are listed
specifically as concrete, iron, and glass (ironically, the materials that would become
synonymous with Functionalism), which together would create a minimal, inexpensive
frame for vibrant interiors to be adorned with abstract paintings and sculptures by artists
such as Wassily Kandinsky and Heinrich Campendonck.
51
Rosemarie Haag Bletter has
noted the way the stark building materials and fiscally conscious plans Taut advocated
work against the dynamism and intensity toward which the architect must strive. Yet it is
precisely this juxtaposition and tension between simplicity and bold expression that is
foundational to Expressionist architecture. The tension between what Taut advocates for
and what was actually necessary for Expressionist architecture to be worthy of the name
leads Bletter to describe “A Necessity” as the earliest Expressionist architectural
manifesto.
52
As the first manifesto, “A Necessity” is also, then, the first example of
Expressionist paper architecture.

50
Taut, “A Necessity,” 125. Although he states several times that the architect must infuse expression and
passion into his designs, Taut never explicitly states what the architect must express or be passionate about.
The opening line of the essay refers in a general sense to a “joy of life;” the references to the Gothic
cathedral as the ideal building model imply that at this time both spirituality and beauty were goals to
which the architect should aspire, but overall it appears that the act of expressing was more important to
Taut than the actual sentiment expressed. This vagueness dissipates in Taut’s writing during and after
World War I as he began to formulate in more precise terms his ideas concerning architecture’s purpose,
particularly in war-torn Germany.

51
Ibid., 126.

52
Rosemarie Haag Bletter, Introduction to “A Necessity,” in Long, German Expressionism, 124.

51

Taut's essay and the Werkbund debates provide a vital context for the 1914
Werkbund exhibition, which was held simultaneously in Cologne with the Werkbund
Congress. It was here where Taut’s Glass House, the first unequivocally "Expressionist"
building, was debuted. Like the Congress, the exhibition stirred immediate controversy
among the members of the Werkbund, as they disagreed fundamentally over its
organization and purpose.
In approximately 1912 the Werkbund and the city of Cologne agreed to
collaborate with one another on an exhibition showcasing the design accomplishments of
the organization, while also promoting future nationwide design reform through the
inclusion of works by public and private industries and agencies.
53
In the fall of 1912 an
organizing committee was established; the committee was comprised of eight
representatives from the city of Cologne and just two members from the Werkbund,
Folkwang Museum director Karl Ernst Osthaus and silver manufacturer Peter
Bruckmann. These members were quickly supplemented, however, by newspaper editor
Ernst Jäckh and Muthesius, who (much to Osthaus’s chagrin) was appointed the
committee’s “second chairman.”
54
Muthesius, in control of the committee and the
direction of the exhibition, determined that the Werkbund’s general contribution to
design reform and the German export trade was to be underscored over the individual
talents of its members; this resulted in an emphasis on the applied arts to the “relative

53
Campbell, The German Werkbund, 69. The exact dates of the initial talks between the Werkbund and the
city of Cologne are unknown, although Campbell argues that they may have taken place as early as 1911.

54
Maciuika, Before the Bauhaus, 265.

52

neglect of architecture” as an artistic medium.
55
For the numerous exhibition halls
required to house the commercial goods, Muthesius selectively commissioned architects
within the Werkbund whom he believed would produce conservative designs that would
call attention to the objects displayed inside rather than to the architecture. This selection
did not include Van de Velde, Gropius, August Endell, and Peter Behrens.
56
Although
each of these architects were eventually allowed to contribute buildings to the exhibition
– the most historically significant of which were Van de Velde’s Theater and Gropius’s
Model Factory – their proposals were repeatedly subject to reviews by an overly
discriminating Muthesius and his committee. (Figs. 11 and 12)
Within the confines of the Werkbund exhibition, the architect was expected to
sacrifice his individuality and offer to his skills for the purpose of cohesion and for the
best interest of German commerce – this was a real-life example of what the discipline of
architecture would become if Muthesius’s goals concerning standardization and the
transformation of “style” into “type” were to be realized.
57
As a consequence, Gropius
faced particularly difficult challenges with the committee. His first commission for the
exhibition, a pavilion for the Hamburg-America Shipping Line, was revoked by
Muthesius. His second commission, the design for a model factory and administration
building, was awarded to him only after Poelzig had initially rejected the offer and after
an unsuccessful attempt by Muthesius to block Gropius as the new architect. What is
more, upon official receipt of the model factory commission, Gropius’s designs were

55
Campbell, The German Werkbund, 74.

56
Maciuika, Before the Bauhaus, 266-267.

57
Campbell, The German Werkbund, 74.

53

Figure 11: Henry van de Velde, Theater, Werkbund Exhibition, Cologne, 1914, general
view.

54

Figure 12: Walter Gropius, Model Factory and Administration Building, Werkbund
Exhibition, Cologne, 1914, general view.

55

significantly encroached upon several times by the committee, who refused to approve
certain elements of his plan and who demanded unsuccessfully that specific alterations be
made.
58
This volatile situation greatly contributed to the anger with which Gropius and
other dissidents within the Werkbund, including Taut, responded to Muthesius and his
theses at the Cologne congress.
In contrast to his colleagues, Taut was never commissioned by Muthesius and the
committee to design any official buildings for the exhibition – a relatively unsurprising
fact considering Taut’s radical experimentation during this period. The precise
circumstances under which the Glass House, Taut’s contribution to the exhibition, came
to be, remains unclear. It appears that Taut approached the committee of his own accord
at some point during the planning phases of the exhibition with the request that he be
allowed to construct an advertising pavilion; his request was approved and he was
allotted a small space reserved for such pavilions at the venue, as well as a modest sum of
money to assist with basic construction costs.
59
Because the pavilion was not a
Werkbund-sanctioned structure, the site on which Taut was given to build was located a
considerable distance from the main exhibition halls in a section of the grounds located
near the main entrance. In fact, Taut’s pavilion would be located in the “services” area of
the exhibition, adjacent to the ticketing booth and the police and fire pavilions.
60

58
Maciuika, Before the Bauhaus, 270.

59
Angelika Thiekötter, Kristallisationen, Splitterungen: Bruno Tauts Glashaus (Berlin: Birkhäuser Verlag,
1993), 15.

60
Maciuika, Before the Bauhaus, 271.

56

Without the full sponsorship of the Werkbund, Taut needed to secure funds to
realize his project. He and business partner, Franz Hoffmann, invested 20,000 DM from
their architectural firm into the pavilion, while the remainder of the costs were absorbed
by the German Luxfer-Prism-Syndicate (Deutschen Luxfer-Prismen-Syndikat), who
agreed to sponsor the project through their provision of glass materials.
61
Under the terms
of this agreement, the pavilion was to be a formal advertisement not only for the glass
industry but also for specific German Luxfer-Prism-Syndicate products that were to be
incorporated into the pavilion’s structure.
62
There is no evidence to suggest that Taut’s
original intention was to build an “advertising pavilion” per se. Rather, it seems to have
been understood that the only way he would be permitted to contribute architecturally to
the Werkbund exhibition was to transform his project into a commercial venture. It is
important to note, however, that Taut does not appear to have approached various
industries for sponsorship and to have tailored his plans for the pavilion according to their
specifications. Instead, he apparently formulated his plans for the pavilion first before
approaching the specific industries he felt would be the best sponsors of his personal
agenda.

61
Thiekötter, Kristallisationen, Splitterungen, 15.

62
Schwartz, The Werkbund, 183.

57

The resulting Glass House was a fourteen-sided domed pavilion elevated on a
concrete base and constructed with concrete and colored glass.
63
(Fig. 13) The façade of
the pavilion was disproportionate in terms of its perspective, as the dome encompassed
approximately two-thirds of the building’s total height; this sense of imbalance was
magnified by the use of slender concrete pillars to support the comparatively massive
dome above. The pointed dome, comprised of a patchwork of vibrant, diamond-shaped
glass panels, was accessed on the exterior by two curved staircases located on opposite
sides of the drum.
64
Adorning the perimeter of the concrete base were gilded glass orbs
placed at measured intervals, the only non-functional decorative element of the pavilion’s
exterior.
The interior of the pavilion was composed of three primary rooms: the “cascade
room” and “kaleidoscope room” located on the split-level bottom floor, and “the cupola
room,” located on the second story beneath the dome. So that the impact and beauty of its
glass architecture could be maximized, there was a specific path that the viewer was
expected to take when visiting the pavilion. The visitor was therefore not allowed to

63
For a discussion of the significance of glass within Expressionist architecture see Rosemarie Haag
Bletter, “The Interpretation of the Glass Dream – Expressionist Architecture and the History of the Crystal
Metaphor,” Journal of the Society of Architectural History 40, no.1 (March 1981): 20-43; Regine Prange,
Kristalline als Kunstsymbol Bruno Taut und Paul Klee: zur Reflexion des Abstrakten in Kunst und
Kunsttheorie der Moderne (Hildesheim and New York: G. Olms, 1991); and Whyte, “Glas” in Bau einer
neuen Welt: architektonische Visionen des Expressionismus, eds. Rainer Stamm and Daniel Schreiber
(Cologne: Walther König, 2003), 164-177. Taut’s Glass House was dismantled following the closure of the
exhibition in August 1914.

64
As Rosemarie Haag Bletter has noted, the Glass House’s pointed dome recalls the style of dome found
predominantly in Muslim culture. See Bletter’s essay “The Interpretation of the Glass Dream –
Expressionist Architecture and the History of the Crystal Metaphor” for an examination of the relationship
between Expressionist architecture, the cult of glass, and Middle Eastern culture.

58

Figure 13: Bruno Taut, Glass House, Werkbund Exhibition, Cologne, 1914, general
view.

59

wander on his or her own accord, since this would negatively affect the “increasingly
intense experience” Taut envisioned for the pavilion.
65
When approaching the pavilion,
visitors were guided toward the exterior staircases that brought them into the cupola
room, a bright, open space that was dominated by the “lattice” of concrete and double-
layered colored glass in the dome above.
66
(Fig. 14) Hanging from the center of the
dome was a multi-bulb light fixture surrounded by seven frosted-glass spheres that
illuminated the pavilion at night.
67
The room also housed displays of products by the
pavilion’s official sponsors, the conventional nature of which contrasted with, if not
magnified, the overall dynamism of the dome.
68
(Fig. 15) At the center of the room was
a cutout in the floor that allowed visitors to peer into the room below in anticipation of
what was to come.
After viewing the cupola room, visitors were then allowed to enter the first floor
and experience the cascade room, a space dominated by a tiered waterfall that descended
through the room’s center. (Fig. 16) The curved wall of the room’s upper level was
decorated with silver glass and large stained-glass panels designed by Expressionist
painters, including Brücke member Max Pechstein, which complemented the equally
vibrant glass mosaic floor. The opening between the cascade and cupola rooms, directly

65
Pehnt, Expressionist Architecture, 75.

66
Whyte, Bruno Taut and the Architecture of Activism, 35.

67
Pehnt, Expressionist Architecture, 76.

68
Schwartz, The Werkbund, 183.

60

Figure 14: Bruno Taut, Werkbund Exhibition, Cologne, 1914, interior view of cupola
room with detail of dome.

61

Figure 15: Bruno Taut, Glass House, Werkbund Exhibition, Cologne, 1914, interior view
of cupola room with display cases.

62

Figure 16: Bruno Taut, Glass House, Werkbund Exhibition, Cologne, 1914, interior view
of cascade room.

63

above this space, allowed light from the dome above to flood the bottom story; the area
of the ceiling around the opening was ornamented with a complex pattern of red and
gilded glass tiles.
69

The fountain, flanked by two staircases that brought visitors to the lower rear of
the pavilion, was also bathed in myriad color, as the water reflected the multi-color
mosaics on the adjacent walls. The cascade of water flowed down tiers of yellow glass
and over a pool of glass pearls that were illuminated below. At the base of the stairs,
visitors were led down a dark tunnel lined with purple velvet that terminated in the
“kaleidoscope room,” where kaleidoscopic images were projected onto the walls.
70

If Taut’s 1914 essay, “A Necessity,” has been claimed as the first Expressionist
architectural manifesto, then the 1914 Glass House, as the physical expression of that
text, is the first true example of Expressionist architecture. In the way it unites other art
forms under the aegis of architecture, the Glass House embodies the Gothic spirit that
Taut admired and sought to emulate. Glass painting, mosaics, sculpture, and applied art
forms such as lamps were all integrated into the overall design of the pavilion so as to
create a total work of art (Gesamtkunstwerk), albeit one that granted architecture
prominence over the other media. The Glass House also embodies the spirituality of the
Gothic period in the sense that it resembles and even functions as a type of temple, one
intended to uplift the human spirit through its visual splendor; the pavilion was not a site
at which to contemplate God, but a refuge of ethereal beauty where viewers could receive

69
Bletter, “The Interpretation of the Glass Dream,” 34.

70
Ibid., 34, and Pehnt, Expressionist Architecture, 76. Schwartz adds that the kaleidoscope room was in a
constant state of flux as the kaleidoscopic images changed every twenty seconds. See Schwartz, The
Werkbund, 184.

64

inspiration from the aura of warmth and passion evoked through color and light. As Taut
summarized it in his 1914 program on the pavilion, “The Glass House has no function
other than to be beautiful.”
71

The Glass House also exemplifies the aesthetic principles outlined in “A
Necessity.” The essay specifically identifies concrete, iron, and glass as the building
materials for the new architecture, the latter two of which were used prominently in the
pavilion. Taut had also advocated a visually simple, if not plain, exterior so as to
maximize the impact of a vibrant interior and to intensify the rhythm of the building’s
structure. Although it would be difficult to describe the colorful Glass House as “plain”
on the exterior, its minimal ornamentation drew the viewer’s gaze toward the strong lines
of the façade as well to the patterning of the glass panels in the dome. The awkward use
of scale further intensified the impact of the dome, and visually articulated Taut’s belief
that buildings can and must free themselves from traditional conceptions of perspective.
The design of the Glass House was also influenced to a certain extent by Taut’s
well-known friendship with Expressionist literary figure, Paul Scheerbart. Scholars have
recognized the relationship between Taut and Scheebart as pivotal to the overall
development of German Expressionist architecture, and more specifically to the
establishment of glass as the building material most exemplary of Expressionist ideals.
Historically, Scheerbart has been immortalized as an eccentric figure, a former playboy
and lifelong alcoholic who sought to earn a financial fortune through his published

71
Bruno Taut, Glashaus: Werkbundausstellung Cöln 1914 (Cologne 1914). Cited in Whyte, Bruno Taut
and the Architecture of Activism, 38.

65

writings and the patents he hoped to attain for his various inventions.
72
In 1892
Scheerbart founded an underground press, the German Fantasists Publishing Firm
(Verlag Deutscher Phantasten), while also immersing himself in the Berlin counter-
culture through his involvement with numerous avant-garde literary and intellectual
circles.
73
Scheerbart’s personal literary endeavors, which totaled almost thirty
publications between 1889 and his death in 1915, consisted primarily of fantasy and
science fiction stories as well as a number of essays, magazine articles, and “technical
treatises” on various themes.
74
The subject of his writings ranged from the railway to
Arabian culture to a hippopotamus.
75
Writing in a humorous literary style that has been
described as “comic-grotesque,” Scheerbart constructed worlds that were both cosmic

72
Rosemarie Haag Bletter, “Paul Scheerbart’s Architectural Fantasies,” Journal of the Society of
Architectural Historians 34, (no.2, May 1975): 83. Bletter notes that the invention Scheerbart hinged his
financial hopes on was his design for a perpetuum mobile, or a machine of perpetual motion. He worked on
this project continuously until his death in 1915. For more on Scheerbart’s career and relationship to
Expressionist architecture, see Ralph Musielski, Baugespräche: Architekturvisionen von Paul Scheerbart,
Bruno Taut und der Gläserne Kette (Berlin: Reimer Verlag, 2003); Paul Scheerbart und Bruno Taut: zur
Geschichte einer Bekanntschaft: Scheerbarts Briefe an Gottfried Heinersdorf, Bruno Taut, und Herwarth
Walden, ed. Leo Ikelaar (Paderborn: Igel Verlag, 1996); and 70 Trillionen Weltgrüsse. Paul Scheerbart.
Eine Biographie in Briefen 1889-1915, ed. Mechthild Rausch (Berlin: Argon, 1991).

73
Dennis Sharp, “Paul Scheerbart’s Glass World,” in Glass Architecture by Paul Scheerbart and Alpine
Architecture by Bruno Taut (New York: Praeger, 1972), 16. Within these circles, Scheerbart befriended the
theosophist Rudolf Steiner, artists Edvard Munch and Alfred Kubin, and writers Otto Erich Hartleben and
Arno Holz. See Bletter, “Paul Scheerbart’s Architectural Fantasies,” 84.

74
John. A Stuart, “Introduction,” in Paul Scheerbart, The Gray Cloth (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2001),
xviii.

75
Pehnt, Expressionist Architecture, 74. For a brief overview of Scheerbart’s writing see Sharp, “Paul
Scheerbart’s Glass World,” 16-22. Sharp also includes several examples of Scheerbart’s illustrations for his
texts.

66

and spiritual, emphasizing his fascination with the astral world and technological
progress, and his belief in the ability of the spirit to transcend social ills.
76

Architecture was a topic of particular interest to Scheerbart. In 1898 he published
his first text on the subject, an essay for the journal Ver Sacrum entitled “Light and Air”
(“Licht und Luft”), which focused on the relationship between the window, light, and
ventilation. Here, Scheerbart argued that the window should either be a source of light,
air, or contact with the outside world, but not all three simultaneously.
77
His conception
of the window was significant inasmuch as it suggested that a window used for light
should differ in form from one used for alternative purposes. Between 1909 and 1910
Scheerbart’s interest in architecture shifted toward the more general topic of cities,
culminating in a number of short stories, including “Transportable Cities”
(“Transportable Städte”) and “The Travelling City” (“Die Stadt auf Reisen”).
78
In these
texts Scheerbart imagined a future in which buildings constructed from modern,
lightweight materials are kept in literal motion atop transport vehicles that indulge man’s
nomadic tendencies.
79
Other notable texts from this period include a short story entitled
“House-Building Plants” (“Hausbaupflanzen”) in which a chemist and a botanist
cultivate a strain of plant that grows houses, and the essay “The Glass Theater” (“Das

76
Lisbeth Exner, “Paul Scheerbart: The Cosmocomic,” in Comic Grotesque: Wit and Mockery in German
Art 1870-1940, ed. Pamela Kort (New York: Prestel, 2004), 76.

77
Pehnt, Expressionist Architecture, 74. Scheerbart’s essay was originally published as “Licht und Luft,”
Ver Sacrum I, no.7 (1898): p.13f.

78
Paul Scheerbart, “Transportable Städte,” Gegenwart LXXVI, (9 October 1909): 762, and “Die Stadt auf
Reisen,” Das Blaubuch V, (29 September 1910): 929-932.

79
Bletter, “Paul Scheerbart’s Architectural Fantasies,” 90. Paul Scheerbart, “Hausbaupflanzen,” Gegenwart
LXXVII, (22 January 1910): 77-79, and “Das Glas-Theater,” Gegenwart LXXVIII, (12 November 1910):
913-914.

67

Glas-Theater”) in which the author, for the first time, advocates for the construction of a
colored glass building that would work with light to produce “color plays.”
80
The subject
of colored glass buildings would be expanded in the 1912 essay, “The Ocean Sanitarium
for Hay-Fever Sufferers” (“Das Ozeansanatorium für Heukranke”), in which Scheerbart
describes a glass island covered with sun-lit colored glass pavilions that would function
as a refuge for those suffering from allergies.
81

Scheerbart’s best-known fictional work related to the subject of glass, however, is
his 1914 novel Gray Cloth and Ten Percent White (Graues Tuch und zehn Prozent
weiss), a fantastic story centered on an architect named Edgar Krug, who embarks on a
journey in an airship around the world to enliven various cultures with the beauty of
colored glass buildings.
82
After expressing his displeasure with women who adorn
themselves with colorful garments that clash with his glass walls, Krug becomes
enchanted by the attire of an organ player named Clara who is dressed in a simple gray
outfit with exactly ten percent white. Finding this ensemble to be the perfect attire for his
colored glass constructions, Krug immediately asks Clara to marry him under the
condition that she wear gray with ten percent white ensembles exclusively for the rest of
her life. Clara agrees and then accompanies Krug on his global mission as a model of
appropriate women’s attire for his glass architecture.

80
Bletter, “Paul Scheerbart’s Architectural Fantasies,” 91.

81
Whyte, Bruno Taut and the Architecture of Activism, 33. Paul Scheerbart, “Das Ozeansanatorium für
Heukranke,” Der Sturm, no. 123-24 (August 1912): 128-29.

82
Paul Scheerbart, Das graue Tuch und zehn Prozent Weiß. Ein Damenroman (Munich and Leipzig,
George Muller, 1914). This novel was recently translated into English by John A. Stuart in Paul Scheerbart,
The Gray Cloth (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2001).

68

Scheerbart’s imaginative views on architecture and its possibilities eventually
garnered the attention of Taut, who at this time was formally experimenting – albeit in a
comparatively subdued manner – with ideas akin in spirit to Scheerbart’s. Like
Scheerbart, Taut was interested in exploiting the aesthetic and material possibilities of
glass and he was also interested in exploring new ways to approach color. It has
traditionally been assumed that the two men befriended one another at an unspecified
point prior to 1914 through their mutual associations with the avant-garde journal, Der
Sturm, to which they both contributed, and the circle surrounding the journal’s founder,
Herwarth Walden.
83
More recently, however, documents have confirmed that in the
summer of 1913 Taut and Scheerbart were in fact introduced by Gottfried Heinersdorf, a
glass-painter whom Scheerbart approached in an endeavor to form what he described as a
“society of glass architecture.”
84
Heinersdorf, whose mosaic and glass painting firm, Puhl
and Wagner, had agreed to collaborate with Taut on the interior of the Glass House,
recommended that Scheerbart speak with Taut, and facilitated a meeting between the two
shortly thereafter. At this point Taut and Scheerbart began a regular correspondence,
exchanging ideas and updating one another on their individual projects.
85

One of the projects on which Scheerbart was working during the early months of
his correspondence with Taut was Glass Architecture (Glasarchitektur), a treatise that
outlines in over one hundred points his ideas concerning the constitution and culture of

83
See Sharp, “Paul Scheerbart’s Glass World,” 10, and Whyte, Bruno Taut and the Architecture of
Activism, 33.

84
Stuart, “Introduction,” in Scheerbart, The Gray Cloth, xxi.

85
Ibid., xxi-xxii. Scheerbart’s correspondence with Taut between December 1913 and February 1914 is
reprinted in Rausch, 70 Trillionen Weltgrüsse: Eine Biographie in Briefen 1889-1915, 458-68.

69

glass construction. He identifies glass architecture’s purpose in the book’s opening
paragraph:
We live for the most part in closed rooms. These form the
environment from which our culture grows. Our culture is to a
certain extent the product of our architecture. If we want our
culture to rise to a higher level, we are obliged, for better or for
worse, to change our architecture. And this only becomes possible
if we take away the closed character from the rooms in which we
live. We can only do that by introducing glass architecture, which
lets in light…not merely through a few windows, but through
every possible wall, which will be made of glass – of colored
glass.
86

From the outset, Scheerbart establishes that the ideology behind glass architecture is
entrenched first and foremost in the notion that buildings, more than any other form of
cultural production, influence the direction and quality of culture as a whole. This
perception of architecture as the discipline with the most direct impact on the cultural
environment is strikingly similar to Taut’s. In “A Necessity,” Taut called for the
construction of a great architecture, one that would unify the arts in a way that more
accurately reflected the spirit of the time. Both Scheerbart and Taut, then, shared the
following mutual conviction: the only way in which a true cultural reformation could
occur was through the total re-conception of the discipline of architecture, which was
understood as the highest form of cultural production.
87

86
Paul Scheerbart, Glasarchitektur (Berlin: Der Sturm Verlag, 1914). Reprinted and translated as Glass
Architecture in Sharp, Glass Architecture by Paul Scheerbart and Alpine Architecture by Bruno Taut, 41.

87
In a February 1914 letter from Scheerbart to Taut, Scheerbart praises “A Necessity” and exclaims that
land must be bought in Schwielowsee so that the structure Taut describes in the text may be constructed
(see Whyte, Bruno Taut and the Architecture of Activism, 35). This letter was reprinted in 1920 in Taut’s
journal Frühlicht 3, (February 1920).

70

If Scheerbart was convinced that the dark, enclosed spaces in which most
Europeans lived and worked in the early twentieth-century had a negative impact on
culture, then the possibilities of glass appear a logical avenue for him to explore. Certain
aspects of Scheerbart’s idealization of colored glass stem not only from an interest in the
stained glass windows of the Gothic period but also from a fascination with ancient and
exotic cultures, particularly those in the Middle and Near East. In the section of Glass
Architecture entitled “The Psychological Effects of the Glass Architectural
Environment,” Scheerbart describes who he believes to be the originators of colored glass
lighting, the priests of the temples of ancient Babylon and Syria, who “exploited the
colored glass hanging lamp.”
88
According to him, there is something inherently
pleasurable about colored glass. Because it makes a “festive impression,” he argues that it
must be good for the human psyche.
89
If, as Scheerbart argues, culture grows within the
walls of buildings, then a high quality culture can only be made possible if the experience
inside these walls is a pleasurable one.
Notwithstanding these brief forays into the purpose and psychology of glass
building, Glass Architecture as a whole includes relatively little in-depth discussion of
the history and theory of glass building. Functioning more as a technical treatise, the
remainder of the book outlines the fundamental components of glass construction,
including descriptions of appropriate lighting, furnishings, ventilation, flooring, and so
on. It is important to note that Scheerbart did not limit his focus strictly to glass buildings.
Rather, he describes an entire culture of color and glass in which structures, railways,

88
Scheerbart, Glass Architecture, 72.

89
Ibid., 72.

71

airplanes, rivers, and even plants work together to transform the surface of the earth. As
Detlef Martins has noted:
In Scheerbart’s utopian dream, then, the rationality of technology
and the enchantment of art coincide in a new paradigm of
technological organicity marked by the image of the glass milieu
that would, according to the poet, extend the psychological effects
of Gothic stained glass and Babylonian ampullae to all realms of
life.
90

In other words, Scheerbart used his text to champion colored glass as the means by which
the forward-thinking architect could exploit the technology and comforts of the modern
age without compromising the artistic component of architectural design.
Considering the fact that Taut had already begun his plans for the Glass House
before he and Scheerbart formally met, it would be erroneous to attribute its genesis to
Scheerbart’s influence. It would be equally erroneous to claim that Scheerbart’s
friendship with Taut was the singular impetus for Glass Architecture, as the ideas central
to the book were largely formulated before Scheerbart was in regular contact with Taut;
Scheerbart may in fact have already begun writing the manuscript of Glass Architecture
before the two were introduced.
91
What is evident, however, is the mutual encouragement
and sense of validation the two glass enthusiasts received through their friendship and

90
Detlef Martins, “The Enticing and Threatening Face of Prehistory: Walter Benjamin and the Utopia of
Glass,” Assemblage, no.29 (April 1996): 11.

91
See Pehnt, Expressionist Architecture, 74 and Sharp, “Paul Scheerbart’s Glass World,” 10. There is some
disagreement among scholars as to whether or not Scheerbart wrote Glass Architecture because of Taut and
his influence. Dennis Sharp argues that Glass Architecture was already in manuscript by the time their
correspondence was a regular occurrence; Pehnt makes a similar claim by arguing that while Scheerbart
and Taut may have had some contact during the writing of Glass Architecture, the ideas presented are
entirely those of Scheerbart. Iain Boyd Whyte dissents from these views, however, by asserting that Glass
Architecture may have been inspired by Taut’s invitation to contribute fourteen axioms to his Glass House
project, and therefore may not have been conceived before this point. See Whyte, Bruno Taut and the
Architecture of Activism, 36.

72

correspondence. It is also likely that the exchange of ideas between Taut and Scheerbart
on the subject of their respective projects influenced certain aspects of their respective
work, although it is difficult to ascertain which elements specifically may have been
inspired by whom.
Acknowledging his appreciation for Taut’s experiments with glass when it was
published in 1914, Scheerbart dedicated Glass Architecture to his colleague. Taut is also
acknowledged within the text, where Scheerbart discusses “Models for Glass
Architecture.” Here the author upholds Taut’s impending Glass House project as a real-
life example of the type of architectural models that must be constructed in order to
effectively sell the idea of glass architecture to the public.
92
Scheerbart argued that the
standard practice of producing building models with the traditional pasteboard and
selenite was not appropriate for glass construction, and he suggested that a new model-
building industry be established for the exclusive construction of high-quality glass
architectural models.
When the Glass House was unveiled at the Cologne exhibition in May 1914, Taut
in turn dedicated the project to Scheerbart.
93
Before the Glass House was completed, he
asked Scheerbart to contribute axioms about glass architecture for inscription on the
fourteen sides of the dome’s brace support, a location that was clearly visible to those

92
Scheerbart, Glass Architecture, 56.

93
Bletter, “The Interpretation of the Glass Dream,” 33.

73

entering the pavilion or circumambulating its exterior.
94
Conceived as rhyming couplets,
the inscriptions Scheerbart eventually penned passionately hail the virtues of glass
culture, and they highlight glass’s inherent beauty as well as its ability to elevate man’s
quality of life. Scheerbart’s aphorisms included: “Colored glass destroys hatred;”
“Without a glass palace, life becomes a burden;” and “By shunning color one sees
nothing of the universe.”
95
The inscriptions in their totality express a belief in the ability
of colored glass to inspire happiness while also easing life’s tensions. They also hail
glass’s ability to endure against the ravages of time and nature, including parasites and
fire.
The Glass House was generally well received by those attending the exhibition,
its popularity undoubtedly aided by its close proximity to the main entrance.
96
Taut, in his
1919 essay, “Color Effects from My Practice” (“Farbenwirkungen aus meiner Praxis”),
published in the journal Das hohe Ufer, briefly reflected on the public response to the
Glass House. He noted that while men were generally puzzled by the building, women

94
Kristiana Hartmann, “Ohne einen Glaspalast ist das Leben eine Last (Paul Scheerbart)” in Bruno Taut,
1880-1938: Architekt zwischen Tradition und Avantgarde, eds. Winfried Nerdinger, Kristiana Hartmann,
Matthias Schirren, and Manfred Speidel (Stuttgart and Munich: Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt, 2001), 57.

95
Sharp, “Paul Scheerbart’s Glass World,” 14. “Colored glass destroys hatred” was placed directly above
the entrance to the pavilion, which Iain Boyd Whyte has noted is ironic given the fact that the exhibition
was closed abruptly in August 1914 due to the outbreak of World War I (see Whyte, Bruno Taut and the
Architecture of Activism, 36). The following are Scheerbart’s three aphorisms in the original German:
Das Bunte Glaß
Zerstört den Haß/
Ohne einen Glaspalast
Ist das Leben eine Last/
Wer die Farbe flieht
Nichts vom Weltall sieht

96
Maciuika, Before the Bauhaus, 271.

74

and children, without exception, gave themselves over to the pavilion’s effects.
97
He also
noted that at the public always inquired after the function of the Glass House. Rather
idealistically, he asserted that by the end of the walk-through visitors understood that the
pavilion’s singular purpose was beauty.
98
The Glass House was also received positively
by a number of critics, who as a whole were unimpressed with the conservative and
“imitative” designs of the exhibition’s main buildings.
99
Critic Theodor Heuss, for
instance, described the Glass House as a building in which “the irrational and the purely
poetic had found its form,” while others commended the pavilion specifically for its
spirituality and individuality.
100
If visitors to the exhibition were drawn to the Glass
House because of the visual spectacle it provided, critics, it seems, appreciated the
pavilion’s formally innovative and metaphysical qualities.
101

There remains one final point to consider. While Taut sought to free architecture
from both utilitarian and commercial purposes (a goal clearly articulated in his essay “A

97
Bruno Taut, “Farbenwirkungen aus meiner Praxis,” Das hohe Ufer I, no.11 (November 1919). Reprinted
in Das Hohe Ufer Jahrgung 1-2, 1919-1920 (Nendeln: Kraus, 1969), 266. In the table of contents for this
issue, the title of Taut’s essay was simplified to “Farbiges Bauen.”

98
Ibid., 266.

99
Campbell, The German Werkbund, 75-76. Van de Velde’s theater and Gropius’s model factory were two
notable exceptions, however, as they were both lauded for their designs and have since been upheld as a
critical turning point in the development of modern architecture.

100
Theodor Heuss, “Der Werkbund in Köln,” März VIII, no.2 (1914): 910, cited in Hartmann, Bruno Taut,
1880-1938, 56; Pehnt, Expressionist Architecture, 75.

101
In his essay “Formulating Femininity: Paul Scheerbart and the Werkbund Debates of 1914,” John A.
Stuart briefly discusses Taut’s Glass House in relation to another, lesser known, pavilion dedicated to color
at the Cologne exhibition, Muthesius’s Color Exhibition. Unlike the Glass House, which displayed the
prismatic effects of light and color through its physical structure, Muthesius’s pavilion demonstrated “the
history and practical use of color” through its displays of semi-precious stones, insects, and fashion. See
Stuart, “Formulating Femininity: Paul Scheerbart and the Werkbund Debates of 1914,” Intersight 4,
(1997): 105.

75

Necessity”), he was not above turning to commercialism if it served his personal and/or
professional purposes. As established above, the Glass House was not an exhibition
building commissioned and sponsored by the Werkbund but rather an experimental
structure financed privately, in part, by the German Luxfer-Prism-Syndicate. Similar in
purpose to the pavilion Taut designed for the 1910 Berlin Office for Steel Girders
exhibition, the Glass House was both a literal and figurative industrial advertisement for
glass, as well as one for a specific glass manufacturer.
Considering its function, Frederic Schwartz has argued that the Glass House is in
fact indistinguishable from an advertising pavilion, one that promoted not only the glass
manufacturing industry, but also the work of Taut’s friend, Scheerbart. For Schwartz, the
inclusion of Scheerbart’s aphorisms at the base of the Glass House’s dome compromise
the transcendental ambitions of the building and transform it into a commodity on
multiple levels.
102
To support Schwartz’s claim, one can note that the German Luxfer-
Prism-Syndicate purchased advertisement space in the official exhibition catalogue, the
only part of the catalogue in which the Glass House appeared. Taut is not mentioned in
the advertisement. Rather than publicize the pavilion as an example of avant-garde design
by Taut, the advertisement highlights the Glass House’s glazed dome made specifically
of Luxfer crystal as well as glass walls and floors manufactured using the Keppler
method. (Fig. 17) The text of the advertisement is superimposed over a silhouette of the
pavilion, leaving the Glass House faceless, both in terms of its exterior and its architect.

102
Schwartz, The Werkbund, 184.

76

Figure 17: Advertisement for the Glass House published in the official catalogue for the
1914 Werkbund Exhibition in Cologne.

77

In this way, the Glass House is presented as a building “undertaken” (ausgeführt) by the
German Luxfer-Prism-Syndicate.
The Glass House marks the beginning of what would to become a perennial
dilemma for Expressionist architects – how does one create a truly non-commercial form
of architecture in an unequivocally commercial industry? Unlike other artistic media such
as painting and sculpture, the practice of architecture cannot be adopted as a hobby;
architecture is always a business. In order for a building to be realized, an architect must
receive a commission, money has to be secured for the cost of materials and construction,
and the architect is typically paid for his or her services. Moreover, while a certain
amount of artistic license is often afforded to the architect, the architectural discipline
rests on the relationship between the architect and the client, the latter of whom has his or
her own ideas as to what the final result of the building should be, both in terms of
aesthetics and function. Although it is relatively uncomplicated to write texts advocating
an approach to building void of commercial, social, and functional interests, it is another
issue entirely to implement that type of agenda within the marketplace. Even within the
unique context of an exhibition where Taut had complete artistic freedom, his
dependence on outside sources to support his endeavor compromised the ideals at the
core of the project. Despite his appeals to the contrary, Taut’s Glass House did have a
purpose other than to be beautiful: it was to be a particularly beautiful advertisement for
Luxfer glass. In a manner analogous to the figures depicted in Kirchner’s Street at Night
in Berlin of 1913-1914 (Fig.1), who register the simultaneously liberating and

78

depersonalizing effects of modernization, the German Expressionist architect was caught
within the jaws of capitalism and its paradoxical effects.
This tension between the individuality of Expressionist architecture and the
demands of consumer culture would increase exponentially beginning with the outbreak
of World War I in August, 1914, and the virtual halt to the business of architecture in
Germany for the next seven years. The subsequent dismantling of the Glass House
signified a fundamental shift in the way that Expressionist architecture would develop:
Instead of becoming a series of Glass Houses, Expressionist architecture, with very few
exceptions, would be relegated to the notably less experiential form of texts and
drawings. This paper format, in turn, generated a distinctive and increasingly complex
world of possibilities, paradoxes, and frustrations that would dramatically impact the
direction Expressionist architecture would take.

79
Chapter Two: Constructing an Expressionist Public

Three months after Bruno Taut introduced his Glass House pavilion at the 1914
Werkbund exhibition in Cologne, and with it the aesthetic and philosophical ideals of
Expressionist architecture, the avant-garde saw their lives dramatically altered by the
onset of World War I. The Glass House, which Taut designed as a model for an
architecture capable of inspiring universal contentment and spiritual renewal through its
expressive beauty, was dismantled in the face of the very discord and violence it was
conceived to prevent. For Taut, the pavilion was a symbol of his conviction that the
human spirit could be uplifted through a built environment defined by light, color, and
dynamic form. In this way, he followed in the footsteps of his mentor, Paul Scheerbart,
who aimed to provide an alternative vision to the dissention and conflict that marked
contemporary German society. Although the construction of the Glass House represented
Taut’s belief in architecture’s ability to positively and powerfully affect lives, its
dismantling ironically signaled the end of his career as he had known it up to that
moment, and the beginning of a decade-long struggle for financial and professional
survival.
The outbreak of World War I was relatively unsurprising to many in the German
avant-garde; indeed, they intuitively sensed that Germany was on the verge of a
transformational, even apocalyptic, event.
1
The prospect of transformative change was
embraced by those desirous of what Friedrich Nietzsche had earlier described as a

1
The term “apocalyptic” is most often used in relation to the Expressionist artist Ludwig Meidner, who
produced a number of paintings and works on paper with apocalyptic themes between 1912-1913. Two of
his most well known paintings from these years, both entitled Apokaliptische Landschaft, littlered with
dying or fleeing figures, almost prophetically depict urban landscapes decimated by fire and explosions.
80
devaluation of values. If materialism, excess, and militarism were the values that held the
Wilhelmine Empire together, then the avant-garde called for the replacement of these
with modernist sensibilities rooted in an awareness of the social issues and ills that
plagued the metropolis, including and most particularly, unbridled urban growth,
overcrowding, disease, crime, and poverty.
2
Born out of Die Brücke, the first
Expressionist artistic group, the concept of an “Expressionist utopia” stood in opposition
to much of what the Wilhelmine Empire represented.
3
The utopian landscapes painted by
Brücke artists such as Max Pechstein’s Summer in the Dunes (Sommer in den Dünen)
(1911), evoked the natural, simple, peaceful, and communal qualities of life that seemed
to be lacking in contemporary Germany. (Fig. 18) Although nobody could have
predicted the outcome of World War I, the war seemed to be a natural product of
increasing tensions between the old and new, and the traditional and progressive. When
Germany began to suffer significant losses in the war, particularly in terms of human life,
it was therefore easy for Taut, along with others in the avant-garde, to direct blame and
frustration specifically at the ruling class and its militaristic and socially apathetic ways.
It appears that Taut, like so many others in his generation, viewed the rapid
succession of political and military events in the early weeks of the war with a guarded
optimism, a feeling engendered by his belief that the nation was on the verge of
tremendous, and much needed, transformation. When faced with news of the destruction

2
For more on the Expressionists’ visual interpretation of life in the Wilhelmine Empire prior to 1914, see
Jill Lloyd’s essay “The Painted City as Nature and Artifice,” in The Divided Heritage: Themes and
Problems in German Modernism, ed. Irit Rogoff (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 265-290.

3
See Reinhold Heller, “The Bridge to Utopia: The Brücke as Utopian Experiment,” in Expressionist
Utopias: Paradise, Metropolis, Architectural Fantasy, ed. Timothy O. Benson (Berkeley and Los Angeles:
University of California Press, 2001), 62-83.
81

Figure 18: Max Pechstein, Summer in the Dunes, 1911.

82
and death the conflict had quickly generated, Taut’s optimism gave way to intense
feelings of disillusionment and fear, however. Sensitive to human suffering and loss of
life, he was horrified by the vast number of casualties suffered by all nations involved in
the conflict, as he was distraught at the realization that many of those killed in combat
were not professional soldiers but rather intellectuals and artists like himself.
4
As more of
his colleagues were drafted into military service, Taut became increasingly apprehensive
at the prospect of being ordered to the front. In a letter dated October 1917, Taut
intimated to his brother, Max, who was also an architect, that he would rather commit
suicide than die fighting as a soldier.
5

Information pertaining to Taut’s life during World War I is relatively scant. We
know that in 1915 he temporarily avoided military conscription by attaining a position at
a gunpowder factory near Brandenburg. His employment in war-related industries
continued from 1917-1918, when he went to work for the Stellawerk stove factory in
Bergisch-Gladbach.
6
In regard to Taut’s architectural career, the severe strain World War
I placed on the German economy, which was compounded, moreover, by the nation’s

4
Iain Boyd Whyte, Bruno Taut and the Architecture of Activism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1982), 43-44.

5
Ibid., 44-45. The letter Whyte cites is dated to October 11, 1917.

6
Birgit Schulte, Auf dem Weg zu einer handgreiflichen Utopie: Die Folkwang-Projekte von Bruno Taut
und Karl Ernst Osthaus (Hagen: Neuer Folkwang-Verlag, 1994), 17-18. Historian Jürgen Kocka notes that
by mid-1916, 1.19 million conscripts were granted deferment in order to work in war-related industries.
Taut’s positions in Brandenburg and Bergisch-Gladbach appeared to have deferred his service at the front
long enough for him to avoid going altogether. See Jürgen Kocka, Facing Total War: German Society,
1914-1918 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1984),187, fn. 34.
83
“total war” conditions, affected the business of architecture in a profound way.
7
Due to
the drafting of much of the labor force into military service between 1914 and 1918, the
number of employees working within the building industry declined by more than half.
This reduction in labor, combined with a shortage of available building materials,
resulted in a staggering ninety-six percent decrease in housing construction by the war’s
end.
8
By 1920, a veritable crisis in available housing had developed: the fledgling
Weimar Republic, Germany’s first democratically elected government, faced a national
residential shortage of approximately 1.5 million dwellings.
9
Meeting this demand for
housing was hindered by the nation’s dismal economic conditions. Inflation, government-
mandated rent control, and exorbitant building costs, prohibited new housing
construction, despite efforts from the state to offer residential builders low-interest loans
and subsidies.
10
The housing crisis would in fact remain one of the most serious problems
the national government faced until the stabilization of the economy in 1924.
On account of Germany’s building industry’s dire conditions, Taut received only
one architectural commission during World War I: the 1915 miners’ housing estate,

7
Historian Roger Chickering summarizes total war as the “total mobilization of society’s resources and
energies” for the purposes of waging a successful military campaign. The demands of total war transforms
the home front into a second war front, in which all civilian workers, industries, and material resources,
including financial resources, are devoted to the war effort. This effort aids in the expansion and intensity
of military combat, which is conducted without restraint. See Roger Chickering, Imperial Germany and the
Great War (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 65. For a thorough examination of the effects
of total war on Germany during World War I, see Kocka’s book, Facing Total War.

8
Richard Bessel, Germany after the First World War (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993), 16, 92.
See p. 92 for a chart listing the rates of growth and decline, in 1918, for Germany’s primary industrial
sectors. According to Bessel’s chart, the only industrial sector to have increased production by the end of
the war was the sector that produced non-ferrous metals. Of the seven sectors listed, housing construction
was the sector most adversely affected by total war conditions.

9
Ibid., 187.

10
Ibid., 186.
84
Oheim-Grube in Kattowitz, which was never completed; he also experimented with, but
never realized, plans for a veteran’s home in Falkenberg.
11
Taut was affiliated with just
one other public project during this time: the 1916 House of Friendship competition in
Istanbul. This competition, organized by the German-Turkish Union and privately
financed by industrialists, was conceived to “cement the alliance between Germany and
Turkey, both culturally and politically.”
12
At the suggestion of the Deutscher Werkbund,
twelve German architects, including Taut, were asked to submit proposals for a complex
that would accommodate arts and education events such as lectures, exhibitions,
theatrical performances, and concerts.
13
Taut’s drawings for the House of Friendship
suggest an aesthetic approach similar to the one he employed in his Glass House pavilion
only two years earlier. He designed the complex’s primary audience hall to be an
expansive, domed room constructed from colored glass and supported by concrete beams.
(Figs. 19 and 20) The exterior of the complex juxtaposed expressive, asymmetric forms

11
Rosemarie Haag Bletter, “Bruno Taut and Paul Scheerbart’s Vision: Utopian Aspects of German
Expressionist Architecture,” unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Columbia University, 1973, 549. One of the
more problematic aspects of examining WWI-era architecture in Germany is that it is difficult to determine
the extent to which the war impacted a specific architect’s career. This is particularly true for Taut, as it is
impossible to know with any certainty whether the Glass House would have brought the architect an
increased number of commissions, or greater critical or popular acclaim, if the building industry had not
declined so rapidly after 1914. The fact that the Glass House was not a permanent building but a temporary
exhibition pavilion displayed for only three months also raises the question of how memory would have
positively or adversely affected the position of the Glass House within the trajectory of Taut’s career. This
is similarly difficult to determine because of the overwhelming attention given to the war effort
immediately following the Werkbund exhibition.

12
Wolfgang Pehnt, Expressionist Architecture, trans. J.A. Underwood and Edith Küstner (New York:
Praeger, 1973), 71.

13
Ibid., 71-72. The twelve architects invited to participate in the competition in addition to Taut were Peter
Behrens, German Bestelmeyer, Paul Bonatz, Hugo Eberhardt, Martin Elsässer, August Endell, Theodor
Fischer, Bruno Paul, Hans Poelzig, and Richard Riemerschmid. Pehnt notes that Walter Gropius was also
invited to participate in the competition but was unable to do so on account of his war service at the front
during this period.
85

Figure 19: Bruno Taut, Project for the House of Friendship Competition, 1916.

86

Figure 20: Bruno Taut, Project for the House of Friendship Competition, interior, 1916.

87
with more traditional Gothic design elements, including arched windows and doorways,
and buttress supports for the dome. Nothing became of Taut’s plans for the House of
Friendship or those of his competitors, however – support for the project ended abruptly
in 1918 following Germany’s military defeat.
14

Peter Paret has posed the following question in regard to German Modernism and
World War I: “How did German artists react in their work to the new conditions brought
about by the war?” As he states, this question “not only addresses creative responses, but
also responses to changes in exhibition policy and the art market, and in the interests and
receptivity of critics and the public.”
15
Although Paret specifically refers to the visual arts
in wartime Germany, his query about the effect of the war on artistic form and content,
display, consumption, and the public for German art is an effective starting point for an
examination of Expressionist architecture after 1914. The decline in employment and
building opportunities Taut experienced after war broke out makes clear that any effort to
sustain one’s work in the architectural profession during and immediately following the
war required alternative, if not unconventional, means. Taut, and other architects who
would later be categorized as “Expressionist,” chose to continue their work through the
medium of paper. This shift in medium resulted in Expressionist architectural texts,
drawings, books, and programs that would define the movement, and its position in
histories of modern architecture, into the next century.

14
For a recent examination of Taut’s drawings for the House of Friendship competition, see Didem Ekici’s
essay, “Orientalism, Expressionism, Imperialism: Bruno Taut’s Competition Design for the ‘House of
Friendship’ Competition in Istanbul,” in Germany and the Imagined East, ed. Lee M. Roberts (Newcastle:
Cambridge Scholars Press, 2005), 96-112.

15
Peter Paret, “The Great Dying: Notes on German Art, 1914-1918,” in Paret, German Encounters with
Modernism, 1840-1945 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 137.
88
If, as Paret argues, World War I affected the content of German art, then one
might argue that the emergence of paper architecture in turn fostered content in a field
traditionally conceived as content-less. In other words, paper allowed Taut and his
colleagues to produce and present architectural works with ideological concepts, visual
imagery, and narratives similar to those found in literature and painting. Furthermore, as
Paret suggests in more general terms, this shift in “creative response” generated an
entirely different type of public for Expressionist architecture than it might have had
otherwise if World War I had not occurred and the building industry had remained stable.
To better understand the ways Expressionist architects constructed a public and a
market for their paper projects, it is useful to begin with an examination of Taut’s
wartime architectural portfolio, Alpine Architecture. Within the catalogue of Taut’s
published works, Alpine Architecture is of particular importance, since it embodies the
aesthetics and utopian ideology that defined Expressionist architecture after 1914.
Written and illustrated between 1917 and 1918, a period in which the burdens of a total
war existence bore heavily on a weary German nation, Alpine Architecture demonstrates
Taut’s retreat into an imagined Alpine landscape of colored glass architecture. For Taut,
the world of Alpine Architecture is vibrant, peaceful, and above all, a source of hope.
16

16
Alpine Architecture’s mountain setting was likely inspired by two literary sources: Friedrich Nietzsche’s
Thus Spoke Zarathustra (1883-1885) and Gerhart Hauptmann’s Emmanuel Quint, Fool in Christ (Der Narr
in Christo Emmanuel Quint) (1910). For more on the impact of Nietzsche, and specifically Thus Spoke
Zarathustra, on Expressionist architecture, see Daniel Schreiber’s essay “Friedrich Nietzsche und die
Expressionistische Architektur” in Bau einer neuen Welt: Architektonische Visionen des Expressionismus,
ed. Rainer Stamm and Daniel Schreiber (Cologne: Walther König, 2003), 24-35; Nietzsche and an
‘Architecture of Our Minds,’ eds. Alexandre Kostka and Irving Wohlfarth (Los Angeles: Getty Research
Institute for Art and the Humanities, 1999); and Wolfgang Pehnt, Expressionist Architecture, 41-43. For a
brief discussion of the influence of Hauptmann’s novel on Alpine Architecture, see Matthias Schirren,
“Empathy and Astral Fantasy. The Aesthetic and Moral Dimension of Alpine Architecture,” in Bruno Taut.
Alpine Architektur. Eine Utopie, A Utopia, ed. Matthias Schirren (Munich: Prestel Verlag, 2004), 8.
89
Although he designed the glass architecture at the center of the portfolio to be beautiful in
form, he now found the social and political ideals at the center of this architecture to be
more significant. If the singular purpose of the 1914 Glass House pavilion was simply to
realize the beautiful in tectonic form, then the singular purpose of Alpine Architecture
was to offer a physical and ideological refuge for those enduring the suffering and
hardship brought on by the war.
Taut explained the impetus behind the creation of Alpine Architecture in an
unpublished and undated preface to the portfolio. Here, Taut writes that the project was
conceived “in fulfillment of a cherished duty to the legacy of my friend.”
17
The friend in
question, not immediately identified, becomes evident later in the text as Paul Scheerbart,
whom Taut claims as Alpine Architecture’s “true architect.” Taut’s desire to honor the
legacy of Scheerbart was motivated in part by the latter’s death, by stroke, in 1915.
Scheerbart’s death was a devastating loss for Taut, both personally and professionally. In
response, Alpine Architecture was a tribute to the vibrant world of glass architecture
Scheerbart had envisioned and had described for many years in his writings that
complemented, profoundly, Taut’s own architectural philosophy.

17
Bruno Taut, unpublished “Preface” to Alpine Architecture, date unknown. Reprinted in the original
German alongside an English translation in the appendix to Schirren, Bruno Taut. Alpine Architektur, 118.
The following quotes from this preface are taken from this translation. It is important to note that in the
preface Taut does not identify himself as the author of Alpine Architecture, but rather as its editor. Instead,
the author is anonymously referred to in the third person. Taut’s decision to write the preface from the more
detached point of view of “editor” can be linked to his original intention to publish Alpine Architecture
anonymously, which he articulated in an April 1918 letter to his brother, Max (see Bruno Taut, letter to
Max Taut, April 15, 1918. Reprinted and translated in the appendix to Schirren, Bruno Taut. Alpine
Architektur, 122). Taut explains in the preface that the author was already “intrinsically nameless in all
works of architecture,” and therefore it was important that Alpine Architecture also remain anonymous.
Taut does not elaborate what he means when he refers to himself as “intrinsically nameless.” This may
have been a reference to his growing personal conviction that a work of architecture, when successful,
renders the identity of the architect inconsequential, or it may have referred to a belief that the architect was
obligated to sacrifice personal fame and ambitions for the sake of architectural reform.
90
However, a second, equally important, and particularly timely, aspect of
Scheerbart’s legacy should also be addressed. Scheerbart was a pacifist and anti-militarist
who wrote several essays on the subject of war, particularly in relation to the potential
dangers of technology and, more specifically, aerial warfare.
18
He was especially
concerned about the problem of centralized urban spaces, which he considered vulnerable
to enemy attack.
19
With the outbreak of World War I, Scheerbart, seeing his greatest fears
about technology and warfare come to pass, allegedly succumbed to deep depression and
was even rumored to have died from starvation in protest over the war, rather than from a
stroke.
20

The influence of Scheerbart’s pacifist views on Taut is evident throughout Alpine
Architecture’s preface, where he writes, “The deepest reason for [Alpine Architecture’s]
emergence lay in the heart of its creator – a heart that shed its blood under all the pain of
war in the world.” Emphasizing his utmost faith in the “idea” of Alpine Architecture, he
continues:
And though this idea may initially seem strange enough – no
matter how much one ponders and ruminates, there is likely no
other way out of the great universal misery. And if there is this
way out, then it at least has something wonderfully gratifying,

18
See Paul Scheerbart, “Die Entwicklung des Luftmilitarismus und die Auflösung der Europäischen Land-
Heere, Festungen und Seeflotten, Eine Flugschrift,” pamphlet, 1909; “Dynamitkrieg und Decentralization,”
Gegenwart LXXVI, (Nov. 27, 1909): 905-906; “Die Entwicklung der Stadt,” Gegenwart LXXVII, (June
18, 1910): 497-498. For more on this subject, see Rosemarie Haag Bletter, “Paul Scheerbart’s Architectural
Fantasies,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians XXXIV, no.2 (May 1975): 83-97.

19
Bletter, “Paul Scheerbart’s Architectural Fantasies,” 94.

20
Bletter, “Bruno Taut and Paul Scheerbart’s Vision,” 174. Taut, who attended Scheerbart’s burial, stated
in a letter to Max Taut that Scheerbart had in fact succumbed to a stroke on October 14, 1915. See Whyte,
Bruno Taut and the Architecture of Activism, 67.
91
making this work the greatest consolation and the purest hope in
these lamentable times.
21

Taut makes a clear correlation between World War I and the suffering inflicted not only
on the German people but also on every nation involved in the conflict. In his view, war
did not engender a hierarchy of winners and losers. War was also a powerful equalizer
that brought destruction and misery to all. For Taut, then, Alpine Architecture was not
merely a utopian vision of a world bursting forth with crystalline architecture; it was the
only viable physical and spiritual alternative to the miserable existence to which he and
his Europeans compatriots had become accustomed during World War I. In short, Alpine
Architecture is a utopian work with clear political overtones, one firmly rooted in
contemporary political events.
Taut’s politicized views become more pronounced as the preface progresses.
Addressing the logistics of constructing glass buildings in the mountains, Taut notes that
“the scaffolding for a mountain” would “cost many millions.” Yet, he carefully reminds
the reader, if “all the monies and masses of men World War I is swallowing up” were
allocated to better endeavors, then the world that exists within the paper confines of
Alpine Architecture could be physically realized. He expands on this sentiment by noting
that if all of the forces dedicated to waging war could be channeled in a more positive
direction, “then the Earth will in truth be a ‘good dwelling.’”
22

21
Taut, unpublished “Preface” to Alpine Architecture, in Schirren, Bruno Taut Alpine Architektur, 118.

22
The concept of “the earth as a good dwelling” was of particular import for Taut during this period, as this
phrase appeared in several of his publications between 1919 and 1920. In February 1919 he published an
article for Die Volkswohnung entitled, “The Earth, A Good Dwelling” (“Die Erde eine gute Wohnung”),
which advocated the dissolution of centralized urban spaces (see Bruno Taut, “Die Erde eine gute
Wohnung,” Die Volkswohnung I, no. 4 (February 24, 1919): 45-48). In 1920 he expanded this concept in
92
The preface concludes with Taut’s reassurance to the reader that while there is a
political aspect to Alpine Architecture, its overall content addresses fundamental ideas
pertaining to the practice of architecture – the buildings illustrated, similar to his Glass
House pavilion, were to be models for an architectural style that could be adapted for use
in the actual world. The portfolio as an object is also an example of “form” in its own
right. The emphasis placed on the formal qualities of the work can be linked to Taut’s
decision to divide the thirty drawings into what he described as five “symphonic” parts
that work together to reveal a unified program. Moreover, with Alpine Architecture’s
format, Taut sought “circularity,” by which he meant that the portfolio’s drawings were
not designed to build upon one another from prelude to final thought or end. Rather,
Alpine Architecture’s format appears to have been the creation of a carefully grouped
succession of images that in their totality reveal the various facets of a complete and
complex architectural plan.
23

The image used on the title page of the printed edition is a simplified version of
the drawing used for the book’s cover: two stylized snow-capped mountain peaks
forming the capital letters “A.” (Fig. 21) The mountain peaks are surrounded by several

his book, The Dissolution of the Cities or the Earth, A Good Dwelling (Die Auflösung der Städte oder die
Erde eine gute Wohnung) (Hagen: Folkwang-Verlag, 1920). Taut’s understanding of the “the earth as
dwelling” stemmed from his belief that the growth of the metropolis in the late nineteenth- and early
twentieth-centuries had contributed to the moral and spiritual decay of humankind. He suggests that large
cities be abandoned in favor of a return to rural, decentralized communities. In rural communities Taut
believed the human spirit could be rejuvenated and a reconnection with nature could be established. Alpine
Architecture advocates the same ideology as “The Earth, A Good Dwelling” and The Dissolution of the
Cities, although in this instance the decentralized communities are located specifically in the Alpine
regions.

23
It is worth noting that although the preface was not included in the published edition of Alpine
Architecture, a shorter, slightly modified version was used in the advertisement for the portfolio distributed
by the publisher.
93

Figure 21: Bruno Taut, cover and title page to Alpine Architecture, Hagen: Folkwang-
Verlag, 1919.

94
smaller symmetrically placed mountains that extend into the clouds. On both the outer
cover and the title page, Taut included the Latin inscription, “Aedifacare necesse est –
vivere non est necesse” (“Building is necessary – living is not necessary”), which is a
variation on a quotation from Plutarch’s Life of Pompeius.
24
Taut may have chosen to
modify this quote to reflect his own circumstances during World War I in which the very
act of building had become a difficult task. His inclusion of this quote indicates his
conviction that in the face of the destruction taking place across Europe, the ideal of
architecture outweighed the value of life itself. This conviction, in turn, was likely
influenced by Scheerbart’s belief in the ability of architecture to transform quality of life
and eventually culture as a whole. Taut’s adaption of Plutarch’s quote may also explain
why he embraced the medium of paper as thoroughly as he did: if, at this time, paper was
the only means through which to “build,” then it was necessary for Taut to use the
medium in the most effective manner possible.
Entitled “Crystal House” (Kristalhaus), part one of Alpine Architecture comprises
the portfolio’s first four plates.
25
This section introduces the possibilities of glass

24
Matthias Schirren attributes this quote to Plutarch in Bruno Taut. Alpine Architektur, 28. The quote in its
original form is “Navigare necesse est – vivere non est necessare” (Seafaring is necessary – living is not
necessary).

25
I will use the English translation of Alpine Architecture from Schirren’s book, Bruno Taut. Alpine
Architektur, 2004. Schirren’s book contains the original German text alongside the English translation, and
is, in my view, a more accurate translation of Alpine Architecture than Dennis Sharp’s Glass Architecture
by Paul Scheerbart and Alpine Architecture by Bruno Taut (New York: Praeger Publishers, 1972). I do,
however, differ with Schirren in his translation of the term Kristalhaus, which is the title for the first
section of Alpine Architecture. It also appears several times in the text that accompanies the images.
Schirren translates Kristalhaus as “crystal building,” which is consistent with the generalized function of
the crystal structure described in part one of Alpine Architecture. However, I believe it is more in keeping
with the nuances of Taut’s ideology to use the literal translation of Kristalhaus, “crystal house.” The
concept of the Haus was embedded within Expressionist architectural ideology from its inception, most
notably with the earliest example of built Expressionist architecture, Taut’s 1914 Glass House (Glashaus)
pavilion. Although neither the Glass House nor the Kristalhaus described in Alpine Architecture were
95
architecture by leading the viewer into the mountains, along a path that terminates at the
Crystal House. The journey begins at a tower situated on the shore of a mountain lake.
26

(Fig. 22) On the side of the tower is a steep staircase lined with colored glass posts that
ascends the mountain. The path winds upward into a canyon crossed by a series of
successive arches that cover the rushing water below. (Fig. 23) Constructed from thick,
colored glass, the arches shorten in length as the rows extend deeper into the narrowing
canyon. At the top of the chasm, a vibrant glass lattice bridges the canyon’s walls. Inset
within the lattice are harmoniously tuned harps that fill the canyon with music.
As the viewer “climbs” the stairs leading out of the ravine, he or she is greeted by
a distant view of the Crystal House, situated in an open area amidst the mountains’ peaks.
(Fig. 24) This view, described by Taut as one of “devout – unutterable – silence,” reveals
the Crystal House to be a temple-like structure with Gothic attributes, including arches
and spires. He refers to the building as the “the supreme, the void,” and as an ideal
alternative to “urban miasma.” Taut uses this drawing to reiterate sentiments he first
expressed in the 1914 Werkbund debates, proclaiming, “Architecture does not permit
itself to be ‘applied.’ Not even to ideals.” Here, Taut infers that it is actually architecture,
rather than the architect, that cannot be controlled. In this way, he imbues architecture
with an organic sense of power that essentially renders the architect inconsequential.

designed as literal homes, they were conceived as symbolic representations of modern humankind’s new
“dwelling” (Wohnung). This dwelling was not a site at which one lived in the traditional sense of the word,
but rather a dwelling in which one’s spiritual needs could be fulfilled. For this reason, I have chosen to use
the more pedantic translation “crystal house” rather than “crystal building.”

26
All of the drawings in Alpine Architecture include a “title,” listed in the table of contents. The majority of
the drawings also include a text that elucidates details or elements that may already be visible to the viewer
as well as details that are not readily apparent, including color, material, sound, light, and so on. The
printed edition of Alpine Architecture contains a mixture of monochromatic and polychromatic images
based on Taut’s color choices for his original drawings.
96

Figure 22: Bruno Taut, “Ascent from the Mountain Lake,” in Alpine Architecture, 1919.

97

Figure 23: Bruno Taut, “Path in Wildbrook Canyon,” in Alpine Architecture, 1919.

98

Figure 24: Bruno Taut, “The Crystal House,” in Alpine Architecture, 1919.

99
The journey to the Crystal House concludes with an interior view of the structure.
(Fig. 25) Adjacent to the image, on the left side of the plate, is an extended quote from
Scheerbart’s 1906 novel Münchhausen und Clarissa. Scheerbart describes a building
where visitors, forbidden to speak, are enveloped by the sublime architecture of the
building. Organ music periodically fills the structure’s interior and, on rare occasions,
“cosmic” paintings and sculptures are placed on view, even though objects of a “definite”
and “detailed” nature generally corrupt what Scheerbart describes as the “universal
reverence of the building.” Scheerbart’s passage is followed by Taut’s brief description
of the Crystal House. In homage to the visionary technologies Scheerbart described in
books such as Glass Architecture of 1914, Taut explains that the glass walls of the
Crystal House include space for heating and ventilation that remain hidden from view. He
also notes that the building contains spaces within the building designated for
accommodations, refreshments, and even an airplane hangar.
If part one of Alpine Architecture unveils the basic ideals of colored glass
architecture to the uninitiated reader, then the remaining four parts of the portfolio are
centered on the more elaborate, and fantastic, possibilities of glass construction. Part two,
entitled “Architecture of the Mountains” (“Architektur der Berge”), emphasizes the way
the planes and angles of the mountains and the luminescence of snow naturally mimic the
physical qualities of the crystal. Because the mountain landscape is physically and
organically complementary to glass architecture, together they create an ideal world of
beauty and harmony that Taut initially sought to achieve with his Glass House pavilion.
Taut’s vision of beauty and harmony for the Glass House, however, never extended
100

Figure 25: Bruno Taut, “Inside the Crystal House,” in Alpine Architecture, 1919.

101
beyond the forms and materials of the pavilion itself, indicating that by 1917, he began to
reconsider the beautiful as something grander and more majestic than glass architecture
on its own; glass architecture now required a respect for and a union with its physical
surroundings in order to achieve beauty in its most complete sense. In the drawing “The
Crystal Mountain” (“Der Kristallberg”), for example, Taut depicts a mountain hewn into
“crystalline formations,” surrounded by peaks adorned with rounded glass arches and
“crystal needle pyramids;” the needle pyramids mimic the staccato lines and triangular
groupings of the trees located directly behind. (Fig. 26) In the foreground a glass bridge
blends into the stepped rocks on either side.
The melding together of glass architecture and natural landscape can also be seen
in “The Cathedral in the Rocks” (“Der Felsen Dom”). (Fig. 27) Here, a glass cathedral
rests in a narrow canyon between two mountains. The aisles of the cathedral, which have
been carved deep into the mountain itself, lead visitors to caverns and grottoes. The
vaulted glass ceiling of the nave reflects the light of the night sky onto the canyon walls.
The “Cathedral of the Rocks” epitomizes the goal of mountain architecture to unify
nature and glass in form and appearance. When successful, this union generates an
organic and harmonious beauty that exists beyond the comparatively limited, self-
contained beauty of the Glass House pavilion, making the Cathedral a more idyllic and
peaceful site for humanity’s restoration.
Parts three and four of Alpine Architecture, entitled “Alpine Building” (“Der
Alpenbau”) and “Earth’s Crust Building” (“Der Erdrindenbau”) respectively, depict
Taut’s vision of what specific locations within Europe and around the globe could be like
102

Figure 26: Bruno Taut, “The Crystal Mountain,” in Alpine Architecture, 1919.

103

Figure 27: Bruno Taut, “The Cathedral in the Rocks,” in Alpine Architecture, 1919.

104
if they were to be built up with glass architecture. “Alpine Building” focuses on the
Alpine regions of Switzerland and Italy, re-imagining famous mountains peaks, including
Monte Rosa and the Matterhorn, as sites for crystalline structures and sculptural objects.
(Figs. 28 and 29) Included in this section is the plate “Appeal to the Europeans” (“Aufruf
an die Europäer”), Taut’s call for the implementation of a real-life building program in
the Alps. (Fig. 30) Building on ideas expressed in his unpublished preface, Taut remarks
on the way boredom and lack of personal fulfillment had caused humankind to wage war
and inflict violent acts upon one another. The solution he offers to this crisis is for all
Europeans to unite in the task of erecting glass structures in the Alps so that beauty can
“shine resplendent.” Taut anticipates that many will find this plan “impractical and of no
use,” but rebuts this point of view by asserting that utility in and of itself does not bring
happiness or peace – utility must serve a greater purpose, otherwise boredom, and
eventually misery, envelops humankind. For Taut, the only solution to the social ills
facing Europe at the end of World War I is the beauty glass architecture could offer.
Part four of Alpine Architecture displays Taut’s vision of glass architecture in
regions beyond the Alps. The plates “The Ralik and Ratak Islands” (“Die Ratak und
Ralik Inseln”) and “Rügen” depict aerial views of islands in Micronesia and the Baltic
Sea built up with glass structures.
27
(Figs. 31 and 32) In “The Ralik and Ratak Islands,”
the miniscule island formations are virtually unidentifiable as an archipelago. The crystal
arches and spires that rise high above the land give the image an abstract quality that
prefigures the conceptual experimentation of the Surrealists. The glass constructions do

27
For the political and geographical context for these images, see Schirren, Bruno Taut. Alpine Architektur,
90, 94.
105

Figure 28: Bruno Taut, “The Monte Rosa Structure,” in Alpine Architecture, 1919.

106

Figure 29: Bruno Taut, “The Matterhorn,” in Alpine Architecture, 1919.

107

Figure 30: Bruno Taut, “Appeal to the Europeans,” in Alpine Architecture, 1919.

108

Figure 31: Bruno Taut, “The Ralik and Ratak Islands,” in Alpine Architecture, 1919.

109

Figure 32: Bruno Taut, “Rügen,” in Alpine Architecture, 1919.

110
not appear to serve any purpose other than to occupy the land, as well as the sea, with
colorful and lively forms. The section’s two remaining plates consist of drawings of the
Earth’s halves, one illustrating the “American side,” the other the “Asiatic side.” In both
images, the continents are illuminated with small markings indicating areas Taut foresees
as potential sites for glass architecture.
Alpine Architecture’s final section, “Astral Building” (“Sternbau”), illustrates
bodies within the solar system, including stars and nebulae, as elaborate glass structures.
Although these images contain very little descriptive text, they are some of the most
visually complex in the portfolio. For example, the image of “The Cathedral Star”
(“Domstern”) represents an astral body in the form of a Gothic-like structure comprised
of glass arches, vaults, and spires. (Fig. 33) The building spins on an axis, rotating at a
seemingly significant rate of speed as it moves through the solar system. The notion of
“astral building” is firmly based in Scheerbart’s “cosmic” stories, and is therefore a
fitting tribute to the friend and mentor Taut wished to honor with his book.
28
The
placement of this section at the end of the portfolio also befits the circularity Taut
described in the unpublished preface. Although Taut concludes Alpine Architecture with
a vision of glass architecture floating within the solar system, the ideology underlying
these images is identical to the comparatively less fantastic visions of the Alpine Crystal
House illustrated in part one: whether in the Alps or in another galaxy, the universe
requires the beauty of glass to restore balance and purpose to life. The sublime beauty
Taut first sought with the Glass House pavilion is now presented in its complete and

28
Schirren, Bruno Taut. Alpine Architektur, 100. Schirren references two books by Scheerbart that likely
influenced Taut: Astrale Noveletten (Karlsruhe and Leipzig: Dreililien, 1912) and Kometentanz.Astrale
Pantomime in zwei Aufzügen (Leipzig: Insel, 1903).
111

Figure 33: Bruno Taut, “The Cathedral Star,” in Alpine Architecture, 1919.

112
perfected form as the most powerful catalyst for national, global, and even cosmic
transformation.
While Taut may have conceived Alpine Architecture as a visionary, yet viable
program for the reconstruction of Europe and the rehabilitation of the human spirit, its
unusual format and phantasmagoric imagery renders the portfolio highly unusual as an
architectural text. Wolfgang Pehnt has argued that perhaps the most atypical aspect of
Alpine Architecture lies in the way it seeks to convey a unified story. In doing so, it does
not function as a typical architectural portfolio comprised of a collection of building
plans with no discernible narrative element.
29
Pehnt observes, moreover, that Taut’s
portfolio in fact seems more visually and structurally aligned with comic strips from this
period that often featured “time-sequences in the order of the pictures,” as well as varying
use of scale, melding of text and image, and thought-bubbles – all elements evident in
Alpine Architecture.
30
(Fig. 34)
Taut’s emphasis on specific geographical locations in Europe and around the
globe also lends Alpine Architecture the air of a travel guide: the reader is whisked away
on a virtual aerial tour not only of the world but also of unknown regions of outer space.
31

In this sense, Alpine Architecture is thematically aligned with such cosmic literary works
as Paul Scheerbart’s The Grey Cloth and Ten-Percent White, in which the novel’s hero,

29
Pehnt, Expressionist Architecture, 83.

30
Ibid., 83.

31
The element of “sightseeing” informing Alpine Architecture is discussed in Schirren, “Empathy and
Astral Fantasy,” 13. Schirren bases his argument on observations first made by Wolfgang Pehnt in his
essay, “Paul Scheerbart, ein Dichter der Architekten,” in the afterward to Paul Scheerbart: Glasarchitektur
(Munich: Rogner and Bernhard, 1971), 160.
113

Figure 34: Bruno Taut, “At the Upper Italian Lakes,” in Alpine Architecture, 1919.

114
the architect Krug, travels to exotic locations in a quest to fill the earth with buildings of
colored glass. Although Alpine Architecture’s narrative does not contain a protagonist,
one could argue that Taut himself adopts the guise of Scheerbart’s hero Krug, as he
builds up the Alpine regions of Europe and beyond in the only realistic way that he can –
on paper.
Alpine Architecture’s comic strip aesthetic, atlas-style format, and fantastic
imagery beg the question of whether the content of the portfolio can be reduced to such
categories as “architecture,” “art,” or “literature.” Indeed, it would seem that Alpine
Architecture is all three of these things. Alpine Architecture proposes a building plan and
aesthetic specific enough to be a seemingly viable form of architecture; the visual
aesthetic is whimsical and pictorial enough to be considered art; and the descriptive,
narrative text accompanying the illustrations qualify as a form of literature. This
ambiguity of genre raises the question of who would be inclined to financially support,
publish, distribute, and consume Alpine Architecture in the public sphere. In short, who
was the “public” for Expressionist paper architecture?
The publication of Alpine Architecture was in fact undertaken by Taut’s friend
and colleague, Karl Ernst Osthaus, a figure well known within the art world for his active
participation in the Deutscher Werkbund, and for his establishment of the Folkwang
Museum in Hagen, an institution dedicated to the collection and display of modern art. In
February 1919, Osthaus expanded his professional enterprises with the formation of his
115
own press, the Folkwang-Verlag.
32
Osthaus and Taut became acquaintances in 1908
when they were both connected to a commission the latter received to design a turbine
station for the iron rolling mill Harkort and Son in Wetter an der Ruhr.
33
Their friendship
continued to develop over the next thirteen years – until Osthaus’s death in 1921 – due to
their mutual affiliations and prominent positions within various arts organizations, most
notably the Werkbund, where they both vocally dissented with Hermann Muthesius’s
push for standardized form and supported Henry Van de Velde’s campaign to preserve
the artist’s right to creative freedom.
34
A banker by trade, Osthaus was a notable presence
in avant-garde architectural circles, where he was an avid supporter and patron of the
architects Taut, Van de Velde, and Peter Behrens, among others, who were associated
with innovative and distinctively modern styles.
35
He also amassed a collection of
architectural photographs that formed the basis of two traveling exhibitions, “Modern
Architecture” (“Moderne Baukunst”) and “Industrial Building” (“Industriebauten”).

32
The Folkwang-Verlag was the product of Osthaus’s efforts in 1918 to publish his doctoral dissertation,
“Grundzüge der Stilentwicklung,” which he had recently submitted to the University of Würzburg. Osthaus
published the dissertation himself under the label “Hagener Verlagsanstalt,” which eventually evolved into
the “Folkwang-Verlag GmbH” when the press was officially expanded in February 1919. See Schulte, Auf
dem Weg, 18.

33
Ibid., 15.

34
Although Osthaus was one of the first to join the Werkbund at its founding in 1907, it is not known when
Taut became a member. Rosemarie Haag Bletter has argued that Taut was likely invited to join the
Werkbund in its earliest period since one of the Werkbund’s founders, Theodor Fischer, was Taut’s mentor.
The uncertainty of dates, however, makes it difficult to determine the extent to which Taut and Osthaus
interacted within the Werkbund prior to 1914. See Bletter, “Bruno Taut and Paul Scheerbart’s Vision,” 62.

35
Osthaus commissioned Van de Velde to design the principle building for his Folkwang Museum in
Hagen, which was completed in 1902, as well as his residential villa, Hohenhof, constructed from 1906 to
1908. In 1907 Osthaus commissioned Behrens to design a lecture hall for the museum and three houses for
his nearby “Villa Colony” residential project. In 1919 Osthaus asked Taut to create a plan for a museum-
affiliated school, the Folkwang-Schule, but this project was never realized.
116
Photos of Taut’s recent architectural projects were displayed as part of these
exhibitions.
36

Given Osthaus’s patronage of avant-garde art and architecture, his relationship
with Taut, and his general commitment to supporting “all that was progressive,” it is
perhaps not surprising to learn that Taut, in a letter dated February 11, 1919, brought
Alpine Architecture to the attention of his colleague.
37
Interestingly, the principle topic
of the letter is not the portfolio itself but Taut’s frustration with the perception of his
work among his peers. After inquiring after Osthaus’s personal contacts in America, Taut
posits that Germany’s “soil” had become incompatible with his approach to architecture,
adding that in America he might find like-minded circles that would not trivialize his
work as “fantastic."
38
He follows this query with a brief paragraph in which he mentions
Alpine Architecture for the first time, almost as an afterthought. To quote Taut: “I would
have liked to have shown you a primitively-drawn, war-time utopian portfolio, ‘Alpine
Architecture,’ that is presently at Kurt Wolff’s in Leipzig. Whether it comes out here is
still uncertain, but not impossible.”
39

36
Schulte, Auf dem Weg, 16. “Modern Architecture” was on exhibit from 1911-1914, and “Industrial
Building” from 1911-1915.

37
Stanford Anderson, Peter Behrens and a New Architecture for the Twentieth-Century (Cambridge, MA:
MIT Press, 2000), 176.

38
Bruno Taut, letter to Karl Ernst Osthaus, February 11, 1919. Reprinted in Schulte, Auf dem Weg, 78-79.
“Ich möchte sie in der Frage zusammenfassen: haben Sie Fühlung mit Amerika? Ich komme nach und nach
zu der Überzeugung, daß hier nicht der Boden für mich ist, und daß vielleicht dort Kreise vorhanden sind,
die mein Wollen nicht einfach als ‘Phantastik’ abtun.” Taut follows these remarks with the supposition that
perhaps he could find a place for himself in Boston specifically.

39
Ibid., 79. “Sehr gern hätte ich Ihnen eine im Kriege niedergezeichnete utopische Mappe ‘Alpine
Architecture’ gezeigt, die augenblicklich bei Curt Wolff in Leipzig ist. Ob sie da erscheint, ist noch nicht
sicher, aber nicht unmöglich.”
117
Taut’s minimal description of Alpine Architecture, and the casual way it is
alluded to at the end of the letter, implies that the architect was merely apprising Osthaus
of the portfolio’s existence, and expressing his disappointment that his colleague had not
yet been able to view the work.
40
However, it appears significant that Taut mentions
Alpine Architecture only after his remarks concerning the professional isolation he felt
working in Berlin.
41
Taking into account Osthaus’ role as a patron and advocate of the
avant-garde, an argument could be made that Taut was subtly appealing to Osthaus to
support his work at a time when his ideas were, in his view, misunderstood and
marginalized by his own colleagues. Taut was most likely aware of Osthaus’s plans for
the Folkwang-Verlag, especially as it was established in the same month his letter was
written. The architect, therefore, may have broached the subject of Alpine Architecture
with the specific intent of securing an offer from Osthaus to publish the portfolio. His
emphasis on the uncertainty of the portfolio’s future, despite the fact that it was in the
hands of another publisher, Kurt Wolff, at this time seems to support this interpretation.

40
In a letter written to Taut the previous week, Osthaus had commended two of Taut’s recently published
texts, “An Architecture Program” (“Ein Architektur-Programm”) and “For the New Architecture” (“Für
das neue Baukunst!”). In this context, it seems natural that Taut would have mentioned Alpine Architecture
to Osthaus, who was clearly interested in and supportive of his work at this time. See Karl Ernst Osthaus,
letter to Bruno Taut, February 3, 1919. Reprinted in Schulte, Auf dem Weg, 77-78.

41
In the letter Taut does not identify any specific individuals who were challenging his ideas at this time. It
is known that in the early months of 1919 he encountered significant opposition as leader of the Working
Council for Art (Arbeitsrat für Kunst) after the December 1918 publication of his radical “Architecture
Program.” Taut’s frustrations with the WCA increased to such an extent in the weeks following this
publication that he resigned as the council’s director in February 1919 (see Joan Weinstein, The End of
Expressionism: Art and the November Revolution in Germany, 1918-1919 (Chicago and London:
University of Chicago Press, 1993), 26). Therefore, it appears likely that in his letter to Osthaus Taut was
making specific reference to his experiences with fellow members of the WCA. In regard to Alpine
Architecture, Taut wrote to his brother Max in April 1918 that he had shown the first eleven plates to his
friend and colleague Adolf Behne, who found them to be “very beautiful.” However, Taut, perhaps out of
genuine insecurity or false modesty, added that Max himself was bound to find the drawings rather
“disappointing” (see Taut, letter to Max Taut, April 15 1918. Reprinted and translated in the appendix to
Schirren, Bruno Taut. Alpine Architektur, 122).
118
By emphasizing the apparent rejection of his work by colleagues and rival publishers,
Taut was perhaps provoking Osthaus to support a project that appeared too visionary to
be appreciated by others, including those within the avant-garde.
42
Through his press,
Osthaus could, in other words, single-handedly support Taut’s work and prevent the
architect from emigrating to the United States or elsewhere.
Taut’s intentions regarding Alpine Architecture in his letter to Osthaus are
ultimately unknowable. What is certain is that by April 1919 Osthaus did agree to publish
the portfolio sight unseen.
43
That May, Taut mailed the drawings to the manager of the
Folkwang-Verlag, a Mr. Hammon, who was asked to review Alpine Architecture for
Osthaus while the latter was attending to his affairs outside of Hagen.
44
In a detailed letter
from May 19, Hammon expressed his concerns to Osthaus regarding the portfolio, and
the implications publishing such a work would have for the press and those affiliated with
it. Although Hammon praises the general concept of Alpine Architecture, in his letter he
outlines what he perceives to be four fundamental problems in relation to the portfolio
that, as its potential publisher, Osthaus should consider.

42
Kurt Wolff (whom Taut identifies as Curt Wolff in his letter) was a publisher in Leipzig who maintained
close ties to the German artistic and literary avant-garde during this period. In 1919, at approximately the
same time he was evaluating Alpine Architecture, Wolff was collaborating with the Dadaists on the (never-
released) publication of Richard Huelsenback’s Dadaco. See Timothy O. Benson, Raoul Hausmann and
Berlin Dada (Ann Arbor, MI: UMI Press, 1987), 125.

43
Taut, letter to Karl Ernst Osthaus, April 23,1919. Reprinted in Schulte, Auf dem Weg, 80. In the letter
Taut writes that he is thankful to Osthaus for his confidence in his abilities, especially since Osthaus had
not yet personally viewed Alpine Architecture.

44
The following discussion refers to Hammon’s letter to Karl Ernst Osthaus, May 19, 1919. Reprinted in
Schulte, Auf dem Weg, 85-87. Rainer Stamm identifies Mr. Hammon as Rudolf Leonhard Hammon. See
Rainer Stamm, “Das ‘Taut-Werk.’ Bruno Tauts inkunabeln utopischer Architektur,” in Stamm and
Schreiber, Bau einer neuen Welt, 19.
119
Hammon’s critique of Alpine Architecture centers on its subject matter. Noting
that the architectural and ideological premise of the book is “unrealizable”
(unrealisierbar), Hammon argues that the project falls into the category of “literature”
(Dichtung) – which he underlines for emphasis – rather than into the categories of art or
architecture.
45
On this basis, Hammon subsequently declares that the portfolio is
unsuccessful and visually disappointing in its totality. He criticizes the general quality of
Taut’s drawings, noting that with few exceptions, they are “dull” (matt), and adding that
while there are several plates of high quality, the overall portfolio does not measure up to
the great existing works of phantasmagoria.
The link Hammon makes between Alpine Architecture and the genre of
phantasmagoria is significant, for it identifies the visual and literary standard against
which the portfolio was compared. Hammon specifically calls attention to what he feels
is a certain “fantasy poverty” (Fantasie-Armut) in Taut’s artistic approach, which
according to him, resulted in a repetition of “a few, unremarkable forms.”
46
He
summarizes this disconnect between Taut’s goals and the finished product in the
following way: “The text was, in many ways, thought, not born.”
47
Hammon, in other
words, could decipher the ideals underlying Alpine Architecture’s plates, but those ideals

45
Hammon, letter to Karl Ernst Osthaus, May 19, 1919. Reprinted in Schulte, Auf dem Weg , 86. “Dieser
Gedanke ist unrealisierbar, es muß also die vorliegende Werk als Dichtung angesehen und bewertet
werden….”

46
Ibid., 86. “…sie bekunden eine gewisse Fantasie-Armut des Künstlers in der Wiederholung ganz weniger
und nicht außergewöhnlicher Formen.”

47
Ibid., 86. “Der Text ist vielfach gedacht, nicht geboren.”
120
were compromised by the ineffective and undesirable style and format in which they
were presented.
Hammon’s perception of Alpine Architecture as a poor example of
phantasmagoria prompts his consideration of the financial ramifications for Osthaus and
the Folkwang-Verlag if they were to publish the portfolio. Hammon writes that, in his
opinion, Alpine Architecture would not succeed commercially if published, and inquires
whether “moralistic success” (moralische Erfolg) and the reputation of the press as a
“pioneering institute” (bahnbrechendem Institut) is worth incurring financial failure.
According to Hammon, Alpine Architecture worked against the very mission of the press;
he warns that publishing the portfolio would make both book handlers and potential
consumers distrustful of their entire enterprise.
Hammon’s pessimism concerning Alpine Architecture’s commercial viability
becomes clear as the letter progresses, and is partially rooted in his anxiety about its
general marketability. His assessment of the individual drawings as uneven in quality
engendered skepticism on his part as to whether or not the portfolio would appeal to
potential consumers in any significant way. He briefly considers the option of selling the
higher quality pages as individual sheets.
48
In regard to the specific issue of distribution,
Hammon writes, “A large, popular distribution is, in my opinion, impossible,” and notes
that the book requires an “exquisite presentation” (exquisite Ausstattung) that would

48
Hammon concludes, however, that it would be highly unlikely for Taut to agree to such an arrangement,
since the sheets in their totality express a larger aesthetic and ideological program. Hammon notes that he
discussed this particular issue with a colleague named Dr. With, who supposed that the only potential buyer
for Alpine Architecture would be a museum. Dr. With is likely to be Dr. Karl With, whose book on the
culture of Java was also published by the Folkwang-Verlag in 1920.
121
appeal to the “book-lover” (Bibliophile), the portfolio’s only viable consumer.
49
Thinking
ahead to the printed edition’s formatting and presentation, Hammon recommends that the
portfolio include a silk band with silk endpaper, and suggests printing by the graphic arts
firm, F. Bruckmann.
Although Hammon’s views are only one person’s perception of Alpine
Architecture, they offer critical insight into the relationship between Alpine Architecture,
Expressionist paper architecture, and the public sphere during this period. First,
Hammon’s letter indicates that his estimation of Alpine Architecture concerns the
implausible nature of the ideas presented in the portfolio. As a lay reader, Hammon did
not perceive the portfolio as a viable work of architecture. The paper format may have
compromised to a certain extent Taut’s ability to convey the architectonic ideas he had
envisioned on a theoretical level. Yet for Hammon, the “unrealizable” nature of these
ideas was the more significant problem. Hammon’s views of Alpine Architecture
reinforce a notion held by many individuals, namely, that the very concept of architecture
is inseparable from notions of practicality and function. When these elements are absent,
architectural drawings are transformed into illustrations, and are thus vulnerable to
criticism as illustrations.
The example of Alpine Architecture demonstrates, moreover, that this perception
of architectural drawings as illustrations can become more pronounced when the images
are bound together in the format of a book. Because Hammon did not critique Taut’s
drawings as architectural designs, but rather as illustrations to a phantasmagoric story, his

49
Hammon, letter to Karl Ernst Osthaus, May 19, 1919. Reprinted in Schulte, Auf dem Weg, 86. “Eine
grosse populäre Ausgabe ist meines Erachtens unmöglich.”
122
negative opinion of the drawings was unrelated to the visual success of the buildings
illustrated. Instead, his evaluation of Alpine Architecture was tied to the ability of the
images to convey a narrative. From this perspective, then, it is significant that Hammon
uses the word “dull,” a term not typically applied to Expressionist architecture, to
describe the overall quality of the drawings. When viewed as architecture, the plates in
the portfolio might be perceived as eccentric and innovative. When considered as
illustrations to a genre of literature dependant on exciting, fantastic themes, however,
Hammon judged the drawings to be rather ordinary and uninteresting.
Second, Hammon’s letter sheds light on the business of paper architecture and the
professional reputations involved in the publication of Expressionist architectural texts.
While one might assume there to be a certain cachet to supporting avant-garde ventures
like Alpine Architecture, Taut’s project brought considerable risk to the fledgling
Folkwang-Verlag and to those affiliated with it. Because Hammon was unimpressed with
the quality of the portfolio, he determined that publishing such a work would have to be a
“moralistic” decision rather than one related to business; the only way Hammon could
justify publishing Alpine Architecture was if the portfolio was part of Osthaus’s broader
agenda to establish the press as a forward-thinking institution. If it was published, then
more weight would be placed on the principle behind publishing Alpine Architecture than
the actual quality or appeal of the work. Osthaus’s support for Alpine Architecture, in
Hammon’s view, would therefore be a sacrificial move for the press rather one that was
markedly beneficial.

123
It is worth reiterating that Hammon’s estimation of Alpine Architecture as a
financial and reputational liability was obviously a far cry from Taut’s own perception of
the portfolio as the tectonic answer to society’s ills. In this sense, Hammon personified
the very problem Taut hoped to circumvent through Osthaus’s support, namely, the
outright dismissal of his work as fantastic and ineffectual. As the incongruous nature of
Taut’s and Hammon’s views reveal, even those affiliated with institutions like the
Folkwang-Verlag, which was already inclined to support avant-garde projects, were
skeptical of the value and appeal of Expressionist paper architecture and uncertain as to
how their affiliation with such works would affect their credibility. The notion of
professional cost or sacrifice on the part of institutions that facilitated the publication and
distribution of avant-garde materials is an often over-looked aspect of the business of
avant-garde art and architecture. Indeed, this issue is rarely discussed within the context
of Expressionist architectural projects.
Despite Hammon’s reservations, Osthaus was not in any significant way deterred
from publishing Alpine Architecture. In late June 1919, he informed Taut that he had
finally viewed the portfolio, noting, “It pleases me to be able to say to you that your
visions made the greatest impression upon me.” He adds that seeing the work in person
had only intensified his desire to publish it.
50
However, Osthaus and Hammon were both
in agreement on one point concerning Alpine Architecture: that it was best suited for
distribution as a luxury edition for a small, wealthy sector of the consumer market rather
than in a format more appropriate for mass consumption. Surviving correspondence

50
Osthaus, letter to Bruno Taut, June 27, 1919. Reprinted in Schulte, Auf dem Weg, 87-88. “Es freut mich,
Ihnen sagen zu können, daß Ihre Visionen mir den größten Eindruck gemacht haben und daß mein Wunsch,
sie bei uns zu verlegen, nur lebhafter geworden ist.”
124
between Taut and Osthaus suggests that Osthaus consistently held this view regarding
Alpine Architecture, for he discussed this topic with Taut well before he received
Hammon’s letter evaluating the portfolio. In an April 1919 letter to Osthaus that
addresses the subject of marketing, Taut alludes to Osthaus’s intention to release Alpine
Architecture in a “luxurious” (luxuriöse) format. However, the specific qualities that
would render the edition as luxurious are not discussed.
51

The edition ultimately distributed by the Folkwang-Verlag had a format similar to
a collectible art book rather than to an architectural portfolio. Matthias Schirren has
observed that the horizontal format of Taut’s original drawings was abandoned in favor
of a large, vertical format.
52
He also notes that the printing firm commissioned for the
publication, F. Bruckmann, used a combination of line etchings, hand-mounted tipped-in
photolithography, and multicolor reproductions printed onto heavy book stock paper.
53

The emphasis Osthaus placed on the quality of the reproductions magnified its expensive,
collectible aura. Alpine Architecture was one of the Folkwang Verlag’s most expensive
publications – if not the most expensive publication – released between 1919 and 1920,
and the most expensive of the three portfolios Taut released under the Folkwang-Verlag
imprint.
54

51
Taut, letter to Karl Ernst Osthaus, April 28, 1919. Reprinted in Schulte, Auf dem Weg, 81-83.

52
The dimensions of the published edition of Alpine Architecture is 34 x 39.5 cm, as advertised on the
subscription notice released by the Folkwang-Verlag. In 1920 Taut released two more portfolios with the
Folkwang-Verlag, Die Auflösung der Städte (The Dissolution of the Cities) and Der Weltbaumeister (The
Universal Master-Builder), but these were considerably smaller in size.

53
Schirren, Bruno Taut. Alpine Architektur, 27.

54
According to the advertisement for Alpine Architecture, the portfolio was priced at 70 DM before March
15, 1920 and 80 DM for purchases made after that date. In comparison, The Dissolution of the Cities was
125
The motivation for Osthaus’s decision to release the portfolio in a relatively
expensive collector’s format is unknown, although it seems likely that Osthaus had
already considered the issues of Alpine Architecture’s marketing and distribution in
advance of Hammon’s evaluation. Osthaus was careful to emphasize to Taut that, while
he personally supported Alpine Architecture, he also found it to be a “very problematic”
book for a publisher.
55
Osthaus’s business savvy in recognizing that the portfolio would
never have any kind of mass-market appeal more than likely encouraged Taut to agree to
a highly specific publication plan for Alpine Architecture as an informal or formal
condition of their agreement.
Iain Boyd Whyte provocatively suggests that the luxurious nature of Alpine
Architecture might be attributed to the formation during this period of a “radical chic”
category of publications catered to a small, but wealthy sector of the public who desired
high quality, limited editions of left-wing books and portfolios. The basis for Whyte’s
argument for such a market is a note found in the June 1919 edition of Kunst und
Künstler advertising a “luxury edition of the Communist Manifesto, printed on hand-
made paper in an edition of one hundred copies.”
56
This note advises that this version of
the manifesto, issued by an unnamed publisher in Vienna, may also contain sheets signed

priced at 50 DM and Der Weltbaumeister at a comparatively affordable 12DM. The advertisement for The
Dissolution of the Cities includes a secondary advertisement for additional Folkwang-Verlag publications
that range in price from 7-42 DM. These advertisements are reproduced in Schulte, Auf dem Weg, 201-206.

55
Osthaus, letter to Bruno Taut, June 27, 1919. Reprinted in Schulte, Auf dem Weg, 87-88. “Doch scheint
die Mappe in der Tat ein sehr problematisches Verlagsobjekt zu sein.”

56
Whyte, Bruno Taut and the Architecture of Activism, 254, fn. 10. The specific reference Whyte mentions
is Kunst und Künstler, no. 9 (June 1, 1919): 377.
126
by Vienna’s Communist leaders, an indication that that such signatures were desirable to
the potential consumer, and were perhaps expected.
57

The irony of marketing of what is ostensibly anti-bourgeois art and literature to
the very economic class being critiqued is one of the more intriguing and complicated
aspects of German modernism. An example of this paradox is the publication of the
Dadaist George Grosz's wartime and post-war portfolios by Wieland Herzefelde’s
notorious left-wing press, the Malik-Verlag. Grosz’s portfolios, which promoted a thinly
veiled Communist agenda, launched vitriolic attacks against the German bourgeoisie,
highlighting what he perceived to be its religious hypocrisy, materialism, and moral
bankruptcy. (Fig. 35) Although Grosz's printed works were primarily intended for
consumption by the working classes, and were consequently made available in relatively
inexpensive formats, the Malik-Verlag always recognized that the portfolios were works
of art.
Despite Grosz's protests against art as a bourgeois “investment,” he and Herzfelde
were realistic about their need to support themselves and their professional enterprise
financially in economically unstable times. The result was a marketing compromise that,
as Beth Irwin Lewis has argued, would ideally cause the capitalist classes “to finance
their own downfall.”
58
Grosz's portfolios were priced on a sliding scale determined by

57
Whyte, Bruno Taut and the Architecture of Activism, 254.

58
Beth Irwin Lewis, George Grosz: Art and Politics in the Weimar Republic (Princeton, NJ: Princeton
University Press, 1971), 124-125.
127

Figure 35: George Grosz, “Burghers’ World,” in Ecce Homo, Berlin: Malik-Verlag,
1920.

128
such factors as the edition number, paper quality, and the inclusion of Grosz's signature.
59

In perhaps the greatest example of marketing irony, Grosz's 1920 portfolio God With Us
(Gott mit uns), which satirized the military and its bourgeois supporters in such an
abrasive manner that Grosz and Herzfelde were criminally charged with slander in 1921,
was marketed exclusively for the bourgeois consumer, with luxury editions priced at an
astounding 2000 DM per portfolio.
60

The tension between personal ideals and financial survival inherent in Grosz’s
work is an important aspect of Taut’s paper projects as well, especially of Alpine
Architecture. The architect expressed strong opinions to Osthaus on the portfolio’s
distribution. Only some of Taut’s ideas aligned with Osthaus’s publishing strategies for
the book. Alpine Architecture’s principle objective, for Taut, was to create a portfolio that
was both affordable and easily accessible for the masses. Because the project was
conceived as a universal antidote to societal ills that had led to World War I, for Taut it

59
In the catalogue for his 1967 exhibition on the Malik-Verlag held at the Deutsche Akademie der Künste
in Berlin, Wieland Herzfelde included a thorough bibliographic record of the printed material published by
the press from 1916-1947. All of the publications, including Grosz's portfolios, are listed with details that
include format, dimensions, paper type, edition numbers, signatures, and more. See "Bibliographie des
Malik-Verlages," in Der Malik Verlag, 1916-1947, ed. Wieland Herzfelde (Berlin: Deutschen Akademie
der Künste, 1967).

60
Lewis, George Grosz, 124. As a point of comparison, Grosz's 1923 portfolio Ecce Homo, which
consisted of eighty-four lithographs and 16 watercolor prints, was sold in editions that ranged in price from
600 DM in its most expensive format to 20 DM for lesser quality (and slightly modified) versions. Gott mit
uns, comprised of a comparatively meager nine lithographs, was sold for no less than 500 DM per
portfolio, with higher quality, signed editions priced at one thousand and two thousand marks each (see
Herzfelde, Der Malik-Verlag, 77, 83). An individual who exemplifies the “luxury left-wing consumer”
described by Whyte is Count Harry Kessler (1868-1937), a wealthy aristocrat who was Grosz’s patron and
a supporter of the Malik-Verlag. Texts on Kessler and his relationship to the radical wing of the German
artistic avant-garde include Berlin in Lights: The Diaries of Count Harry Kessler (1918-1937), ed. and
trans. Charles Kessler (New York: Grove Press, 2000 [1971]); Barbara McCloskey, George Grosz and the
Communist Party: Art and Radicalism in Crisis, 1918-1936 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press,
1997) and Laird M. Easton, The Red Count: The Life and Times of Harry Kessler (Berkeley and Los
Angeles: University of California Press, 1997).
129
was imperative that the average layperson – and not just the affluent consumer – have
access to his work.
In April 1919, Taut wrote to Osthaus explaining that he, Walter Gropius, and the
architectural critic Adolf Behne were collaborating with gallery-owner I.B. Neumann in
the creation of an illustrated journal entitled Bauen that would feature essays on modern
art and architecture written specifically for the average layperson.
61
Additionally, they
wanted to release special “portfolio” issues consisting exclusively of illustrations.
Neumann desired to release Alpine Architecture in its entirety as the first Bauen portfolio,
but did not have the resources to circulate for mass distribution a work as extensive as
this one. Taut therefore asked Osthaus if he might be willing to coordinate with Neumann
on the release of two editions of Alpine Architecture – an inexpensive, “popular edition”
(populäre Ausgabe), to be released as a part of the Bauen series, and the “luxury” edition,
originally planned by Osthaus under the Folkwang-Verlag label.
62
This compromise
would allow Osthaus to keep intact his marketing plans for Alpine Architecture and
enable Taut to distribute the portfolio to the sector of the public he always intended to
reach. Despite Taut’s enthusiasm for Neumann’s alternative version of Alpine

61
Taut, letter to Karl Ernst Osthaus, April 28, 1919. Reprinted in Schulte, Auf dem Weg, 81-82. Taut writes
that the first issue of Bauen was to include his essay “Haus des Himmels,” which was later published in the
April 1920 issue of his journal Frühlicht; a story by Paul Scheerbart; Gropius’s essay on brotherhood in
building; an article by Hans Luckhardt on crafts and the machine; and drawings with accompanying text by
Karl Schmidt-Rotluff, César Klein, and Franz Mutzenbecher. Taut also asks Osthaus if he knows anybody
adept at writing for the average reader who could contribute an essay on the symbolic meaning of the
ornament. Despite the detailed planning on the inaugural issue of Bauen, no issues of the journal were ever
published.

62
Perhaps anticipating Osthaus’s response to this proposal, Taut reassures him that the Bauen edition is
merely a suggestion, and that he was only trying to facilitate an effective means by which to circulate
Alpine Architecture among the masses. He also states that he would be willing to support any alternative
solutions Osthaus might have if the latter had “fundamental misgivings” (grundsätzlich Bedenken) about
the joint venture with Neumann.
130
Architecture, the plan was eventually abandoned after Osthaus declined to give his
support to the collaboration.
63

Osthaus’s unwillingness to allow an alternative, more affordable version of Alpine
Architecture caused Taut to lament his reliance on the tastes and consumption habits of
the very social classes he was subtly critiquing, even as he agreed to go forth with the
publisher’s elaborate plans for the portfolio. On this subject Taut complained, “I feel very
bitter that these things, which live in a pure, happy world, should come in contact with
the mammon. But I have positively nothing to do, and pass the time with essay writing,
debates in meetings, etc.”
64
On another occasion, Taut wrote to Osthaus on the extent of
his compromise in regard to Alpine Architecture:
Idea and mammon – together always something terrible. But I am
financially in the worst situation: through the war-years high debt,
and always with it, no significant income. But I believe in the
object. I wanted somebody to support my family and myself, I
should question nothing and only be happy in work. Possession to
me is so completely trivial….
65

Taut’s repeated emphasis on the fact that his work, which in his mind was “pure” and
“happy,” would be marketed for the “mammon” indicates his belief that Alpine
Architecture was in fact wasted on wealthy patrons who embodied the Wilhelmine values

63
Osthaus’s hesitance in supporting the alternative Bauen edition is referenced in Taut’s letter to Karl Ernst
Osthaus, May 16, 1919. Reprinted in Schulte, Auf dem Weg, 83.

64
Taut, letter to Karl Ernst Osthaus, May 16, 1919. Reprinted in Schulte, Auf dem Weg, 84-85. “Ich
empfinde es als sehr bitter, daß diese Dinge, die in einer reinen glücklichen Welt leben, nun mit dem
Mammon in Verbindung kommen. Aber ich habe positiv nichts zu tun und vertreibe mir die Zeit mit
Aufsatzschreiben, Debatten in Sitzungen, u.s.w.”

65
Taut, letter to Karl Ernst Osthaus, April 23, 1919. Reprinted in Schulte, Auf dem Weg, 80. “Idee und
Mammon – zusammen ja immer etwas Fürchterliches! Aber ich bin pekuniär in der sclimmsten Lage:
durch die Kriegsjahre eine hohe Schuldenlast und dazu immer kein nennenswerter Verdienst. Aber ich
glaube an die Sache. Wollte man meine Familie und mich unterhalten, ich würde nach nichts fragen und
nur im Werk glücklich sein. Besitz ist mir so völlig gleichgültig….
131
he believed had led to the war that had so severely impacted his career. He clearly
insinuates that any potential contact between his work and the bourgeoisie sullied the
very ideals inherent in his project.
66
From this perspective, one may argue that Taut
believed the wealthy were, in fact, incapable of reform, or were, at least, incapable of
relating to his specific plan for reform at this time. This, in turn, might explain his
persistence in pursuing an alternative public whenever possible.
Be that as it may, Taut was not above capitalizing on the wealthy consumer’s
purchasing habits if this meant supporting himself and his family, especially if this
provided a means to continue working as an architectural professional. To this end,
Alpine Architecture involves the ideological compromises Taut made with his Glass
House pavilion at the 1914 Werkbund exhibition. Although he adhered to the conviction
that his buildings, and architecture in general, should serve no purpose other than to
instruct, uplift, and beautify, both the Glass House and Alpine Architecture were
commodities. As a result, Taut found himself in a vicious cycle wherein his sources of

66
Despite the compromises Taut was forced to make with Alpine Architecture, he did find ways to attain
some of his marketing and distribution goals for the portfolio. In August 1919, six months before Alpine
Architecture was officially released by the Folkwang-Verlag, Taut published a modified version of the
portfolio, re-titled as “Rede des Bundeskanzlers von Europa am 24. April 1993 vor dem europäischen
Parlament” (“Address of the Chancellor of Europe on April 24, 1993 Before the Parliament”), in the widely
circulated journal Sozialistische Monatshefte; this version of the portfolio, as Iain Boyd Whyte describes it,
was presented in the form of a speech given by a “leader of a united Europe looking back on the period of
achievement in which the proposals put forward in Alpine Architecture have been realized.” (See Whyte,
Bruno Taut and the Architecture of Activism, 147). Through Sozialistische Monatshefte, Taut was able to
communicate the central ideas of Alpine Architecture to broad sections of the public that perhaps would not
have had the means or inclination to purchase the Folkwang-Verlag edition. The journal’s political
affiliation with the German Social Democratic party promised a readership more sympathetic to Alpine
Architecture’s pacifist and socialist overtones, which was unlikely with the luxury edition. Taut also
capitalized on I.B. Neumann’s willingness to publicly support Alpine Architecture. In August 1919 Taut
wrote to Osthaus informing him that Neumann had promised “very enthusiastic publicity” for Alpine
Architecture, and desired to show the original drawings for the portfolio, along with some of Taut’s recent
projects – including The City-Crown (originally published as Die Stadtkrone (Jena: Eugen Diedrichs
Verlag, 1919)) – at his gallery. This resulted in an exhibition at the Galerie I.B. Neumann in spring 1920 as
well as an exhibition in Hanover.
132
financial support undermined the very principles he was attempting to advocate, while, at
the same time, those sources of financial support were the only means by which he could
advocate reform. In the end, Taut’s compromises regarding Alpine Architecture
transformed the very nature of the project from a “visionary architectural portfolio” into
an “expensive collector’s book,” and helped to establish a market for Expressionist paper
architecture that was very different from the one he had originally intended.
The difficult task of generating a public for Expressionist paper architecture was
not limited, however, to its published texts. In addition to books, portfolios, and essays,
many architects turned to the architectural drawing as another means by which to
communicate ideas they were unable to realize in three-dimensional form on account of
the material and financial limitations caused by the war. On a surface level, architectural
drawings appear less problematic for the architect than portfolios, since drawings do not
have to appeal to a discerning publisher or a luxury left-wing book market to find a place
in the public sphere. Drawings are relatively inexpensive for the architect to produce and
reproduce, and they are considered complete and ready for public view only when the
architect himself or herself determines this is the case. In this sense, drawings seemingly
preserve more of the architect’s control over his or her work than do other forms of paper
architecture.
However, as many Expressionists quickly discovered, architectural drawing
shares an important commonality with published texts, in that its constitution as paper
architecture ultimately forced the architect into less familiar, or completely unfamiliar,
sectors of the marketplace. Like publications, drawings require support from outside the
133
architectural community to secure visibility and access in the public sphere. What
complicates this support is that the architect is attempting to reach a public that already
has a preconceived notion of what a drawing fundamentally is, and in the public’s mind,
a drawing – even one with an overtly architectural theme – is not architecture, but an
example of fine art. In that sense, an architectural drawing arguably has more in common
with a 16
th
-century engraving by Albrecht Dürer than it does with Taut’s Glass House
pavilion, and as a result, it becomes vulnerable to the same criticisms, marketing
strategies, and consumption practices that might be leveled at a work of art.
This equation of “architectural drawing” with “art” ultimately produced some of
the dilemmas that occurred when Taut’s Alpine Architecture was transformed from an
“architectural portfolio” into a “luxury left-wing book:” namely, how can Expressionist
architectural drawings reach their intended working class audience while simultaneously
generating income for the architects? And in doing this, how does the Expressionist
architect reconcile his socialist ideals not only with the elitist institutions that typically
exhibit drawings and other examples of “fine art,” but also with the elitist public that
frequents and supports these institutions? To better understand the complexities of this
dilemma, the remainder of this chapter will examine briefly one well-known example of
the Expressionists’ efforts to construct a public for their architectural drawings: the 1919
“Exhibition for Unknown Architects” (“Ausstellung für unbekannte Architekten”).
The “Exhibition for Unknown Architects,” which opened in Berlin in March
1919, was organized by the Working Council for Art (Arbeistrat für Kunst), a
revolutionary artists group founded in the aftermath of Germany’s November Revolution
134
in November 1918. The WCA was established by Taut and modeled after Soviet-style
workers councils, including the Political Council of Spiritual Workers (Politischer Rat
geistiger Arbeiter). The collapse of the Wilhelmine Empire and the formation of
Germany’s first democratic government offered the WCA hope that the widespread
cultural reform advocated before the war by the Deutscher Werkbund, and through pre-
war and war time texts such as Taut’s “A Necessity” and his Alpine Architecture, might
be achieved. Led by Taut, Behne, Gropius, and the art critic Wilhelm Valentiner, the
purpose of the WCA was to ensure that the reform of architecture and the arts was a
priority in Germany’s new political era, and that the council’s members would oversee
and implement any formal changes to national arts programs and policies.
67

One month after the WCA’s establishment, the organization circulated two
documents that publicly declared the group’s objectives. The first, most likely written by
Taut in December 1918, was a manifesto that announced the official slogan of the WCA
as well as its six principle aims. Published in several well-known art and political
journals, the manifesto offered the following maxim:
Above all, this slogan guides us: Art and people must form a unity.
Art should no longer be the pleasure of a few, but should bring joy
and sustenance to the masses. The goal is the union of the arts under
the wings of a great architecture.
68

67
Whyte, Bruno Taut and the Architecture of Activism, 97. Whyte notes that the Political Council of
Spiritual Workers, led by writer and political activist Kurt Hiller, was organized to promote radical policy
changes in the new government related to political organization, education, the economy, culture, even sex.
The Expressionist painter Ludwig Meidner was also a member of this council (see Whyte, Bruno Taut, pp.
95-96).

68
“Arbeitsrat für Kunst in Berlin,” Mitteilungen des Deutschen Werkbundes, no.4 (1918): 14-15. Reprinted
and translated in German Expressionism: Documents from the End of the Wilhelmine Empire to the Rise of
National Socialism, ed. Rose-Carol Washton Long (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California
Press, 1993), 193. In addition to its publication in Mitteilungen des Deutschen Werkbundes, the Arbeitsrat
für Kunst manifesto also appeared in Bauwelt (Dec. 18, 1918); Der Cicerone 11 (Jan. 1919): 26; the Dec.
135

To aid the realization of this union of the arts, the WCA issued a call to the artist, “as
shaper of the sensibilities of the people,” to assume sole responsibility for the rebuilding
of Germany and the re-establishment of the “boundaries of form.”
69
On this basis, the
WCA made six highly specific demands that included the recognition of the public nature
of all building activity; the dissolution of all state-sponsored art and architectural
academies; the establishment of free art exhibitions; the elimination of all monuments of
“no artistic value;” and the formation of a government department ensuring the
promotion of art within the context of future lawmaking.
70
The manifesto concluded with
fifty signatures of support from WCA members, and a request that further declarations of
support be directed to their headquarters in Berlin.
71

Although architecture held a prominent place within the framework of the WCA
agenda, the discipline of building was not the only focus of the organization or its

11, 1918 issue of the SPD journal Vorwärts; and the Dec. 12, 1918 issue of the USPD journal Die Freiheit.
See Long, German Expressionism, 239, fn.41, and Joan Weinstein, The End of Expressionism: Art and The
November Revolution in Germany, 1918-1919 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990), 23.

69
“Arbeitsrat für Kunst in Berlin.” Reprinted in Long, German Expressionism, 193.

70
Ibid., 193-194.

71
This request for further declarations of support might explain the discrepancy between the fifty
signatures included with the manifesto reprinted in Long, and the eighty signatures Joan Weinstein states
were included in the version found in Vorwärts and Die Freiheit (Weinstein, The End of Expressionism,
24.). The re-printings in various journals may have reflected a growth in support for the WCA from
December 1918 to January 1919, with an increase in signatories. The manifesto was eventually revised in
March 1919 when Walter Gropius, César Klein, and Adolf Behne assumed leadership of the WCA. The
modified version appears in Programs and Manifestoes in 20
th
-Century Architecture, ed. Ulrich Conrads,
(Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1994 [1970]), 44-45 and Benson, Expressionist Utopias, 295-296.
136
objectives.
72
The group’s manifesto calls for a rebirth in architecture that would ideally
facilitate a more far-reaching reformation and de-privatization of the fine and applied arts
that would result, in turn, in the cultural elevation and education of the German people.
Within the WCA program, then, architecture assumed a paradoxically superior, yet
subservient role within the broader context of German artistic production – it was to lead
the other arts in aesthetic reform, while simultaneously sacrificing its privileged position
so that a true union of the arts might someday be achieved.
The paradox inherent in this view is particularly evident in a second WCA text
written by Taut, also published in December 1918 and entitled “An Architecture
Program” (“Ein Architektur-Programm”). Distributed as a leaflet, Taut’s “Architecture
Program” developed the principles outlined in the WCA manifesto from a more singular
(and thus privileged) architectural viewpoint. Here, Taut reiterates that art, as a “single
thing,” no longer exists, and can be revived only through a reunification underneath
architecture of all the arts. Once this act of unification is achieved, then “there will be no
frontiers between the applied arts and sculpture or painting. Everything will be one thing:
architecture.”
73
It is important to emphasize that although other forms of cultural
production were to be subsumed under the label “architecture,” the term “architecture”

72
The Working Council for Art was one of two important revolutionary artists councils during this period.
The other was the November Group (Novemebergruppe), established in November 1918 by the
Expressionist artists Max Pechstein, Georg Tappert, César Klein, Heinrich Richter-Berlin, and Moriz
Melzer. The November Group’s goals were very similar to those of the WCA, particularly in their demand
for widespread reform of the arts in the new government, which its members desired to oversee. Yet,
because its membership consisted primarily of painters and sculptors, the group did not center its attention
on architectural issues to the same extent as Working Council for Art. See Weinstein, The End of
Expressionism, 26-28.

73
Taut, “An Architecture Program” [1918]. Reprinted in Conrads, Programs and Manifestoes on 20th-
Century Architecture, 41. Originally published as “Ein Architektur-Programm” (Berlin: Arbeitsrat für
Kunst, 1918).
137
ceases to refer to the discipline of building and instead becomes the categorical name for
an entirely new form of Kultur in which art and architecture are virtually
indistinguishable. Similar to the Deutscher Werkbund’s aims before World War I, the
WCA sought to restore Kultur to Germany’s art, architecture, and applied arts by
acknowledging form’s rights and recovering Style. In so doing, the WCA hoped to
provide a model for all cultural production in the fledgling Weimar Republic and
articulate a new German national identity for the postwar era.
Given the WCA’s desire to dissolve the boundaries between art and architecture
so as to achieve a revolutionary, unified form of art, it is significant that the council’s
inaugural exhibition, the “Exhibition for Unknown Architects,” focused exclusively on
architectural drawings, a medium in which the lines between art and architecture are
similarly blurred. Behne explained the exhibition’s theme in his essay “Unknown
Architects” (“Unbekannte Architekten”), which was written for the March 1919 issue of
Sozialistische Monatshefe. Here, he makes clear that the exhibition’s objective was to
determine whether “the number of our good architects really is as embarrassingly small
as it appears to be, judging by known works.” He also informs that the WCA issued a call
to painters and sculptors that solicited “architectonic works” so that the “extent of
architectonic forces” inherent in the visual arts might be revealed.
74

According to Behne’s description of the exhibition, then, the term “unknown
architect” had a dual implication. On the one hand, it referred to architects whose works
were literally unknown to the WCA; on the other hand, it referred to artists who were

74
Adolf Behne, “Unknown Architects.” Reprinted in Long, German Expressionism, 203. Originally
published as “Unbekannte Architekten,” Kunstgewerbe, Sozialistische Monatshefte 25, no.4 (March 1919):
422-423.
138
perhaps unaware of the architectonic tendencies in their work, thereby making them
unknown “architects” in their own right. For the latter group, the medium of paper was
particularly significant since it allowed them to “build” from artistic intuition and creative
impulse rather than from any formal architectural training or real world constraints. In the
leaflet later distributed at the exhibition, Gropius elaborated on this desire on the part of
the WCA to encourage artists to participate in the literal reconstruction of German culture
and the arts:
Artists, let us at last break down the walls erected by our
deforming academic training between the ‘arts’ and all of us
become builders again! Let us together will, think out, create the
new idea of architecture. Painters and sculptors, break through the
barriers to architecture and become fellow builders, fellow
strugglers for the final goal of art: the creative conception of the
cathedral of the future, which will once again be all in one shape,
architecture, sculpture, and painting.
75

Gropius’s challenge to artists to “become builders again” hearkens back to Taut’s
essay “A Necessity,” wherein the Gothic cathedral is upheld as the symbol of
unity in the arts. Although the medieval sculptor and painter did not build in the
traditional sense, they were crucial in the creation of a total work of art guided by
architecture that would ideally facilitate joy and spiritual awakening through the
beauty and harmony of the cathedral. Within the context of the “Exhibition for
Unknown Architects,” Gropius adopts the spirit of Taut’s “A Necessity” to call
painters and sculptors to the task of creating tectonic, and more importantly

75
Walter Gropius (with Bruno Taut and Adolf Behne), leaflet to the “Exhibition for Unknown Architects”
[1919]. Reprinted in Conrads, Programs and Manifestoes on 20
th
-Century Architecture, 48. This leaflet
also included an essay on the present state of architecture by Taut, and an essay by Behne, discussed below.
139
utopian, works, so that Germany, in its post-war period, might be rebuilt both
physically and spiritually through collaboration between the arts.
A third implication of the term “unknown architect” exists, however, that Behne
and Gropius did not address in their essays. In January 1919, the WCA circulated notices
in the newspapers affiliated with the Social Democratic Party (SPD) and the more leftist
Independent Social Democratic Party (USPD) soliciting architectural drawings from its
working class readers.
76
As Joan Weinstein has noted, it was only after the notices failed
to inspire any submissions from the public that the WCA turned to its own membership
and colleagues for works.
77
This evidence makes clear that the WCA originally
envisioned the “Exhibition for Unknown Architects” as a public venue for the display of
works by the lower classes, a “proletariat” vision of architecture informed by working
class values and desires. In this sense, in its original incarnation the term “unknown
architect” referred to the unexpressed artistic and architectural inclinations of a stratum of
the public that was not only uneducated and untrained in the arts, but also excluded from
the gallery system. It was only when the WCA’s original plan to exhibit drawings by the
working classes failed that the aims of the exhibition outlined by Behne became the new
focus.
The exhibition that opened on March 25, 1919, at I.B. Neumann’s upscale Berlin
gallery, the Graphisches Kabinett, was ultimately very different from the exhibition of

76
Weinstein, The End of Expressionism, 70.

77
Ibid., 70.
140
proletariat drawings the WCA had originally envisioned.
78
Although the WCA chose not
to produce a catalogue for the exhibition, scholars have been able to piece together a
rough approximation of the show’s contents, which included an eclectic mixture of
drawings from a broad range of individuals in the artistic avant-garde. In “Unknown
Architects,” Behne identified some of the exhibition’s participants as the painters Jefim
Golyschef, César Klein, Erwin Hasz, Johannes Molzahn, and Arnold Topp, as well as the
sculptors Oswald Herzog, Gerhard Marcks, and Hermann Obrist. (Fig. 36) The artists
Wenzel Hablik, Fidus Molzahn, Moriz Melzer, and Hermann Fintserlinn also exhibited
drawings.
79
(Fig. 37) Taking into account the architectural theme, it is somewhat
surprising that there exists almost no information pertaining to the trained architects who
exhibited works, although reviews from the time of the exhibition indicate that there were
some relatively conservative architectural plans and models included in one portion of the
exhibition.
80
It is possible that Taut and Gropius exhibited works, but this is not known
with any certainty.
Although the open theme of the exhibition suggests that the selection committee
was predisposed to accept architectural drawings from any artists who evidenced a
modicum of quality and creativity, this apparently was not the case. Weinstein has
uncovered one example of a respected Expressionist artist’s submission being flatly

78
I.B. Neumann’s gallery is perhaps best known as the site for the First Berlin Dada Exhibition, which
opened in May 1919 immediately following the “Exhibition for Unknown Architects.” For more on the
relationship between Neumann’s gallery and the Dadaists, see Timothy Benson’s book, Raoul Hausmann
and Berlin Dada.

79
Whyte, Bruno Taut and the Architecture of Activism, 132.

80
Weinstein, The End of Expressionism, 70.
141

Figure 36: Johannes Molzahn, Architectural Idea, 1919.

142

Figure 37: Wenzel Hablik, design for an exhibition building, 1919.

143
rejected. In a letter written by Gropius to the Expressionist painter and fellow WCA
member Max Pechstein, Gropius informs Pechstein that the drawing he submitted to the
selection committee was not accepted. Rather than continue in his attempts at tectonic
experimentation, Gropius recommends to Pechstein to redirect his efforts toward abstract
sketches “of a totally utopian kind.”
81
Gropius’s recommendation to Pechstein to refrain
from trying to produce “architecture” and to focus solely on “utopian” works goes far to
explain why the “Exhibition for Unknown Architects,” an event organized by the
politically-motivated WCA, has been viewed by scholars as an important moment in the
history of Expressionist architecture. With such a broad array of participants in the show,
all with very different backgrounds and ideological approaches, no singular style visually
unified the drawings. Indeed, the medium of paper allowed the imagination of the
participants to flow so freely that, as Iain Boyd Whyte remarks, it appeared the goal of
the exhibition was to “break down and demolish all previously held views as to what was
and was not architecture.”
82

In the same way that Taut’s Alpine Architecture challenged traditional notions of
architecture so as to better communicate his Expressionist ideals, the works selected for
the “Exhibition for Unknown Architects” embodied what can only be described as an
“Expressionist” approach. Rather than offer the public straightforward architectural
drawings, the exhibition re-imagined the possibilities of building and challenged the very
limits of tectonic form. In short, the drawings selected for the exhibition represented the
fantasy, utopianism, and dynamism inherent in an Expressionist aesthetic philosophy,

81
Weinstein, The End of Expressionism, 70.

82
Whyte, Bruno Taut and the Architecture of Activism, 132.
144
with little concern given to practicality, function, or rationality. This ideology was
particularly evident in the drawings by artists such as Finsterlin, which were so abstract
and expressive in form that they were virtually indiscernible as architecture. (Fig. 38)
Similarly, Jefim Golyscheff destroyed traditional notions of architecture through his
maze-like constructions of lines and mechanical-like forms. (Fig. 39) Gropius was
particularly excited about Golyscheff’s work, commenting to the latter, “We finally came
to the conclusion that your works should be included in the architectural section. They
really are extreme examples of what we want: utopia.”
83

Given the predominantly Expressionist content of the “Exhibition for Unknown
Architects,” the question concerning the public for the exhibition’s paper architecture
arises in the same way as it does for Taut’s Alpine Architecture. Who did the WCA
envision as the ideal audience for such unusual and fantastic works? Taut himself
attempted to answer the question in a March 1919 article for the USPD newspaper
Freedom (Freiheit), entitled “Idealists” (“Idealisten”), in which he promoted the opening
of the exhibition and described its general goals. Taut’s intention in writing was to
demonstrate that, although the WCA had failed in its original efforts to display the
architectural imaginings of the proletariat, the “Exhibition for Unknown Architects”
remained a proletarian outreach intended to appeal to the progressive sensibilities of the
working classes. From this point of view, Taut opens the text by proclaiming that the
WCA’s greatest wish was for “the forward-striving and revolutionary proletariat, but also

83
Walter Gropius, letter to Jefim Golyscheff, March 22, 1919. Cited and translated in Whyte, Bruno Taut
and the Architecture of Activism, 137.
145

Figure 38: Hermann Finsterlin, design for a glass house, 1919.

146

Figure 39: Jefim Golyscheff, Small Houses with Illuminated Roofs, 1919.

147
many women and children, to see this exhibition.”
84
He continues: “Why are we
appealing to the upright proletariat? Because this exhibition is indeed entirely un-
bourgeois. Already its distinguishing feature: unknown artists!”
85

Taut’s equation of “un-bourgeois” with “unknown” stemmed from his belief that
the bourgeois mentality hinged on a high level of public recognition and authority. If the
WCA could create an exhibition centered only on works by “unknowns,” then this
endeavor could be viewed as an attack on ideals that lay at the basis of bourgeois politics
and society. By emphasizing that the bourgeoisie would support only artistic works by
artists of renown, Taut was challenging the proletariat to support an endeavor that would
not only destabilize the exclusive nature of Berlin’s gallery and exhibition system, but
would also help redefine the very public for art. What is more, the paper architecture at
the center of the exhibition undermined traditional, bourgeois notions of what art and
architecture fundamentally were, thereby enabling the working classes to claim these
drawings – and more broadly, Expressionist works – for the people.
Interestingly, Taut did recognize a certain irony in staging a “proletariat”
exhibition conceived as an attack on the bourgeoisie in Neumann’s gallery, which was
located in the Kurfürstendamm, one of the most upscale and exclusive parts of Berlin.
After proclaiming the “Exhibition for Unknown Architects” as an event specifically for

84
Bruno Taut, “Idealisten,” Freiheit (March 28, 1919). Reprinted in Abeitsrat für Kunst Berlin, 1918-1921:
Ausstellung mit Dokumentation (Berlin: Akademie der Künste, 1980), 91. “Der Wunsche, welcher schon in
der Ankündigung durch die “Freiheit” ausgesprochen wurde, sei heute nach der Eröffnung wiederholt:
möchten recht viele Vertreter der vorwärtsstrebenden und revolutionären Proletarier, aber auch viele
Frauen und Kinder diese Ausstellung sehen!”

85
Ibid., “Weshalb wir so sehr an das aufrechte Proletariat appeallieren? Weil diese Ausstellung ganz und
gar unbürgerlich ist. Schon ihr Merkman: unbekannte Künstler!”
148
the working classes, Taut put down the location of the gallery in the “fine” (feinen) west
end of Berlin to “chance” (Zufallsursache). He adds that the gallery’s close proximity to
the Zoological Gardens provided easy access and an appealing option to a public with
limited financial means looking to entertain itself.
86
He also emphasized that the
exhibition was free of charge. This, however, is the extent to which Taut addressed the
paradox inherent in the choice of location. Although he felt it was important to
acknowledge the contradiction implicit in the WCA’s decision to display works for a
working class public in an institution associated with bourgeois tastes and consumption
habits, he clearly did not want to dwell on this apparent contradiction at great length.
Someone who did desire to address this contradiction at length was Behne, who
wrote an entire essay on the subject that, interestingly, was included in the leaflet
distributed to the public at the exhibition. Preceded by Gropius’s essay, as well as an
essay by Taut, Behne’s contribution is a bold defense of the WCA’s decision not only to
exhibit in Neumann’s gallery but also to offer all of the drawings on display for sale.
Behne explains that that the “Exhibition for Unknown Architects” was a “new-style”
exhibition intended to “break with the exclusive character of exhibitions up to now.”
87
As
such, it was the responsibility of the public to support the artists through the purchase of
their work; it was only through these purchases that the artists exhibiting would receive
the encouragement needed to continue working in new directions “previously blocked by

86
Taut, “Idealisten.” Reprinted in Abeitsrat für Kunst Berlin, 1918-1921, 91.

87
Adolf Behne (with Walter Gropius and Bruno Taut), leaflet to the “Exhibition for Unknown Architects”
[1919]. Reprinted and translated in Conrads, Programs and Manifestoes on 20
th
-Century Architecture, 48.
149
the indifference of the public.”
88
Behne, in other words, was appealing to the
exhibition’s visitors, ideally the proletariat, to replace the bourgeoisie as patrons of
progressive art in Berlin and to aid in establishing a new kind of art-buying public that
would revolutionize, if not completely replace, the established salon system in Germany.
It is important to emphasize, however, that Behne makes a clear distinction
between the general sale of art, and the WCA’s sale of “architectural sketches.” As he
explains:
We do not expect the snob to buy architectural sketches! The snob
is looking for a sensation, an effect. We are hoping for people who
have a more responsible conception of their relationship to art.
Such helpful purchasers, helpful to the cause and thereby to the
artist at the same time, will find a deeper more lasting joy in the
architectural sketches than in many sheets of free drawings. For
architectural sketches always stimulate anew the imagination that
works with them, builds with them, joins its will to theirs.
89

Behne’s contention that the architectural drawing was fundamentally above the
typical bourgeois consumer – or the “snob” – is crucial to understanding how the
public was intended to relate to paper architecture, whether it was produced by
architects or individuals completely unrelated to the field of architecture, like
many of the painters and sculptors participating in the exhibition. What set the
architectural drawings apart from more conventional forms of high art was their
appeal to something deeply personal and exciting within the minds of the public:
the imagination. According to Behne’s logic, paintings or even conventional
drawings of landscapes or mythological scenes appealed to the bourgeois patron,

88
Behne, leaflet to the “Exhibition for Unknown Architects.” Reprinted in Conrads, Programs and
Manifestoes on 20
th
-Century Architecture, 48.

89
Ibid., 48.
150
since they did not demand anything from the viewer except money. The
architectural sketch, on the other hand, demanded from its public an appreciation
for fantasy and visionary thinking; to this end, these drawings brought joy to those
who understood their greater purpose. As Behne concludes, “We must at all cost
escape from the situation in which art lovers are will-less, passive consumers of
art.”
90
For this escape to take place, then, the very purpose and constitution of art
needed to be redefined. Without this redefinition, Expressionist architectural
sketches were likely destined for the same criticism Hammon leveled at Taut’s
drawings for Alpine Architecture: that they are poor examples of visual
phantasmagoria that reveal a certain “fantasy-poverty” in the minds of their
creators.
In spite of the WCA’s efforts to make the “Exhibition for Unknown
Architects” an event for the people supported by the people, Weinstein has
observed that there was something fundamentally illogical about Behne’s appeal
to the proletariat – a social class historically excluded from the art market due to a
lack of expendable income – to buy the architectural drawings on display.
91
There
exist no surviving records that indicate whether or not any drawings in the
exhibition actually sold, or if so, who the purchasers may have been. A more
significant issue, as Weinstein writes, is that it is “uncertain whether a public

90
Behne, leaflet to the “Exhibition for Unknown Architects.” Reprinted in Conrads, Programs and
Manifestoes on 20
th
-Century Architecture, 48.

91
Weinstein, The End of Expressionism, 76.
151
other than the usual clientele of the I.B. Neumann gallery could afford to
‘materially support artists through purchases of their sketches.’”
92

From this standpoint, the WCA faced a conundrum with the “Exhibition
for Unknown Architects” similar to the one Taut faced with Alpine Architecture.
Although Taut and the WCA demonstrated a fervent desire to expose the working
classes to ideals foundational to their respective paper projects – ideals that could
aid in rehabilitating a war-torn nation and the dilapidated state of architecture in
Germany – they could not escape the “snobs” upon which they were dependent
for their financial and professional livelihood. This realization ultimately forced
concessions by both Taut and the WCA that undermined the integrity of their
projects. Taut’s willingness to allow Alpine Architecture to evolve into a
collectible book too luxurious and overpriced for the masses he desired to reach
led to what he perceived to be the “corruption” of his project by the “mammon”
that would be supporting him. For the WCA, the “Exhibition for Unknown
Architects” was the culmination of a concerted effort to transform the content and
practice of the art exhibition from a bourgeois frivolity into a means of edification
for the proletariat. And yet, the exhibition, with its location in Neumann’s gallery
and its appeal to the public for financial support, was unable to escape the very
bourgeois art system and consumption practices it sought to overthrow.
Ultimately, the public for Expressionist paper architecture was constructed
not by the Expressionists but by the intermediary individuals and institutions the

92
Weinstein, The End of Expressionism, 76.
152
Expressionists needed in order to disseminate their work in the public sphere. In
regard to texts, the example of Taut’s Alpine Architecture reveals that architects
were completely dependent upon the decisions of publishers, who had
considerable say in how a project was to be formatted and to whom it would be
distributed. One might argue that Alpine Architecture was as much Osthaus’s
portfolio as it was Taut’s, for Osthaus’s conception of what Alpine Architecture
should be eventually trumped Taut’s own goals for his work. In the end, it was
not Taut but Osthaus who both determined the public for one of the most
historically significant examples of Expressionist paper architecture after 1914,
and established the market in which Taut would be forced to rely until the
recovery of his architectural practice in the mid-1920s.
Similarly, the architectural drawings on view in the “Exhibition for
Unknown Architects” were formatted and presented in the same manner as a fine
art drawing or etching, and they required methods of display and consumption
typical for such works. As a result, the WCA, despite its efforts to create a
working-class exhibition, found itself with little choice but to participate in the
elite Berlin art market and exhibit in exclusive galleries, such as I.B. Neumann’s.
Although we know that the exhibition received working class visitors, the
exclusive location primarily fostered the attendance of the members of the middle
class and bourgeoisie who regularly attended events at Neumann’s gallery.
93
The
exhibition was also critiqued in the same manner as a conventional art exhibition,

93
Weinstein, The End of Expressionism, 76.
153
despite the fact that it was an exhibition of architectural drawings by
“unknowns.”
94
In other words, the paper architecture on display was held to the
same standard as any other artwork in a gallery. Regardless of proclamations by
the WCA that the “Exhibition for Unknown Architects” was for the proletariat,
the public the exhibition generated for Expressionist paper architecture was not an
overwhelmingly “proletariat” one, and the expectations placed on it by the WCA
were no different than the expectations placed on a typical art-buying public in a
bourgeois gallery or salon.
The difficulty in establishing a public that was receptive to and
supportive of the visual aesthetic and philosophical ideals of Expressionist paper
architecture would become increasingly problematic for its architects, a group that
now included artists and intellectuals who were not architects at all, but who had
accepted the WCA’s call to “build” Germany through utopian architectural
fantasies. This expanding circle of visionaries would soon usher in a new phase of
paper architecture with a decidedly less public focus, one in which the very
process of creating paper architecture would come to the forefront along with an
increased self-consciousness on the part of its practitioners of the fact that they
were “paper architects” as opposed to practicing architects. It is to this subject that
I now turn.

94
Whyte, Bruno Taut and the Architecture of Activism, 137. Reviews of the exhibition are also discussed in
Weinstein, The End of Expressionism, 75-76.
154
Chapter Three: Paper Prophecy – The Expressionist Architect as Prophet

Spring 1919 held considerable promise for Expressionist architecture despite the
architectural community’s continual struggles to find work amidst Germany’s worsening
economic conditions.
1
Although the “Exhibition for Unknown Architects” was not what
one would consider a public triumph, it did find some success on a symbolic level. Its
brief run demonstrated that architectural experimentation could indeed survive in
troubled times if the avant-garde was willing to embrace alternative media, techniques,
and marketing to bring their work to the public. The exhibition also proved that the
utopian ideals at the core of Expressionist architecture could unite individuals from
different fields in an effort to “build” Germany’s future, even if this effort was confined
to drawings and texts. The mere feat of bringing together such a variety of artists,
architects, and intellectuals to promote architectural fantasy and idealism is, historically
speaking, one of the “Exhibition for Unknown Architect’s” greatest legacies.
Yet, in the midst of this optimism, there was mounting concern on the part of
some individuals that something significant had been compromised – even lost – in
regard to the architect and his professional identity. Taut, whose career appeared to be on
the verge of improvement with the completion of his elaborate portfolio Alpine
Architecture, was keenly aware that the very fact that he was creating portfolios at all
indicated an important professional shift for him personally. In an untitled essay written

1
According to statistical information gathered by historian Richard Bessel, over one million men and
women registered as “looking for work” with Germany’s Labor Exchange department each month in 1919.
The pressure caused by this mass unemployment was only compounded by the inflation crisis. Bessel
documents that the general cost of living index was 8.67 times higher in February 1920 than it was from
1913 to 1914. See Richard Bessel, Germany after the First World War (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
1993), 131, 180.
155
for the leaflet to the “Exhibition for Unknown Architects,” Taut expressed his frustration
with his limited working conditions, placing specific blame on the public for failing to
demand in the aftermath of war what he believed to be an authentic architecture – one
devoid of all utilitarian concerns, just as he originally advocated for in his 1914 essay, “A
Necessity.” For Taut, it was not the collapse of the German building industry but the
widespread rejection of true architectural “creators” that had essentially halted the
construction of meaningful and beautiful edifices, leaving him and his like-minded
colleagues to retreat and wait patiently until empty calls for utility and function had
ceased.
2
Thus perceiving himself a victim of poor judgment and taste within the public
sphere, Taut dramatically lamented: “Are not we, who are at the mercy of an all-
devouring society, parasites in the fabric of a society that knows no architecture, wants no
architecture and therefore needs no architects!”
3

Taut’s distinction between the “architect-creator” (the idealistic architect whose
designs inspire beauty and spiritual awareness in society), and the builder of utility (the
architect whose work simply supports society’s basic physical needs), and his conclusion
that the latter had triumphed over the former in the months following the November

2
Bruno Taut (with Adolf Behne and Walter Gropius), leaflet to the “Exhibition for Unknown Architects,”
[1919]. Reprinted in Ulrich Conrads, Programs and Manifestoes on 20
th
-Century Architecture (Cambridge,
MA: MIT Press, 1970), 47. Iain Boyd Whyte has argued that Taut’s harsh criticism of function-based
architecture (which Taut defines in his essay as architecture that merely gives a “pleasant shape” to banal
utility buildings such as factories and schools) was directed specifically at the pre-war architects in the
Deutscher Werkbund who placed a primary emphasis on function in their design. Whyte notes that Hans
Poelzig, who had been a supporter alongside Taut of the architect’s right to creative impulse within the
Werkbund, took particular offense at Taut’s essay. He complained that Taut’s specific criticisms against
“water-towers” and “fire stations” – two structures Poelzig himself had designed – was a personal attack
against him. Poelzig was in fact so upset about this perceived slight that he informed Gropius in April 1919
that, “due to the general attitude of Taut,” he wished to resign from the Working Council for Art altogether.
See Iain Boyd Whyte, Bruno Taut and the Architecture of Activism (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1982), 131.

3
Ibid., 47.
156
Revolution, ultimately raised the question of what the architect-creator was to do in the
face of this widespread rejection.
4
If the true architect could not create in the present
moment, what, then, becomes of him? More importantly, what becomes of his purpose?
Taut responded to these questions with the following:
In our profession we cannot be creators today, but we are seekers
and callers. We shall not cease seeking for that which may later
crystallize out, and calling for companions who will go with us
on the hard path, who know in deep humility that everything
today is nothing but the very first light of dawn, and who prepare
themselves in self-forgetful surrender for the rising of the new sun.
We call upon all those who believe in the future. All strong
longing for the future is architecture in the making. One day there
will be a world-view, and then there will also be its sign, its crystal –
architecture.
5

Iain Boyd Whyte has argued that Taut’s statements here regarding the architect’s new
calling indicate an agonistic turn in his architectural ideology and a nihilist stance that
demands that the creator must be willing to “sacrifice” and “suffer” in the hope that his
ideals might someday revolutionize the status quo.
6
Certainly, Taut’s call for those

4
The description Taut gives here of a nation completely devoid of all architectural innovation and
creativity is, of course, exaggerated. Although construction of all kinds diminished greatly in the immediate
post-war years, 1919 was the year in which Poelzig’s cavernous Große Schauspielhaus in Berlin – one of
the most important examples of built Expressionist architecture – was completed. The architect Erich
Mendelsohn was also at work at this time on another monumental Expressionist building, the Einsteinturm
in Potsdam (completed in 1920-21). Both buildings, while functional, embody the organic, dynamic forms
synonymous with the movement since the construction of Taut’s Glass House pavilion at the 1914
Werkbund exhibition. For additional information on Mendelsohn and his unique and complicated position
within the Expressionist movement, see Kathleen James-Chakraborty, Erich Mendelsohn and the
Architecture of German Modernism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997).

5
Taut, leaflet to the “Exhibition for Unknown Architects.” Reprinted in Conrads, Programs and
Manifestoes on 20
th
-Century Architecture, 47.

6
Whyte, Bruno Taut and the Architecture of Activism, 143. Whyte is careful to point out that agonism is a
defining characteristic of the avant-garde in general. His view aligns with Renato Poggioli’s definition of
the avant-garde as an entity rooted predominantly in antagonism and alienation, as well as Peter Bürger’s
influential argument that the avant-garde seeks to negate individual creation in favor of a self-sacrificial
anonymity. For more on the theoretical basis of the avant-garde, see Renato Poggioli, The Theory of the
157
desiring to join him in “self-forgetful surrender” and to consider society’s needs with
“deep humility” seems to reinforce an agonistic reading, especially when one recalls his
elitist demand, only five years earlier, for the appointment of an architect as the
Werkbund’s first “artistic dictator.”
7
Perhaps humbled by the experience of
unemployment and financial devastation, Taut now claims solitude and struggle as the
architect’s primary crosses to bear – crosses that are to be bore dutifully, with a
conviction of hope, and without desire for personal gain.
To focus exclusively on the self-sacrificial elements of this passage is to miss
what is arguably an equally significant point, however. Taut is actively altering the
identity of the architect, and therefore his purpose, to better align with his personal
reality. For Taut, it is not enough that the architect willingly suffers during periods when
creativity may not be valued and work opportunities diminish. The architect must still
preserve his relevance in the midst of these challenges, meaning that the architect who
cannot create must therefore become something else. The “something else” in this
context is the mysterious “seeker” (Suchende) and “caller” (Rufende) – two roles that,
markedly vague and mystical in meaning, offer a striking contrast to the very precise,
technical definition the term “architect” typically invites. “Seeker” and “caller” conjure
images in one’s mind of someone with a distinctly spiritual purpose who locates and then
disseminates meaning through more primordial modes of communication such as texts
and speech. In a period in which building was not a possibility, it is quite significant then

Avant-Garde (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1968), and Peter Bürger, Theory of the Avant-
Garde (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1984).

7
For a brief discussion of this incident, see chapter one of the dissertation.
158
that Taut essentially re-categorized the architect as a mystic, as one who would be
expected to explore philosophical and theoretical problems through texts and drawings.
In keeping with this new concept of the architect, Taut redefines the very
discipline of architecture into simply the by-product of “all strong longing for the future.”
The assertion that a shared utopianism is now the only requirement in the creation of a
true architecture – whatever its form – is critical in devaluing the training and practice
typically associated with the profession. It also undermines the notion that one must
engage in the physical act of building to have credibility as an architect. With an air of
false modesty, Taut, then, self-consciously constructs an argument that validates
unconventional paper architectural works, such Alpine Architecture or the drawings
displayed in the “Exhibition for Unknown Architects,” as architecture and dismisses
mere practical forms of building as antagonistic to Architecture in its purest conceptual
form. This redefinition of architecture also justifies the inclusion of non-architectural
professionals in architectural endeavors, for intuitive understanding of the field’s
restorative power is given more import than any lack of technical ability, training, or
experience. A writer or painter, in other words, could potentially be allotted more
architectural credibility through this system of thought than a respected Functionalist
architect in the Deutscher Werkbund, such as Peter Behrens.
8

8
Behrens is today viewed as the preeminent figure in the development of the Modernist aesthetic in
German architecture prior to World War I. He was critical in fostering an approach to building based on the
machine in which functionality and the use of modern materials (such as reinforced concrete, glass, and
steel) were upheld as the most representative attributes of a distinctly “modern” architecture. His most
important building from this period was the AEG Turbine Factory, completed in 1908-1909. Walter
Gropius began his career as an apprentice under Behrens, but moved away from Functionalism toward
Expressionism between 1914 and approximately 1922 due to his disillusionment with World War I, and his
desire to see a radical alternative to the aesthetics and values he equated with the Wilhelmine Empire.
159
Although Taut’s essay for the “Exhibition for Unknown Architects” is shaped by
an agenda that is clearly self-serving and reflective of his personal circumstances, its
assertion that the architect is above all else an ideologue was taken extremely seriously
by its author. As the spring gave way to summer and then to fall, this conviction only
grew more intense as he continued to fail in his efforts to secure public support and
commissions. Taut, who had initially believed the war’s end would usher in a new era of
rebuilding and construction, received only one architectural commission in 1919. This
commission did not, as he had hoped, originate from the newly instated democratic
government, but from Karl Ernst Osthaus, who requested Taut to draw up plans for a
school that was to be affiliated with the publisher’s Folkwang Museum in Hagen.
(Fig. 40) The funding for this project, however, fell through shortly thereafter, and the
school was never realized.
9
Even Walter Gropius, Taut’s friend and colleague, who had
already established himself – alongside Behrens – as one of the leading Modernist
architects in Germany before the war (and in April 1919 established the Staatliches
Bauhaus in Weimar), did not secure a single building commission until 1920. This
commission, a residence in Berlin known as the Sommerfeld House, was financed
privately by the timber industrialist, Adolf Sommerfeld, and was constructed from the
only material attainable by the architect at the time: wood salvaged from one of
Sommerfeld’s own dismantled ships.
10

9
Whyte, Bruno Taut and the Architecture of Activism, 169, 173. Surviving letters between Taut and
Osthaus confirm that Osthaus approached Taut about the school in late November. See Auf dem Weg zu
einer handgreiglichen Utopie, ed. Birgit Schulte (Hagen: Neuer Folkwang Verlag, 1994), 150.

10
Marcel Franciscono, Walter Gropius and the Creation of the Bauhaus in Weimar (Urbana, IL: University
of Illinois Press, 1971), 40.
160

Figure 40: Bruno Taut, ground plan for the Folkwang School in Hagen, January 1920.

161
With little work to occupy his time, and with virtually no materials and funding
available to support building endeavors in the near future, Taut eventually focused his
efforts on formulating a more organized means by which the architect might grow in his
new role as seeker and caller. This resulted in the establishment of what would become
known as the Crystal Chain (gläserne Kette) correspondence, a series of letters written
between November 1919 and December 1920 and secretly exchanged among a small,
select group of Working Council of Art members.
11
Historically, the Crystal Chain
correspondence, and especially the drawings that accompanied it, are viewed as the visual
and conceptual embodiment of the Expressionist architectural movement at its most
utopian phase. (Figs. 41 and 42)
Although each of the participants in the Crystal Chain maintained relatively
distinct styles of drawing and writing, they collectively represent a passionate belief in
the power of architectural fantasy and spirituality to transform society. The fantasy and
utopianism is in fact so potent that most scholarly discussions of the circle center
primarily on these two elements. Wolfgang Pehnt, for example, examined the Crystal
Chain as a mysterious “magic circle” in which its participants “spent their time trying to
confirm that the magic was still working.”
12
Whyte argues that the Crystal Chain was a

11
The first text in which the Crystal Chain letters were published was Die gläserne Kette: visionäre
Architekturen aus dem Kreis um Bruno Taut, exhibition catalogue (Schloss Morsbroich: Museum
Leverkusen; West Berlin: Akademie der Künste, 1963). However, the most complete and accurate
published collection of the correspondence can be found in Iain Boyd Whyte’s more recent book, The
Crystal Chain Letters: Architectural Fantasies by Bruno Taut and His Circle (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press,
1985). In it, Whyte includes letters and essays written by the Crystal Chain participants that were excluded
from the 1963 catalogue, and his translation has been thoroughly checked against the originals. All direct
and indirect citations from the Crystal Chain letters in this chapter are taken from Whyte’s volume.

12
Wolfgang Pehnt, Expressionist Architecture, trans. J.A. Underwood and Edith Küstner (New York:
Praeger, 1973), 95.
162

Figure 41: Hans Scharoun, letter to the Crystal Chain, no date.

163

Figure 42: Bruno Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, December 1919; January 1, 1920; and
January 18, 1920.

164
product of Taut’s dissatisfaction with the Working Council for Art and its failure to
achieve the socio-political and cultural goals outlined in its manifestos.
13
With little to
show for himself as a former director of the WCA, Taut thus sought to establish a private
circle where his visionary programs could develop and find insulated support. Like
Whyte, Rosemarie Haag Bletter also argues that growing disillusionment with the WCA
was foundational to the establishment of the Crystal Chain, and that from this
disillusionment, Taut sought to establish a completely new platform – one completely
divorced from the political sphere – in which more “wide-ranging discussions” of
architecture might flourish.
14

In almost every case, scholars acknowledge that the widespread lack of
employment was perhaps the most singularly important factor in the founding of the
Crystal Chain. Taut and his colleagues were so limited in their professional options that
they clearly had no choice but to continue to explore literary and theoretical projects at
this time. With nothing to build, paper remained the only medium with which to work,
and as such, there were only so many activities with which an architect could occupy
himself. Taut reinforces this reality in the opening lines of his November 1919 letter
inviting select colleagues to join him in his new circle:
Today there is almost nothing to build, and if we can build
anywhere, then we do it in order to live. Or are you lucky
enough to be working on a nice commission? My daily

13
Whyte, “Introduction,” in The Crystal Chain Letters, 2.

14
Rosemarie Haag Bletter, introductory notes to the excerpts from the “Glass Chain Letters,” German
Expressionism: Documents from the End of the Wilhelmine Empire to the Rise of National Socialism, ed.
Rose-Carol Washton Long (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1993), 136.
165
routine almost makes me ill. And it is basically the same for
all of you.
15

The description Taut gives here of his life at this moment is striking in its honesty,
particularly with his admission that the severity of unemployment had reached such a
degree that it was now producing a negative physical response within him – one that he
could only equate with feeling sick. He also reiterates that, months after the “Exhibition
for Unknown Architects,” he was continuing to struggle with the extent to which his
professional life had changed. His comment that commissions were now something he
and his colleagues required “in order to live” recalls his statements earlier that spring to
Osthaus about how his lack of income compromised his ability to support his family, and
that his paper projects, including Alpine Architecture, were now a financial necessity.
16

His priorities at the end of 1919 therefore remained fully enmeshed with quotidian
concerns, including meeting his family’s basic physical needs and fighting off his own
boredom and inactivity.
Taut’s emphasis on personal and professional survival thus confirms his belief
that his identity as “architect” was no longer the same – or perhaps, could not remain the
same – as it was in previous years. His acceptance of this truth inform the next lines of
his invitation letter, in which he moved not only to reassert control over his career in light
of these changes but to also use the Crystal Chain to re-establish that sense of purpose for
himself and for his beleaguered colleagues. With a tone that is relatively optimistic in
comparison to the letter’s first lines, Taut proclaims that is perhaps “a good thing nothing

15
Bruno Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, November 24, 1919. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain
Letters, 19.

16
See chapter two of the dissertation, p. 130.
166
is being built,” because ideas and forms are given time to “ripen” in a manner that is
impossible in a normal working environment.
17
He explains that the slow, organic
maturation of these concepts would in turn allow the circle to “know [their] objectives
and be strong enough to protect [their] movement against botching and degeneration”
once the economy recovered.
18

Drawing from these statements it is apparent that through the Crystal Chain Taut
sought to officially shift the focus of Expressionist architecture away from the physical
act of building toward personal introspection and ideology. He demanded a new
conception of the architect as one who not only understood architecture in three-
dimensional terms, but also in abstract, philosophical terms. The architect, in essence,
needed to become as much a thinker and visionary, or a “seeker” and “caller,” as a
designer and builder. It is from this perspective that Taut proclaims in the letter, “Let us
consciously be ‘imaginary architects’!” The use of the word “consciously” here is
particularly significant because it required that the individuals Taut was attempting to
unify within the Crystal Chain acknowledge that the times had forced them to rely solely
on their imagination if they were to continue working in any productive capacity. But
more importantly, the term “consciously” in this context implies that Taut wanted himself
and his colleagues to actively construct identities for themselves as imaginary architects –
as architects who could find a way to embrace the media and materials available to them,
and ultimately to exploit them for their purposes. By doing this, the Expressionists could

17
Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, November 24, 1919. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 19.

18
Ibid., 19.
167
avoid feeling victimized by the political, social, and economic circumstances surrounding
them, and assert control over at least one aspect of their careers.
Taut was also careful to explain the underlying implications of the label
“imaginary architect” for those both inside and outside the Crystal Chain. Borrowing
rhetoric originally associated with organizations such as the WCA, Taut wrote that
imaginary architects are born out of revolution and are symbols of the forces of
revolutionary change. However, in contrast to the very real political revolution with
which the WCA was associated, the “revolution” of the imaginary architect was of a
distinctly philosophical, theological, and aesthetic nature. As Taut summarized, the goal
of the imaginary architect was to “break up and undermine all former principles” in order
to bring about new life. This falls in line with Taut’s earlier exhortation for the architect-
creator to embrace his new nihilist responsibility; the imaginary architect foresees
regeneration through the total eradication of principles and values hostile to spiritual
fulfillment.
19
The Crystal Chain thus symbolized the new, modern prophet as the
visionary who would come to declare the old way of living dead. Vested with the
authority to reveal the way for architecture, and ultimately society, to be transformed in
the future, this understanding of the imaginary architect as a type of spiritual messenger
would have a profound effect on the types of texts and drawings that would eventually
come from the Crystal Chain over the course of the next year.
A secondary element to the relationship between the imaginary architect and
revolutionary change is that revolution is typically predicated on the collective efforts of

19
Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, November 24, 1919. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 20.
168
a unified group rather than on the singular efforts of an individual. While all revolutions
have their leaders, those leaders are ideally supposed to suppress desires for personal
glory so that the ideals at the foundation of the struggle remain the focus. Taut draws
attention to this aspect of revolution in his letter, calling on his colleagues to sacrifice
their interests and individual personalities to “commitment to a higher task.” He asks
them to join him in forming a circle so cohesive in philosophy and goals that the public
will only be able to view their future architectural output as the product of a singular and
anonymous “master builder.”
20
Taut believed this self-sacrifice and uniformity in
thinking would come naturally to the circle, since there had always been a tendency for
those with utopian and phantasmagoric architectural leanings – today categorized as
Expressionist – to gravitate toward one another within various organizations, including
the WCA and the Deutscher Werkbund. This magnetic pull toward one another had
predisposed them to want to share ideas and to think as a unified “group,” even when
there was not one. Taut’s intention with the Crystal Chain, then, was to bring these like-
minded spirits together in a more formally organized way so they could systematically
provide feedback to each other on their respective projects, and ultimately maximize the
joy their drawings and texts might someday generate for society at large.
Taut sent his invitation letter to thirteen individuals, many of whom are viewed
today as the principle figures of the Expressionist architectural movement.
21
All of the

20
Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, November 24, 1919. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 19.

21
The notable exception to this is Hans Poelzig, who was not invited to participate in the Crystal Chain.
The relationship between Poelzig and Taut was tempestuous at times, particularly in 1919 after Poelzig was
elected chairman of the Deutscher Werkbund. Taut, along with Gropius, had hoped Poelzig would use his
power and influence within the Werkbund to formally implement some of the cultural programs the
169
invitees were affiliated in some way with the WCA and the “Exhibition for Unknown
Architects.”
22
That Taut looked to the “Exhibition for Unknown Architects” as his
primary source for talent and professional kinship demonstrates that he sought to
surround himself with those he believed embraced the fantasy required of the “imaginary
architect,” but were also attuned to the symbiotic relationship between architecture and
public need. In other words, it was not enough for a colleague to share a certain aesthetic
vision with Taut. Rather, Taut actively sought individuals who already understood that a
political and social revolution was underway, and that visionary architecture played a key
role in the nation’s rebirth and growth.
The artists Hermann Finsterlin, Wenzel Hablik, and Paul Goesch, as well as the
architects Carl Krayl, Hans Scharoun, Jakobus Göttell, Hans Hansen, Wilhelm
Brückmann, the brothers Hans and Wassili Luckhardt, Taut’s brother Max, and Gropius
received Taut’s invitation letter. The architectural critic Adolf Behne was also a recipient,
but he declined to participate in Taut’s new circle on the grounds that he had “doubts
about the main purpose of the project.”
23
A few months later, with the unanimous consent

Working Council for Art had originally advocated following the November Revolution, and also promote,
more generally, a spiritual revolution through the reformation of German architecture. Although Poelzig
openly advocated these ideals within the Werkbund as chairman (most notably at the September 1919
Werkbund Conference in Stuttgart), Taut accused Poelzig of not supporting the more radical contingent of
the Werkbund (and him personally) vigorously enough. Gropius would also later accuse Poelzig of
inhibiting progress within the Werkbund by his failure to work “uncompromisingly on behalf of its younger
members,” and for ultimately catering to economic demands over Taut’s ideas. See Whyte, Bruno Taut and
the Architecture of Activism, 158, 169.

22
Whyte, “Introduction,” in The Crystal Chain Letters, 2.

23
Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, December 19, 1919. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 20.
Although Gropius was considered an official member of the Crystal Chain, he never contributed any
correspondence. He did, however, receive and read contributions from the other correspondents.
170
of the Crystal Chain participants, the writer Alfred Brust and the engineer Otto Gröne
also joined.
24

The activities and protocol of the Crystal Chain were predetermined by Taut and
dictated in his invitation letter. All members were to commit their architectural ideas and
designs to paper and mail copies to each of the other participants for feedback. Taut was
careful to emphasize that this was to be done at regular intervals, indicating a belief that
the consistency of contribution by everybody involved was critical to the overall success
of the Crystal Chain. By maintaining a constant flow of materials, an ongoing “exchange
of ideas, questions, answers, and criticism” could be established.
25
Taut also required that
the group maintain secrecy about its activities and its membership. Each participant was
asked to adopt a pseudonym of his choice to be used in all correspondence. In most cases,
these pseudonyms, including Taut’s own pseudonym “Glas” (Glass), are symbolic of the
individual’s specific views on architecture and/or life more generally.
26

The participants were also asked to refrain from publicly discussing the circle.
Taut’s reasoning for this secrecy was that the passionate nature of the Crystal Chain’s
collective cause – to destroy the old and to bring new life through new ideas – would

24
According to Taut, Brust was the one responsible for coining the name “Crystal Chain” (“gläserne
Kette”) (see Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, October 5, 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain
Letters, 154). The Swiss painter Johannes Itten, who would become one of the most controversial masters
at the Weimar Bauhaus, was also approached by Taut to join the Crystal Chain, but he never responded
(see Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, May 31, 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 97).

25
Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, November 24, 1919. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 19.

26
The pseudonyms for the other correspondents were: Anfang (Krayl); Tancred (Goesch); Mass (Gropius);
Stellarius (Göttel); Antischmitz (Hansen); Berxbach (Brückmann); Prometh (Finsterlin); Zacken (W.
Luckhardt); Angkor (H. Luckhardt); and Cor (Brust). Scharoun (Hannes) and Hablik (W.H) chose to keep a
variation of their name rather than adopt a true pseudonym, while Max Taut simply chose to go by “kein
Name” (No Name). Otto Gröne did not choose a pseudonym at all. His only surviving letter to the Crystal
Chain is signed with his full name.
171
naturally generate “terse language” that outsiders would find difficult to understand.
27

The “secret society” element of the Crystal Chain therefore generated a mystical and
exclusive quality for its members. Whyte attributes this specifically to the influence of
Gropius, who attempted to transform the WCA into a “conspiratorial brotherhood” when
he assumed leadership in March 1919, and who, in Whyte’s words, also “conceived of
the Bauhaus [which was also established in 1919] as a quasi-Masonic lodge.”
28
This
general turn toward the secretive among the German architectural avant-garde was most
likely the result of key figures like Gropius and Taut experiencing failure as “activists” in
association with the original incarnation of the WCA. Their subsequent desire to
withdraw from the public eye and attempt to work out their ideas privately – or at least in
the company of sympathetic spirits – and without the threat of ridicule or
misunderstanding seems natural in light of the events of the preceding year.
29

The mysterious and mystical aura surrounding the Crystal Chain generated
through these principles of exclusivity, secrecy, and anonymity was critical in
establishing a spiritual and quasi-religious character for the circle from the very
beginning. Early letters indicate that many of the correspondents felt liberated by the

27
Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, November 24, 1919. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters,
19.

28
Whyte, “Introduction,” in The Crystal Chain Letters, 2.

29
Ibid. None of the members of the Crystal Chain appears to have disagreed with Taut over the need for
secrecy, but Taut did write that Wenzel Hablik at least voiced some displeasure over the use of
pseudonyms. Although Taut did not specify the reason Hablik was so averse to adopting a pseudonym, one
might speculate that it was related to a fear Hablik may have had over losing his individual voice and/or
identity within the group. This concern was similarly expressed by Finsterlin, who stated explicitly that he
feared the “fusing together” of the circle would compromise his individuality. Taut distilled his concern by
declaring that he most certainly did not want “individual freedom eliminated” within the circle. (See Taut,
letter to the Crystal Chain, December 19, 1919. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 20).
172
privacy of the Crystal Chain, and from the creative freedom of paper in general. With
little fear of rejection from others, correspondents began to shed their everyday identities
as architects and artists through their texts and drawings, and to embrace language and
ideas that reflected the intensity of their emotions and ideals at this time. With no
aesthetic or ideological parameters to abide by, fantasy and poetic exposition were
limited only by one’s imagination and abilities. (Fig. 43) This creative freedom further
enabled the correspondents to adopt alternative guises or personalities, the most prevalent
of which was the impassioned prophet, secluded from society, who was now called on to
return to the world to spread his message of salvation. Although Expressionist
architecture had always maintained a strong spiritual component, the Crystal Chain was
the first context in which its “architects” could fully shed their professional inhibitions
and present themselves as legitimate messengers of a higher spiritual or cosmic force.
The model for the Crystal Chain’s self-construction as a commune of architectural
prophets was likely Friedrich Nietzsche’s 1885 text, Thus Spoke Zarathustra (Also
sprach Zarathustra). The relationship between Nietzschean philosophy and German
Expressionism has been thoroughly explored in the histories of German art, a task aided
by ample documentation left by the Expressionists themselves that articulated their
enthusiasm for Nietzsche's system of thought and his published works.
30
Less has been

30
The most useful of these examinations include Dietrich Schubert, “Nietzsche-Konkretionsformen in der
bildenden Kunst 1890-1933,” Nietzsche-Studien 10/11 (1981-82): 278-317; Ivo Frenzel, “Prophet, Pioneer,
Seducer: Friedrich Nietzsche’s Influence on Art, Literature and Philosophy in Germany,” in German Art in
the 20
th
-Century: Painting and Sculpture, 1905-1985, eds. Christos M. Joachimides, Norman Rosenthal,
and Wieland Schmied (Munich: Prestel-Verlag, 1985), 75-81; Seth Taylor, Left-Wing Nietzscheans: The
Politics of German Expressionism, 1910-1920 (Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1990); and
Steven E. Ascheim, The Nietzsche Legacy in Germany, 1890-1990 (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University
of California Press, 1992).
173

Figure 43: Hermann Finsterlin, Assembly Room (top) and Dream in Glass (bottom),
c. 1920.

174
published on the more specific subject of Nietzsche's role in the formation of an
Expressionist architectural ideology or aesthetic, although the relationship between
Nietzsche and architecture has received greater attention in recent years thanks in part to
the publication of Alexandre Kostka and Irving Wohlwarth's 1999 edited volume,
Nietzsche and "An Architecture of Our Minds."
31
Fritz Neumeyer’s essay in this volume,
“Nietzsche and Modern Architecture,” is particularly significant because it posits that as
a lover of buildings, Nietzsche constructed through his writings an image of the artist-
philosopher as a kind of “architect of the imagination.”
32
More specifically, Neumeyer
argues that Nietzsche perceived the art of building and the art of life as analogous to one
another since they both, supposedly, originated from a primordial understanding of
humanity’s basic needs. In this context, the Nietzschean use of the verb “to build”
(bauen) is thus synonymous with the basic human activity of creating in order to meet
one’s own requirements to live, thereby rendering the practice of building equivalent to
saying “yes” to life.
33
For Neumeyer, this is Nietzsche’s fundamental contribution to a
theory of modern architecture – Nietzsche subtly promoted the idea that architects must
return to the eternal laws of creativity and leave behind outmoded academic and

31
Nietzsche and "An Architecture of Our Minds," eds. Alexandre Kostka and Irving Wohlfarth (Los
Angeles, Getty Research Institute for the History of Art and the Humanities, 1999). An important text
addressing the impact of Nietzschean philosophy on Expressionist architecture specifically is Daniel
Schreiber’s essay “Friedrich Nietzsche und die expressionistische Architektur,” in Bau einer neuen Welt:
architektonische Visionen des Expressionismus, eds. Rainer Stamm and Daniel Schreiber (Cologne: Walter
König, 2003, 24-35). Whyte also provides a useful overview of Nietzsche’s influence on the Crystal Chain
in his introduction to The Crystal Chain Letters (see pages 3-5).

32
See Fritz Neumeyer, “Nietzsche and Modern Architecture,” in Kostka and Wohlfarth, Nietzsche and “An
Architecture of Our Minds,” 285-310.

33
Ibid., 286.
175
intellectual approaches to architecture that had prohibited life, in all its aesthetic glory,
from flourishing.
Like Neumeyer, Whyte also argues that Nietzsche perceived the creation of
architecture as a life affirming activity. Quoting a passage from Nietzsche’s 1882 text
The Gay Science (Die fröhliche Wissenschaft) in which the philosopher discusses the
need for buildings more appropriate for man’s “search for knowledge,” Whyte asserts
that Nietzsche in fact advocated a “new religiosity” based on architecture.
34
According to
Nietzsche, architects would do better to direct their efforts to buildings that promote self-
reflection, rather than to devote their skills to the realization of edifices intended to recall
the image of God. Whyte points out that Nietzsche essentially argued for an architecture
that replaced traditional (Christian) values with an aesthetic through which humanity
could better locate itself, not God, within its walls.
35

Although it is impossible to know with certainty whether or not Expressionist
architects read enough of Nietzsche’s writings to extract any of the tectonic metaphors
and themes Neumeyer and Whyte identify in their essays, we do know that many did
relate on a more basic level to the aestheticism and ideas at the foundation of Nietzsche’s
philosophical system. Nietzsche’s texts were widely embraced by Germany’s male youth
prior to World War I as part of the nation’s emerging “youth movement”
(Jugendbewegung). This movement, comprised of small, organized groups of educated
young men (many of whom, including Taut and the Brücke artists, would become key
figures in Expressionist architecture and art), positioned itself against the rapid

34
Whyte, “Introduction,” in The Crystal Chain Letters, 4.

35
Ibid., 5.
176
industrialization and materialism of the Wilhelmine Empire. The youth movement also
sought to promote ideals more reflective of a “modern” and socially-conscious generation
– ideals that centered on the rejection of urbanization and bourgeois excess in favor of a
return to simple, rural living, cultural authenticity, and the ideal of brotherhood.
36

Nietzsche’s emphasis on both personal reflection and the aesthetic processes at work
within the universe appealed to these young men who located beauty once again in the
natural world, in human relationships, and in the freedom one has to determine one’s own
values and goals. As Riccardo Dottori has noted, Nietzsche did not simply equate art with
“skill and pleasure.” Rather, he understood it to be “the justification of existence, perhaps
the only legitimate justification of existence.”
37
This understanding of life as a work of
art was a philosophy to which young creators from all aesthetic disciplines could relate
and adopt both as individuals and collectively.
Additionally, scholars have theorized that the Expressionists, influenced by
Germany’s youth movement, were attracted to Nietzsche’s outsider status as a “protestor”
of Wilhelmine bourgeois values, particularly in the first years of the twentieth-century
when his works were still excluded from German universities.
38
In other words, there was
an element of taboo still enveloping Nietzsche and his legacy at this moment that perhaps
rendered his views more provocative and electrifying than they might have seemed

36
Reinhold Heller, “Bridge to Utopia: The Brücke as Utopian Experiment,” in Expressionist Utopias:
Paradise, Metropolis, Architectural Fantasy, ed. Timothy O. Benson (Berkeley and Los Angeles:
University of California Press, 2001), 62; Shearer West, The Visual Arts in Germany, 1890-1937 (New
Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 2000), 48.

37
Ricardo Dottori, “Expressionism and Philosophy,” in German Expressionism: Art and Society, eds.
Stephanie Barron and Wolf-Dieter Dube (New York: Rizzoli, 1997), 69.

38
Frenzel, “Prophet, Pioneer, Seducer,” 76.
177
otherwise. The provocative aura surrounding Nietzsche was also heightened by his
distinctly “modern” writing style that, when compared to the traditional, complex
academic style of writing promoted in the universities, appeared refreshingly direct, clear,
and topical.
39
It was due to this combination of factors that “nearly all architects…who
were significant for Expressionism were professed Nietzscheans.”
40

Of all of Nietzsche’s texts, Thus Spoke Zarathustra ultimately made the greatest
impact on the Expressionists. Based on a letter by Taut to his brother, Max, written early
in his career, we know, for example, that he read Thus Spoke Zarathustra in 1904, and
that he was intrigued by the ideas Nietzsche put forth. Although he never specified which
of Nietzsche’s concepts he was especially drawn to, Taut did write that he found the book
overall to be "of enormous and serious vitality" and that he had "learned a lot from it."
41

In the context of Nietzsche’s oeuvre, Thus Spoke Zarathustra is relatively unique
in that it is the only work written by the philosopher presented in fictional form with both
a discernible plot and with clear intentions to parody both the Christian Bible and
Platonic discourse.
42
That said, as scholars have also noted, it is part of a longstanding
tradition in German writing where a character’s progression toward spiritual maturity is

39
Frenzel, “Prophet, Pioneer, Seducer,” 76.

40
Schreiber, “Friedrich Nietzsche und die expressionistische Architektur,” in Stamm and Schreiber, Bau
einer neuen Welt: architektonische Visionen des Expressionismus, 25.

41
Bruno Taut, letter to Max Taut, June 8, 1904, as cited in Whyte, Bruno Taut and the Architecture of
Activism, 85.

42
Bernd Magnus and Kathleen M. Higgins, “Nietzsche’s Works and Their Themes,” in The Cambridge
Companion to Nietzsche, eds. Bernd Magnus and Kathleen M. Higgins (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1996), 39.
178
chronicled by an author.
43
The protagonist of Nietzsche’s story is the prophet Zarathustra
who, after having lived an ascetic life on top of a mountain for ten years, determines to
return to the world below in order to save humanity from its imprudence and, more
importantly, to help it accept the death of God. Zarathustra believes it is his calling and
responsibility to reach out with his revelations and transformative message. As he
declares prior to his journey: “Behold! I am weary of my wisdom, like a bee that has
gathered too much honey; I need outstretched hands to take it.”
44

The most significant idea presented in Thus Spoke Zarathustra is the
Übermensch, or “Overman.” Introduced in Zarathustra’s speech to the first town he
encounters following his descent from the mountain, the prophet boldly declares to the
crowd, “I teach you the Overman. Man is something that should be overcome. What have
you done to overcome him?”
45
The “overcoming” of man and all of his weaknesses
results in the emergence of the Übermensch, a being who experiments continuously, who
aspires to greatness, and who is willing to sacrifice all for the sake of humanity. The
Übermensch rejects bourgeois and Christian morals and values – including reason, virtue,
and pity. In their stead, he embraces all that is affirming about life, the earth, and artistic
creation in the modern age. Zarathustra criticizes humanity for its belief that man is an
end unto himself, proclaiming that just as apes had evolved into man, so too must man

43
Magnus and Higgins, “Nietzsche’s Works and Their Themes,” 40.

44
Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra [1883-1885] in The Nietzsche Reader, eds. Keith Ansell
Pearson and Duncan Large, trans. R.J. Hollingdale (Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2006), 254.

45
Ibid., 256.
179
evolve into the Übermensch. This metaphysical evolution is upheld by the prophet as the
true meaning of humankind’s existence.
The image of Zarathustra as the “modern individual’s” prophet was appealing to
the Expressionists, since they could relate to his message and to his mission. Like
Zarathustra, they too rejected the traditional, bourgeois values they perceived as
corrupting their society and they desired a more humanistic understanding of life’s
purpose and its relationship to cosmic forces. Although some, like Taut, romanticized the
Gothic period as the symbol of the balance between spirit, art, and humanity, they
rejected many of its theological tenets. In their place, a Nietzschean-inspired mysticism
was upheld in which humankind, rather than the Christian God, is located at the center of
a vast cosmic system, and in which aesthetics and the continuous task of creating
assumes a central role. While it is difficult to prove that Nietzsche’s writings directly
inspired an Expressionist architectural “style,” as Ivo Frenzel rightly argues, it is clear
that texts like Thus Spoke Zarathustra reaffirmed the concepts and values at the heart of
the movement.
46

The appeal of Nietzsche, and more specifically the character of Zarathustra, only
became more potent during and immediately following World War I, when Expressionist
architects suddenly found themselves professionally isolated, with little to do except
meditate on life, their ideals, and the condition of the world around them. Confined to
their own metaphorical “mountaintop,” they desired to re-emerge from this seclusion
with a message that would be transformative for their own community and the broader

46
Frenzel, “Prophet, Pioneer, Seducer,” 77.
180
society. In short, the Expressionists, particularly those within the Crystal Chain, began to
conceive themselves as the heirs of Zarathustra – as prophets for a people physically and
spiritually shattered by an outdated philosophical and theological system.
This mind-set is symbolized in a 1918 oil painting produced by Crystal Chain
member Wenzel Hablik titled The Path of Genius (Der Weg des Genius). In this
Expressionist landscape, colorful crystalline mountains crowned by the glass cathedral
become a visual allegory for Zarathustra’s journey to spiritual enlightenment. (Fig. 44)
In the painting, a figure described by Daniel Schreiber as “solitary and fearless” –
perhaps Zarathustra himself – is shown valiantly struggling to overcome the difficulties
and dangers he encounters in his ascent to the mountain’s peak.
47
Once at the top,
however, in the shadow of a great crystal house, he raises his arms in triumph at having
finally achieved his goal: Through his lonely struggles, he has finally attained the
wisdom and truth needed to regenerate the world below.
Although Hablik’s painting was completed a least a year before the Crystal Chain
was established, it exemplifies the connection many of its future members formed with
Zarathustra, his isolation, and his spiritual awakening, particularly in the shadow of
World War I. It also demonstrates how easily Nietzsche’s image of the ascetic prophet on
the mountain could be adapted to signify the architect’s own imagined and lonely journey
through mountain peaks (such as those illustrated in Alpine Architecture) in search of a
similar form of truth, albeit one more overtly aesthetic in nature. What is important to
emphasize here is that in Hablik’s painting, this truth is ultimately located in architecture,

47
Schreiber, “Friedrich Nietzsche und die expressionistische Architektur,” in Stamm and Schreiber, Bau
einer neuen Welt: architektonische Visionen des Expressionismus, 26.

181

Figure 44: Wenzel Hablik, The Path of Genius, 1918.

182
and more specifically in the glass constructions at the heart of the Expressionist
movement. If Zarathustra was burdened to share the message revealed to him at the end
of his spiritual journey concerning the Übermensch and the death of God, then the
Expressionist architect, as an emulator of Zarathustra, was similarly burdened to share the
tectonic truth he, too, had discovered.
The material of paper was critical in facilitating this guise of the architectural
prophet inspired by Zarathustra within the Crystal Chain, as it enabled a constant
exchange of philosophical, spiritual, and aesthetic conversations and debates to take place
amongst the correspondents.
48
In fact, the Crystal Chain members embraced this new
prophetic guise so emphatically in their letters and drawings that they quickly moved to
identify a means by which they could disseminate their collective message within the
public sphere. This resulted in the proposal relatively early for “The Book” (“Das
Buch”), a new “gospel” to be written and illustrated by the circle.
The initial concept for “The Book” was put forth by Wenzel Hablik in two letters
to the Crystal Chain from January 1920 inspired by a letter written by Hermann
Finsterlin. In his letter, Finsterlin warned the circle to guard itself against the potential
misuse of its ideas by “immature hands,” by which is meant, those individuals who lack a
true understanding of the Crystal Chain’s utopian vision and who could potentially doom

48
The conversational aspect of the Crystal Chain letters is a central theme of Ralph Musielski’s
examination of Expressionist architecture. He also refers to the Crystal Chain’s drawings specifically as
“thought-artwork” (Gendankenkunstwerk), reinforcing the circle’s emphasis on concept over technical
architectural design. See Musielski, Bau-Gespräche: Architekturvisonen von Paul Scheerbart, Bruno Taut
und der ‘Gläsernen Kette’ (Berlin: Reimer, 2003), 125-139.
183
their project to the “enfeeblement of a premature birth.”
49
Finsterlin’s language and
anxiety about a potential loss of artistic integrity and the possible abuse of the group’s
philosophical explorations by less enlightened individuals is strikingly similar to the
concerns voiced before the war by Henry van de Velde and his supporters within the
Deutscher Werkbund, who argued that form, in its purest metaphysical sense, must be
fully cultivated before it can be appropriated for use by the masses.
50
As a means of
protection against this threat of a violated or underdeveloped architectural ideology,
Finsterlin reiterates the importance of maintaining the high standard of exclusivity within
the group first advocated by Taut, writing: “The smaller, more selective, and more
polished our circle is, the more intensive and radiant will be its impact. Keep our temple
pure!”
51

One month later, Hablik responded to Finsterlin's unease with his letters, calling
them an “answer to Prometh.”
52
Opening with a quote from Friedrich von Schiller’s 1799
poem, “The Bell” (“Die Glocke”), that affirmed the necessity of harmony within lifelong
bonds, Hablik explained that he was not fearful about any misappropriation of his ideas

49
Hermann Finsterlin, letter to the Crystal Chain, December 22, 1919. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal
Chain Letters, 23.

50
For a more developed discussion of the concept of style as it pertained to German culture in the early
decades of the twentieth-century, see chapter one of the dissertation.

51
Finsterlin, letter to the Crystal Chain, December 22, 1919. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain
Letters, 23.

52
Wenzel Hablik, letter to the Crystal Chain, January 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain
Letters, 37.
184
because unlike one’s work, the human soul cannot be misappropriated.
53
Therefore, if
one’s soul is perpetually free from violation, the architect is obligated fully to offer his
images and ideas to the eternal forces of the universe in the hope that they might one day
bear fruit. The purpose of this self-surrendering is the cultivation of a desire for joy
within humankind, or as Hablik put it, “ideal pleasures – pleasures convincing in
themselves, which will also penetrate his soul.”
54
As with many examples of
Expressionist architecture, Hablik advocated the cultivation of universal happiness
through widespread spiritual awakening.
In order to ignite this spiritual awakening, Hablik calls on “visionary writers” and
“prophets” to combat the negative forces in the universe (particularly those linked to war)
and become “the heralds of the new life.”
55
This new life is based on an entirely new
religion in which the primary gospel is the divine nature of humankind itself. Having
been misled by the established religious and political institutions already in place, Hablik
– adopting Nietzsche’s language – asserts that the prophet must instruct humanity to
locate strength and happiness in one’s own being, so that “priests and rabbis” are no
longer the primary conduit to a higher form of existence. This re-education of man is
described as the “sacred duty” of the prophet, who is to remember in the face of rejection
and/or ambivalence that “millions of prophets are not necessary to sing to one man –
rather one prophet to sing to millions.”

53
The identification of the quote as a line from Schiller’s poem is made by Whyte in The Crystal Chain
Letters, 187, fn. 13.

54
Hablik, letter to the Crystal Chain, January 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 37.

55
Ibid., 38.
185
Although Hablik does not state explicitly that the prophets he summons in his
letter are the Crystal Chain members, it is clear that this is the case. At numerous points
he refers to the prophet as both “you” and “us,” and encourages the circle to “simply
believe in yourselves, you are the envoys.”
56
Hablik also affirms that the prophet can
exist and flourish without seeking publicity, which was, of course, a primary concern for
many of the Crystal Chain participants. He does not explain, however, how the group
could realistically remain shrouded in secrecy while actively spreading its message.
Hablik’s eventual solution to this problem came in the form of his proposal for
the creation of “The Book,” a description of which formed the basis of the second letter
the artist wrote to the Crystal Chain in January 1920. With the Crystal Chain unable to
present its gospel directly to the masses in speeches and sermons, Hablik asserted that
“The Book” not only could function as the group’s physical substitute within the public
sphere, but that it could also “render all the Bibles and Korans and ‘holy’ writings
superfluous and forgotten.” In place of these religious texts, “The Book” would arise as
the (Nietzschean) symbol of the new “religion of creation,” through which not only
“eternal values” would be proclaimed, but also a uniquely positive way of living.
57

Hablik’s desire to use “The Book” to inspire “positive action” was politically
motivated in part, for he believed the global desire and tolerance for war had destroyed
much of what was good about humanity. The cultivation of pacifism is therefore upheld
as a guiding principle of “The Book,” which he asserts “must contain the power to

56
Hablik, letter to the Crystal Chain, January 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 38.

57
Hablik, letter to the Crystal Chain (“The Book”), January 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain
Letters, 39.
186
eliminate the thought of ‘war’ for all time – to obliterate it from the brain.”
58
He also
writes that it must embrace joy rather than the “threat or specter of terror.” More
important than the call to pacifism, however, is Hablik’s belief in “The Book’s” ability to
give salvation to those who had already been shattered by war and were desperate to find
hope where there seemed to be none. Having personally experienced the trauma of
military conflict and its aftermath, Hablik believed the Crystal Chain could invest the
texts and drawings to be included in “The Book” with a truth that reflected a nation left
“groveling in the dust” and struggling with deep misery. Consumed by visions of death,
destruction, starvation, and unemployment, the Crystal Chain could thus confidently
prophesy their spiritual and aesthetic truths to the masses as a viable alternative to the
Wilhelmine values and ideals that had brought about their collective distress.
With so much import placed on the regenerative potential of “The Book,” Hablik
proclaimed that the text must therefore become the center of the Crystal Chain’s
activities. He was careful, however, to add that its overall development should not be
forced in any way. Instead, he proposed that the circle allow the project to give birth to
itself through the spontaneous moments of creativity individually experienced by the
Crystal Chain members as they explored their ideas on paper. Hablik was also insistent
that only the best creative examples – which he defined as drawings and texts with “the
most striking, clear, and convincing form” – be set aside for possible inclusion.
59
He
argued that the Crystal Chain should in fact wait a full year to determine which of these

58
Hablik, letter to the Crystal Chain (“The Book”), January 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain
Letters, 39.

59
Ibid., 40.
187
materials were most appropriate for “The Book,” reiterating that a project this significant
needed to fully gestate before it could be introduced to the public.
Perhaps the most revelatory aspect of Hablik’s proposal for “The Book” is his
concluding remarks, which assert that “The Book” would provide the Crystal Chain with
a “solid objective” to work toward.
60
This indicates that Hablik was likely struggling at
this moment with the realization that the circle’s visual and ideological explorations on
paper were not leading to focused, practical results.
61
For example, many of the Crystal
Chain’s earliest letters and drawings (those written just prior to Hablik’s proposal for
“The Book”) contain language and concepts so vague, and imagery so mystical in nature,
that they are at times difficult to comprehend. Finsterlin’s first letter, for example, is a
perplexing amalgamation of literary references from the Bible, mythology, and
Cervantes, that together incite the architect to arise as a leader on the earth and to fight
conformity. Although Finsterlin’s central theme is simply the life affirming role of the
architect within society, the clarity of this message is compromised by the liberal poetic
license he exercises in statements such as:
He [the architect] will conquer the centripetal spirits of the air,
stretch and spring over the ether that enshrouds him like a skin,

60
Hablik, letter to the Crystal Chain (“The Book”), January 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain
Letters, 41.

61
As Whyte points out, Hablik’s focus on realizing a fixed objective was emblematic of a divide that
revealed itself immediately within the Crystal Chain between those, like Hablik, who believed that
architectural fantasy must still maintain an element of rationalism for it to be worthwhile, and those who
desired to promote a purely intuitive fantasy. Unlike Taut, Hablik was not interested in promoting fantasy
for fantasy’s sake, but desired to see intelligible and tangible results from his work. The Luckhardt brothers
felt similarly about this issue, and they, with Hablik, engaged several other members in numerous debates
concerning which approach the architect should adopt. See Whyte, “Introduction,” in The Crystal Chain
Letters, 9.
188
shed layer after layer, and climb higher and purer and above each
of these fully evolved remains.
62

At another point in the letter, he equates one of the basic principles of the Expressionist
movement – humanity’s need for a new architecture – with “thousands of little hermit
crabs who loom for shelter from the everyday and everynight realities in illusions that
disregard the ascending steps of evolution.”
63

Taut’s early letters are similarly free-flowing in concept and language. His first
letter not pertaining to the business of the Crystal Chain is a series of quotes from the
recently assassinated Spartacist leader, Karl Liebknecht, that champion strength and
personal resolve in the face of trial, and from Paul Scheerbart that praise the beauty of the
eternal and cosmic.
64
His second letter, seemingly written in a stream of consciousness
style, reveals his “sign language” for an architecture based on a philosophy of life. This
sign language is rooted in numerology and astrology, and is presented as a list of numbers
that he equated with the symbol of the cosmos – the star – and those he equated with
principles of “contrast” and “Christ.”
65
Having fully embraced his prophetic guise, Taut
goes on to declare a new spirituality in which architecture, astrology, and “the
interpreting of the earth” are one and the same, thereby designating him, as a creator of

62
Finsterlin, letter to the Crystal Chain, December 22, 1919. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain
Letters, 21.

63
Ibid., 21.

64
Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, December 23, 1919. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 24-
25. Alongside Rosa Luxemburg, Karl Liebknecht was the leader of the radical Spartacus League, a
Socialist organization that in 1918 became the official seat of the German Communist party (KPD). Both
Luxemburg and Liebknecht were kidnapped, tortured, and murdered in January 1919 by members of the
Freikorps, a freelance army hired by the newly instated German defense minister, Gustav Noske, to put
down Communist and left-wing revolts.

65
Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, December 26, 1919. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 25.
189
architecture, as one of these interpreters. He also calls for a an architecture in which all
buildings derive from pure fantasy, impracticality, and frivolity – an extreme that makes
some of the more socially-conscious elements of Alpine Architecture seem almost
programmatic and rational by comparison. The illustrations that accompany both letters
are mysterious in nature, as they depict glass buildings that appear to have the ability to
fly, and a cosmic landscape of stars, mountains, and a temple adorned with a golden
dome. (Figs. 45 and 46)
It is conceivable that Hablik, while appreciative of many of the ideas and visual
experiments promoted in these first letters, immediately questioned their usefulness and
clarity outside this unrestricted form of paper. Although “The Book” would, technically
speaking, be another example of paper architecture, Hablik hoped the structure of a book
– particularly a “holy book” – would somehow foster more intelligible writing and
design. In other words, “The Book” was likely conceived as an antidote to vague
philosophical explorations and unrestrained visual fantasy, while still allowing their
activities as “prophets” to continue. From that perspective it can be argued that there was
ultimately a paradoxical aspect to “The Book” that stemmed directly from its material.
On the one hand, “The Book” was symbolic of the Expressionist architect’s desire to
redefine his purpose in a period in which traditional architectural practices were non-
existent. If the architect, limited to the medium of paper, was forced to become an
ideologue and prophet, then the creation of an aesthetic holy text was the most effective
means by which to solidify and give credence to this new identity. On the other hand,
“The Book,” as a book, placed limits on the extent to which these ideological
190

Figure 45: Bruno Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, December 23, 1919.

191

Figure 46: Bruno Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, December 26, 1919.

192
explorations could go. In other words, the architect would be forced to clarify his aims
and formulate a visual program that could conceivably be intelligible and adaptable for
the everyday person in the everyday world. In Hablik’s mind, there was little point in
professing architectural and cosmic truth if the form in which it was presented was
ultimately incomprehensible to the public they desired to reach.
Significantly, Hablik also claimed that “The Book” would provide the Crystal
Chain with an escape from their current work options, which in his words was to “only
publish and exhibit” – activities he described as the source of “misery and
cliquishness.”
66
Hablik’s honesty concerning the nature of the Expressionist architect’s
activities at this time is critical in establishing the extent to which the excitement
generated within the architectural avant-garde by the 1919 “Exhibition for Unknown
Architects,” and by individual efforts to publish, had diminished by the beginning of
1920.
67
Although it is impossible to know with absolute certainty, it seems Hablik
reached a point in late 1919 at which he had difficulty reconciling the exclusive, or
“cliquish,” nature of his and his colleagues’ work in gallery exhibitions with the
movement’s socially-oriented objectives, as well as reconciling their drawings and
publications with the tectonic grandness of their visions. Even though Hablik was not a

66
Hablik, letter to the Crystal Chain (“The Book”), January 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain
Letters, 41.

67
Hablik’s emphasis on publishing as an objective for Expressionist architecture, and for the Crystal Chain
more specifically, probably stemmed from Taut’s push to use exemplary letters and drawings from the
Crystal Chain correspondence, as well as individual contributions from its participants, as material for his
new journal, Frühlicht (1920-1922). In many ways, Frühlicht was the true public organ of the group, even
though it was never identified with the Crystal Chain directly. Taut regularly encouraged his colleagues to
produce material appropriate for publication. Hablik’s reference to the burden of publishing may have also
stemmed from Taut’s continued work on (and constant reference to) his individual portfolios, including
Alpine Architecture (1919), The Dissolution of the Cities (1920), and The Universal Master Builder (1920)
(see chapter four of the dissertation for a discussion of The Universal Master Builder).
193
trained architect, but rather a painter and architectural draftsman by trade, he understood
that there was something inherently limiting about the type of work he was forced to
create as an Expressionist “builder.” While “The Book” was not a true substitute for the
architect’s ideal goal – a building – it may have represented the potential for the Crystal
Chain to at least realize an ideologically coherent architectural object with which the
public could physically and intellectually interact.
As the unofficial leader of the Crystal Chain, Taut quickly responded to Hablik’s
proposal, writing that he wholeheartedly supported the creation of the “The Book” and
believed the circle should begin work on it right away. He was particularly drawn to
Hablik’s suggestion that the “The Book’s” long gestation period, combined with the
discernment the members would exercise in selecting its final contents, would illuminate
the circle’s ideals in their purest form while eliminating the unwanted “dross.”
68
Taut, of
course, did not see himself as directly contributing to this dross through his
uncompromising demand for pure fantasy, nor did he view “The Book” as a potential
source of conflict for the thirteen individuals who would need to set aside any ideological
differences for the sake of coherency and uniformity. On the contrary, he asserted that
“The Book” was exactly what the circle needed to establish a meaningful bond between
its members. Taut does imply, however, that if anyone, including himself, were to
“prove unworthy” of such an ambitious project, he should humbly step aside and embrace
the joy that comes from being a “mere prophet.”
69
The indication here is that while, in
Taut’s view, all members of the Crystal Chain were prophets, “The Book” would be

68
Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, January 28, 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 46.

69
Ibid., 47.
194
representative of teachings from an exceptional core of prophets within the circle who
had perfected their message through their work and who could offer genuine fulfillment
through the truth they had discovered.
70

Taut’s call for the architect to set aside personal ambitions in relation to “The
Book” for the sake of the greater good is reminiscent of his original aims for the Crystal
Chain in which self-sacrifice and humility are upheld as the guiding principles for the
“imaginary architect.” Yet, he and Hablik both envisioned “The Book” to be of such
spectacular philosophical importance that it would eradicate the need for traditional
theological texts. The project would therefore indirectly promote and validate a
privileged positioning of the Expressionist architect – as messenger of the new religion of
building – in society.
To this end, it can be argued that “The Book” embodied a second fundamental
paradox for Expressionist paper architecture, one that ultimately stems from Nietzsche’s
philosophy. As Steven Ascheim has argued, in their totality Nietzsche’s writings promote
two contradictory ideas.
71
On the one hand, Nietzsche advocated an ideal of radical,
secular self-creation, in which each individual has the power to determine one’s own

70
Taut suggested that since Gropius was not only a member of the Crystal Chain but also the director of the
Bauhaus, the Crystal Chain could commission the Bauhaus to “forge the clasp, make the binding, and chase
and engrave the cover” of “The Book.” He stated, however, that he did not want “The Book” to have the
appearance of any arts and crafts decoration, but only a style that was “primitive, simple, and severe.” It
appears that Taut found arts and crafts decoration to be antagonistic to his conception of stylistic “purity,”
although he never explained why this was the case. See Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, January 28, 1920.
Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 46.

71
Ascheim, The Nietzsche Legacy in Germany, 67-71.
195
“truth.”
72
Having replaced God as the moral and theological center of the universe, the
individual thus becomes a creator in his or her own right, and an essentially aesthetic
being. On the other hand, Nietzsche, in early texts such as The Birth of Tragedy (1872),
also argued for humankind’s Dionysian impulse toward self-destruction and submersion
within the broader community.
73
The Dionysian impulse is given a more positive and
altruistic overtone in Thus Spoke Zarathustra, where the Übermensch is upheld as the
highly developed being who willingly sacrifices or destroys himself for the advancement
of humanity. Nietzsche thus advocates both self-creation and self-destruction as defining
attributes of the modern individual.
The tension generated by these two opposing forces is similarly evident in “The
Book” and in Expressionist paper architecture more generally. From its inception in 1914
with Taut’s “A Necessity” and his Glass House pavilion for the Cologne Werkbund
exhibition, Expressionist architecture demanded that the architect adopt a self-effacing,
disinterested approach to building. It was a movement dedicated to the enlightenment of
the community and the regeneration of a nation left spiritually bankrupt by the decadence
of Germany’s leadership and social elite in the first decades of the twentieth-century. Its
principles were based predominantly on service to one’s neighbor and on the dedication
of one’s craft to the recognition and fulfillment of humanity’s spiritual and physical
needs. Expressionist architectural projects such as The Glass House, and later

72
This system of thought is known as perspectivism. For a thorough analysis on perspectivism in
Nietzsche’s wiritngs, see Alexander Nehemas, Nietzsche: Life as Literature (Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press), 1985.

73
See Nietzsche, The Birth of Tragedy [1872], in The Birth of Tragedy and Other Writings, eds. Raymond
Geuss and Ronald Speirs (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999).
196
undertakings on paper such as Alpine Architecture, the drawings displayed in the
“Exhibition for Unknown Architects,” and the Crystal Chain correspondence, are thus
emblematic of a desire on the part of the architect to form an architectural community in
which personal ambitions were selflessly set aside for Germany’s betterment.
At the same time, amidst this altruism, there is an aspect to Expressionist
architecture that is undeniably elitist and self-serving. For Taut, in particular, it was not
enough for the architect to offer his aesthetic program as a solution to war, poverty, and
unhappiness. The world, in turn, needed to affirm that his program was the correct
solution. This mindset motivated the WCA’s public demand that its representatives not
only be incorporated into the official government of the new Weimar Republic, but that
they also be ordained as the sole determiners of the cultural output for this new political
era. The “Exhibition for Unknown Architects” was intended, in part, to demonstrate what
this cultural output would look like if the Expressionists were placed in such a position.
Moreover, the desire for affirmation explains why when faced with the collapse of
the German building industry and the reality of working with paper, Taut re-envisioned
himself as someone as extraordinary as a prophet. He also surrounded himself
exclusively with colleagues who shared his fundamental views on what architecture
should look like and stand for. The Crystal Chain was enticing to many of its participants
precisely because it was a forum in which one could find validation and confirmation for
Expressionist architecture as an influential and exceptional idea. It also perpetuated the
dream that its members could re-emerge in society as not simply architects, but as
aesthetic and spiritual visionaries, and even saviors. Taut was particularly impatient for
197
this seemingly inevitable process to unfold and, despite the secrecy he insisted upon,
published his journal Frühlicht in 1920 as a means of publicly disseminating the circle’s
private explorations in essays and drawings.
74
“The Book” was to be the apex of the
introduction of the Expressionist architect as prophet to the public. At this moment, this
introduction seemed to be as important, if not more important, than the text itself.
Despite Taut's initial enthusiasm for “The Book,” there was no organized effort to
realize the project at any point in the Crystal Chain’s relatively short history. In the
known correspondence between January and June 1920, no additional references to “The
Book” are found, despite ample discussion during this time of other literary endeavors
pursued by the Crystal Chain members. This silence may have been, in part, the result of
an unreliable postal delivery service that plagued the Crystal Chain from the outset. As
early as January 16, 1920, Hablik suspected he had not received several letters mailed by
the other correspondents, a problem that prompted him to suggest establishing a more
systematic means by which to determine what materials had been sent and by whom.
75

74
Frühlicht was published in 1920 as a supplement to the journal, Stadtbaukunst alter und neuer Zeit. The
original run featured drawings, aphorisms, plays, and essays by the Crystal Chain members as well as
reprints of writings by Paul Scheerbart that passionately proclaimed the beauty of glass and colored light in
architecture, among other subjects. Certain texts border on the ridiculous (or as Whyte puts it, “the
infantile”), as the rallying cry of the journal was “Down with Seriousism!.” The inaugural issue featured
Taut’s essay titled “Down with Seriousism” in which the architect invokes humanity to replace the
“sourpusses” and all that is seemingly important in architecture with purity and the crystal. Frühlicht
ceased publication in September 1920 after a particularly offensive, sexually-oriented piece by Paul Goesch
was published, but was revived from 1921-1922 for another four volumes. All of the issues of Frühlicht
were republished in 1963 by Ulrich Conrads in Frühlicht, 1920-1922. Eine Folge für die Verwirklichung
des neuen Baugedankens (Berlin and Frankfurt: Ullstein, 1963).

75
Hablik, letter to the Crystal Chain, January 16, 1920. Reprinted in Whyte. The Crystal Chain Letters, 34.
Hablik's concern over lost mail was echoed two weeks later by Finsterlin who noted that "a lot of post
seems to have gone missing," before listing the drawings and texts he had both sent and received. See
Finsterlin, letter to the Crystal Chain, February 3, 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 53.
198
It was in the context of this ongoing confusion over missing correspondence that
Hablik eventually re-approached the subject of “The Book” in a letter dating to July
1920. Formatting his letter as an inventory list, Hablik meticulously identified all of the
materials he had received to date from the Crystal Chain. He also summarized his own
contributions as “8 pages of drawings, [1] letter ‘Das Buch.’”
76
Hablik’s description of
his contributions is interesting in that the surviving correspondence proves he had written
not one, but at least five letters to the Crystal Chain prior to July 25. Three of Hablik’s
letters (including “The Book”) which date to January 1920 may have been mailed
together and so may have been counted by the artist as one. However, it is more likely
that Hablik purposely listed his contributions in this way in order to call attention to the
letter that discussed “The Book.” This interpretation is supported by the fact that Hablik
casually mentions “The Book” again at the end of his letter amidst a series of brief notes
directed at both specific individuals and to the group at large. Hablik addressed two of the
personal messages to Hans Scharoun and Carl Krayl, informing them that he would be
including copies of his original proposal for “The Book” with the present
correspondence.
77
He then exhorts the entire group to reread the proposal “without any
reservations,” and to send him their “straightforward answers.”
78

76
Hablik, letter to the Crystal Chain, July 25, 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 125-
126.

77
There is no surviving Crystal Chain correspondence from either Scharoun or Krayl stating they had not
received Hablik's letter, so this may have been mentioned privately or within letters that are no longer
extant today.

78
Hablik, letter to the Crystal Chain, July 25, 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 126.
199
Ultimately, Hablik never received the answers from his colleagues he was seeking
in relation to “The Book,” which he counted as a failure on the part of the circle to fulfill
its calling as prophets. He continued, however, to refer to it regularly in his letters in the
hope that it might someday come to fruition. Adopting increasingly dramatic language,
Hablik claimed that the gods would only continue to bless the Crystal Chain if they
dedicated their efforts to “The Book,” and to “cast out the whole force of [their]
aspirations and searchings like a net into the deepest abysses.” He also stressed his hope
that the ‘The Book’ would become the new Bible and “holy grail” for the masses, since
its gospel of “freedom and beauty” would reveal the true meaning of life to generations to
come.
79
At one point, Hablik described his prophetic vision of the future in a brief text
titled “The New City,” wherein “The Book,” alongside lectures from Germany’s new
“cultural leaders,” inspired millions of people to work exactly six hours a day for the sake
of the Expressionist “Idea.” This “Idea” is described as the “free city,” a city with “new
life, new spirit, [and] new and divine precepts” are at its center.
80
By contrast, Taut only
mentioned “The Book” on one other occasion, when he noted that despite the lack of
attention given to it up until this point, he still believed it to be a “special publication,”
one that the Crystal Chain should keep as a fixed objective.
81

It is difficult to say with certainty why, in a group filled with idealists who
passionately asserted they were the prophets of a new era in Germany’s life and culture, a

79
Hablik, letter to the Crystal Chain, July, 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 136-137.

80
Hablik, “The New City” (“Die neue Stadt”), no date. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters,
151.

81
Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, September 2, 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 148.
For more on the context of Taut’s comment concerning “The Book,” see chapter four of the dissertation.
200
cohesive “holy text” such as the ‘The Book’ was never realized. One might hypothesize
that this inaction on their part can be attributed to their overall inability to agree on a
singular aesthetic and philosophical message, even as they were unanimous in their belief
in architecture’s power to regenerate humankind. The Crystal Chain correspondents, for
all their appearance of unity, in fact regularly disagreed with one another on minutiae
related to issues of form and ideology, and they interpreted the ideals of beauty and
fantasy, particularly on a visual level, in different ways.
For example, Hablik, who like Taut was drawn to the material of glass, could
never give himself fully to the latter’s call for a complete abandonment to fantasy. His
drawings focus predominantly on glass architecture as technical constructions, which is
to say as buildings that could potentially be realized in a real-world context rather than as
pure cosmic creations. (Fig. 47) Finsterlin, who tired of Taut’s insistence that glass
architecture was the only pure form of architecture, experimented with designs in which
softer, more organic forms grow together to create a tectonic entity. (Fig. 48) Finsterlin
referred to himself as the “Darwin of architecture,” a comment that indicates that he
perceived the practice of building as a naturally evolving process, one in which the
buildings themselves ought physically to reflect the biological world and its movement.
82

In contrast to the sharp lines of many of Taut’s and Hablik’s crystalline structures,
Finsterlin’s drawings ultimately promote an architecture that is comparatively fluid and
pliable, and look less like buildings than they do plants or rock formations emerging from
the earth.

82
Pehnt, Expressionist Architecture, 95.
201

Figure 47: Wenzel Hablik, Residence and Studio, 1921.

202

Figure 48: Hermann Finsterlin, untitled drawings, 1920.

203
Others, such as the Luckhardt brothers, complained that Taut maintained an
overly romanticized view of the mountains and the broader natural landscape as the ideal
site for Expressionist architecture. According to them, Taut’s personal frustration with
the city and urbanism had prohibited him from fully exploring the city’s potential as a
site of regeneration, which they believed should be the true focal point of the architect.
83

(Figs. 49 and 50) Wassili Luckhardt’s “The Monument to Joy” (1919), and Hans
Luckhardt’s design for a concert hall (1920), both illustrate their interest in developing a
monumental architecture that appealed directly to the people in the environment in which
they lived, in contrast to ideals rooted in decentralization. The architect Hans Hansen was
more content to focus on experimenting with a singular type of structure than he was to
grand cosmic landscapes. He dedicated much of his efforts at this time to formulating a
“Building Center” (Der Bauhof), where the administration and practice of art and
architecture are facilitated through a grand complex that is aesthetically reminiscent of
the temple complexes of Southeast Asia.
84
(Fig. 51)
As the artistic output of the Crystal Chain demonstrates, there was no singular
architectural truth for the circle to extol, as each member maintained a unique
understanding of what that truth involved. On this basis it can be posited that it was much
easier for the Crystal Chain members to re-imagine themselves as “prophets” individually
rather than as a group, and to utilize the freedom of paper to demonstrate the veracity of

83
Pehnt, Expressionist Architecture, 95.

84
Hansen’s description of the Building Center, dated to February 1920, is reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal
Chain Letters, 67-69. It was also included in the catalogue for the WCA’s second architectural exhibition,
“Neues Bauen,” titled Ruf zum Bauen (see Ruf zum Bauen (Berlin: E. Wasmuth, 1920), 43-46). For more
on this exhibition and its relationship to the Crystal Chain, see chapter four of the dissertation.
204

Figure 49: Wassili Luckhardt, Monument to Joy, 1920.

205

Figure 50: Hans Luckhardt, drawings for a “Concert Hall,” in Ruf zum Bauen, Berlin:
Verlag Ernst Wasmuth, 1920.

206

Figure 51: Hans Hansen, “The Building Center,” in Ruf zum Bauen, Berlin: Verlag Ernst
Wasmuth, 1920.

207
their messages independently. This goes far to explain why the Crystal Chain did not – or
perhaps could not – devote their efforts to “The Book,” though some were nonetheless
motivated to explore their ideas through drawings and through “prophetic” statements in
letters and in contributions to Frühlicht. In one of many textual examples, Finsterlin, who
argued that architecture must drive God’s six days of creation “one wave” further, wrote
his essay “The Eighth Day” as a rebuke to the God of the Old Testament for His
assumption that creation ended with the first week.
85
Finsterlin declared that creation
continues every day in each moment of life, and that the new God is therefore the god of
building who continually calls architecture from the soil and waters of the earth as the
greatest expression of beauty and life. Here, he promoted concepts tailored to his
personal views of the architect’s purpose and architecture’s ideal aesthetic form, as he
confidently upheld these views as a unique revelation of spiritual and aesthetic truth.
These views are not representative, nor were they likely intended to be representative, of
the Crystal Chain as a singular prophetic entity.
Despite the hubris emanating within the Crystal Chain, the circle struggled with
their persona as prophets, even as they actively sought to promote this guise through their
work. The participants quickly discovered that while it was relatively easy to declare
oneself a visionary with a prophetic message, or as the heir to Nietzsche’s Zarathustra, it

85
Finsterlin’s call to push the six days of creation “one wave” further is found in his letter to the Crystal
Chain dated to December 22, 1919, reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 21. Finsterlin’s essay,
“The Eighth Day” (no date) is reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 84-95. “The Eighth Day” was
originally published as “Der Achte Tag,” Frühlicht 11, in Stadtbaukunst alter und neuer Zeit 1, no. 11
(June 1920): 171-176. Other notable Crystal Chain texts with prophetic themes include Hablik’s essay,
“The Ninth Day,” which was written in response to Finsterlin’s text, as well as Taut’s letter presenting what
he describes as his “world-picture” (“mein Weltbild”). For Hablik and Taut’s essays, see Whyte, The
Crystal Chain Letters, 138-143, 159-164.
208
was far more difficult to actually produce work reflective of this new role. The Crystal
Chain members were, after all, artists and architects, not philosophers. This may explain
why Gropius, although an official member of the Crystal Chain, never chose to contribute
any material to the circle, and why only a small number of the correspondents contributed
with regularity: there was something inherently uncomfortable, even false, about
assuming an alternate identity – particularly one as vague as that of prophet – to inject
meaning and relevance into one’s architectural work.
86
Some may have felt that by
devoting so much effort to preserve their identities as architects through this guise, they
were, in reality, contributing to their metaphorical “deaths” as architects – as former
practitioners of a three-dimensional, tectonic medium in which buildings, not materials
espousing truths about buildings, are the traditional result.
Here again the material of paper returns as a central focus. Taut, frustrated with
his inability to build, established the Crystal Chain and cultivated the image of the
architectural seeker/caller/prophet as a means to justify his work on paper and to preserve
his relevance as an architectural professional. Yet, in reality, the guise of prophet only
reminded the Crystal Chain that they were architects trying to escape the fact that they
could only “build” on paper. Simply put, although the purpose of the Expressionist
architect had changed through the Crystal Chain, his fundamental activities had not;
whether as a prophet or as mere architect, he was still writing and drawing. It is for this
reason that Hablik most likely tried to push the idea of “The Book” as an alternative to

86
According to surviving letters, the only members of the Crystal Chain who appear to have contributed
regularly to the correspondence were Taut, Hablik, and Finsterlin. The Luckhardt brothers, Hans Scharoun,
Otto Gröne, and Hans Hansen contributed as well, although only on occasion. Others, including Paul
Goesch and Alfred Brust, contributed material exclusively to Frühlicht.
209
publishing and exhibiting. “The Book” offered something seemingly more corporeal, and
therefore more authentic, as architecture to the public than so-called prophetic
postulations and illustrations in journals or portfolios, and on gallery walls.
Ironically, Taut himself would begin to rethink the nature of the activities at the
basis of the Crystal Chain only a few months after its founding, along with their potential
indications for the architect as architect. Even as early as January 1920, he was concerned
that the freedom of paper tempted some merely to experiment with “pleasing form,” thus
endangering the circle to accusations that they were nothing more than artists.
87
This was
an appalling thought for Taut, who exhorted the Crystal Chain to avoid “any sort of
artiness” in both their texts and drawings in order to preserve their authority and
credibility as “builders.” By spring 1920, Taut’s fear of being dismissed as an artist
would also extend to that of “writer” and “illustrator,” two categories to which he and the
rest of the Crystal Chain would become particularly sensitive as their frustration with
paper’s limitations fully to express tectonic concepts increased. This frustration would
eventually inspire a revolt within the Crystal Chain against the very material of paper
itself, resulting in a drive toward achieving a “tangible” form of architecture in a period
in which the practice of building remained virtually impossible. The only contexts in
which this tangible architecture seemed possible were theater and film, which as they
would discover, fostered unique and complex problems in their own right. Expressionist
architecture in relation to theater and film is the subject of the following chapter.

87
Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, January 28, 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 47.
210
Chapter Four: The Revolt Against Paper: Expressionist Architecture, Theater, and
Film

The frustrations the Crystal Chain began to exhibit toward paper architecture and
its limitations were exacerbated in large part by a second exhibition of architectural
drawings sponsored by the Working Council for Art entitled “New Building” (“Neues
Bauen”) that opened on May 3, 1920, at I.B. Neumann’s Graphisches Kabinett.
Coordinated by the Luckhardt brothers, Hans and Wassili, “New Building” was, in
reality, an exhibition by the Crystal Chain more than a true WCA endeavor; all but one of
the participants in the exhibition were contributors to the Crystal Chain correspondence.
1

Hans Luckhardt wrote about the WCA’s involvement in “New Building” in a March
1920 letter to his Crystal Chain colleagues, explaining that both the exhibition and its
catalogue, A Call to Building (Ruf zum Bauen), would “go under the name Arbeitsrat für
Kunst.” He also clarified that “this solution was chosen in order to avoid giving the
impression of a ‘group.’”
2
Perhaps anticipating some dissention from the Crystal Chain
regarding the WCA’s involvement, Luckhardt reassured his colleagues that the WCA and
its agenda would not impede on the catalogue’s contents in any way, and he reminded
them that the collaboration was necessary if they hoped to preserve the secrecy under
which the group continued to operate.

1
Iain Boyd Whyte, Bruno Taut and the Architecture of Activism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1982), 203. Whyte notes that there was only one drawing included in the exhibition produced by a non-
Crystal Chain member: architect Fritz Kaldenbach’s design for a villa. Kaldenbach had died the previous
year, so it appears that the inclusion of this drawing in the exhibition was part of a desire on behalf of the
Crystal Chain to honor the architect posthumously.

2
Hans Luckhardt, letter to the Crystal Chain, March 19, 1920. Reprinted in The Crystal Chain Letters, ed.
Iain Boyd Whyte (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1985), 76.
211
The organizing committee for “New Building” consisted of the Luckhardt
brothers, Bruno Taut, and architectural critic, Adolf Behne.
3
Behne, who had declined
Taut’s invitation to participate in the Crystal Chain when the circle initially formed,
outlined the exhibition’s objectives in the untitled introductory essay to A Call to
Building. Here, he upheld the exhibition drawings as an example of their creators’
collective belief in the future, despite political upheaval and economic devastation that
continued to plague Germany in the post-war period. This optimism manifested itself in a
campaign on the part of the Crystal Chain to protest the building industry’s efforts to
combat the nation’s housing crisis through the construction of small, simple dwellings.
As Behne wrote, these efforts to build “average” dwellings were “not to relieve, but to
cover up” the suffering and needs of the people.
4
“New Building” was therefore the
product of the Crystal Chain’s conviction the general expectations concerning the
average citizen’s quality of life needed to be raised in order to stop the construction of
“miserable dwelling substitutes” (kümmerlicher Wohnungsersatz).
Luckhardt requested that the Crystal Chain participants submit directly to him
drawings they desired to display in “New Building,” indicating that unlike the
“Exhibition for Unknown Architects,” there was in this case no formal selection process
or evaluation of works.
5
The drawings the Crystal Chain correspondents provided were

3
Hans Luckhardt, letter to the Crystal Chain, March 19, 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain
Letters, 76.

4
Adolf Behne, Introduction to Ruf zum Bauen, Arbeitsrat für Kunst (Berlin: Ernst Wasmuth Verlag, 1920),
3. “…nicht zu lindern, sondern zu verkleistern…” The copy of Ruf zum Bauen used for this dissertation is
housed in the Special Collections at the Getty Research Institute Library in Los Angeles.

5
Luckhardt, letter to the Crystal Chain, March 19, 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters,
76.
212
architectural fantasies of the same type they had been producing since at least the
“Exhibition for Unknown Architects” – dynamic tectonic images that, in their built form,
would ideally rejuvenate and rehabilitate the human spirit through their beauty and
aesthetic harmony.
The standards of beauty the drawings represented varied widely in accordance
with each Crystal Chain member’s personal views. Hermann Finsterlin, for example,
contributed drawings to “New Building” and its exhibition catalogue that were
emblematic of his artistic rather than architectural background. (Fig. 52) Unrestrained by
practical, tectonic concerns, Finsterlin’s “fantasy” architecture was comprised solely of
biomorphic forms reflective of the natural environment – forms he believed fostered a
more organic, complete, and, ultimately, restorative union between humankind, building,
and the cosmic order. The whimsical quality of his drawings also underscore his belief in
the architect’s right to creative freedom, which was an affront to the current expectation
within the Weimar Republic that architects fortunate enough to receive building
commissions were obligated to sacrifice aesthetic and social ideals in order to fulfill
Germany’s need for simple, practical, and affordable housing.
In contrast, Wassili Luckhardt’s contributions to A Call to Building, including his
drawing, “Cult Building Interior,” emphasized the aesthetic possibilities of abstract
geometric form, light, and modern building materials for architecture. (Fig. 53) Similar
in concept to the interior of Taut’s 1914 Glass House pavilion for the Cologne Werkbund
exhibition, “Cult Building Interior” depicts a vast domed space constructed from what
appears to be reinforced concrete and colored glass. As light radiates through the
213

Figure 52: Hermann Finsterlin, “Fantasy,” in Ruf zum Bauen, Berlin: Verlag Ernst
Wasmuth, 1920.

214

Figure 53: Wassili Luckhardt, “Cult Building Interior,” in Ruf zum Bauen, Berlin: Verlag
Ernst Wasmuth, 1920.

215
building’s glass walls, the interior is transformed into a dynamic, vibrant, and mystical
space intended to overwhelm and uplift the viewer through its beauty and monumentality.
Although Finsterlin, Luckhardt, and the other participants in “New Building” offered
differing visions of the possibilities for architecture in the post-war period, the drawings
in their totality communicated the same ideal that had come to define all Expressionist
paper architecture, namely that humankind might be able to achieve peace and happiness
in a built environment unrestrained by material, spatial, and creative limitations.
The organizing committee for “New Building” did recognize the possibility,
however, that an exhibition of fantastic architectural drawings might be ill received at a
time when the need for basic, practical housing was at its peak. In this sense, the
exhibition risked dismissal as gratuitous, and perhaps even offensive, since the
participants continued their pursuit of fantasy-driven projects instead of supporting public
solutions already in place to combat the national housing crisis. Behne commented on
this issue in his essay for A Call to Building:
Of these sketches, nobody under us has been allowed to experience
the fulfillment of a single one. Therefore, are they pipe dreams,
utopias, fantasies, futile child’s play? One can always hear and
read it again: “…Down from the clouds, you Fantasts. Put
yourselves on the earth. Your lively world of forms is a mockery
of our times….”
6

It is unclear if the negative reaction Behne describes here was literal criticism directed at
the Expressionists in regard to other endeavors, or if Behne was projecting his own views
as to how the public might perceive the drawings exhibited in “New Building.” It is

6
Behne, Introduction to Ruf zum Bauen, 3. “Von den Entwürfen dürfte niemand unter uns die
Verwirklichung eines einzigen erleben, Also sind es Luftschlsser, Utopien, Phantastereien, überflüssige
Spielerei? Man kann es immer wiser hören und lessen:”…Runter von den Wolken, Ihr Phantasten. Stellt
Euch auf dem Erde. Eure blühende Formenwelt ist ja ein Hohn auf diese Zeit….”
216
possible that Behne was basing his comments on reviews of the “Exhibition for Unknown
Architects,” since the drawings were largely panned by critics. On that occasion,
comments ranged from complaints about the drawings’ irrationality to the accusation that
they were the product of a mental handicap.
7
Behne’s tone in A Call to Building reveals
what seems to be a defensive attitude concerning the works in the exhibition and their
relevance in post-war Berlin, as though he were anticipating significant derision and
criticism of the exhibition.
Not long after the exhibition opened and the onslaught of negative reaction,
foreshadowed by Behne in the catalogue, became a reality, his defensive tone began to
spread to the Crystal Chain members themselves. “New Building,” as Iain Boyd Whyte
rightly states, was essentially a “flop” in large part on account of its striking similarity to
the “Exhibition for Unknown Architects.” Indeed, there was nothing novel or distinctive
about “New Building” in terms of content and style. As a result, “New Building”
“attracted little notice and failed to arouse a wide interest in the public.”
8
Upon its
closure, Hans Luckhardt attempted to put a positive spin on the exhibition to his Crystal
Chain colleagues, proclaiming that, in his mind, “the exhibition was extraordinarily well-
attended, and [was] counted among the most popular that Neumann has held.”
9
He also
indicated that a number of individuals had requested to see the drawings, and that there

7
Joan Weinstein, The End of Expressionism: Art and the November Revolution in Germany, 1918-1919
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990), 75-76.

8
Iain Boyd Whyte, “The End of an Avant-Garde: The Example of ‘Expressionist’ Architecture,” Art
History 3, no.1 (March 1980): 108, 112.

9
Luckhardt, letter to the Crystal Chain, May 31, 1920 (first of two letters dated to May 31). Reprinted in
Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 98.
217
had been some inquiries about future publications involving the exhibition’s participants
and their work.
10

However, after meditating on “New Building” at greater length, Luckhardt
composed a second letter that offered a more detailed and frank assessment of the
exhibition. In this letter, he outlined the strengths and weaknesses of the exhibition’s
individual participants, and he expressed his thoughts as to why he believed the drawings
either succeeded or failed in appealing to the public. He described Carl Krayl’s drawings,
for example, as having a strong graphic presence, although, on occasion, they were so
“divorced from a literary idea they seem pointless.”
11
(Fig. 54) He praised Hans
Scharoun’s works for their “very beautiful ideas,” yet noted that he received complaints
about Scharoun’s lack of detail. (Fig. 55) One observer apparently also vocalized doubt
as to whether Scharoun had ever even acquired the skills necessary to develop his own
ideas.
12

The public was also ambivalent about Paul Goesch’s drawings, which were the
most painterly of the drawings produced within the Crystal Chain. (Fig. 56) Goesch
primarily used a combination of watercolor and ink to bring his architectural visions to
life. These materials enabled him to imbue his work with vibrant color, quick brushwork,
and comparatively soft forms. The distinctly artistic – as opposed to tectonic – quality of
his architectural visions ultimately appealed to the art lovers in attendance at “New

10
Luckhardt, letter to the Crystal Chain, May 31, 1920 (first of two letters dated to May 31). Reprinted in
Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 98.

11
Luckhardt, letter to the Crystal Chain, May 31, 1920 (second of two letters dated to May 31). Reprinted
in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 102.

12
Ibid., 102.
218

Figure 54: Carl Krayl, Light Greetings from My Star House, 1920.

219

Figure 55: Hans Scharoun, Principles of Architecture, 1919-1921.

220

Figure 56: Paul Goesch, Untitled (Fantasy Architecture), c. 1919.

221
Building” already partial, in Luckhardt’s words, to artistic “sketchiness.”
13
Members of
the architectural community, however, were not as impressed by Goesch’s painterly
method, and reacted “coolly” to his work.
Max Taut, whose “delicate” drawings reveal the influence of his older brother,
Bruno, particularly in his use of fine lines and crystalline forms, was criticized by
Luckhardt for a lack of architectural focus and an overemphasis on fantasy. (Fig. 57) He
specifically remarked that the drawings Taut chose to display in “New Building” “could
form a program if they had a stronger sense of reality and tangibility.”
14
Interestingly,
Luckhardt’s disapproval of Taut’s work as too fantastic and divorced from real world
demands appears to contradict his statements only a few paragraphs earlier concerning
Finsterlin’s contributions to “New Building.” There, he praises Finsterlin’s drawings as
examples of the “greatest fantasy” harvested from “the furthest limits of his artistic
creation.”
15
(Fig. 58) However, Luckhardt also noted that in the context of an exhibition,
the lack of variation in Finsterlin’s ideas and in his persistent use of biomorphic forms
generated a feeling of monotony for the viewer and betrayed a lack of “maturity” on the
part of Finsterlin as an artist.
A significant portion of Luckhardt’s letter addressed Bruno Taut’s contributions
to the exhibition, which apparently prompted a critic from the journal Vorwärts to inform

13
Luckhardt, letter to the Crystal Chain, May 31, 1920 (second of two letters dated to May 31). Reprinted
in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 102.

14
Ibid., 113.

15
Ibid., 101.
222

Figure 57: Max Taut, Concrete Halls, c. 1919.

223

Figure 58: Hermann Finsterlin, Fortress, c. 1920.

224
Taut that his “viewpoint” was utterly incomprehensible.
16
(Fig. 59) According to
Luckhardt, this critic’s and others’ failure to understand Taut’s projects was due to the
fundamentally contradictory nature of his ideas. Luckhardt argued that on the one hand,
Taut sought a very specific “primitive and primeval” approach to building derived from
the “one-sided” faith characteristic of the Gothic period. With this approach, which had
been germinating since his 1914 essay “A Necessity,” Taut associated spirituality in
architecture with a medieval view of religiosity that resulted in a methodology which
indirectly equated “spirit” (Geist) and passion with religious faith.
On the other hand, Taut also promoted a “universalist” view of architecture that
seemed to abandon the romantic idealization of the Gothic in favor of a quest to seek in
tectonic form a more generalized and humanistic Zeitgeist, or spirit of the age. In this
way, Taut explored through his work “the universe to the limit of the human mind’s
capacity,” establishing, in doing so, a “philosophy for life” rather than a medieval “fear
of God.”
17
For Luckhardt, the universalist understanding of architecture provided a
greater opportunity for Taut as well as the other member’s of the Crystal Chain to reveal
form’s “deepest essence” without the interference of outdated ideas concerning God and
religion.
18

Luckhardt recommended that Taut abandon the primeval components of his work
in order to focus on “pure form,” unadulterated by outmoded ideology, so as to minimize

16
Luckhardt, letter to the Crystal Chain, May 31, 1920 (second of two letters dated to May 31). Reprinted
in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 98.

17
Ibid., 100.

18
Ibid., 100.
225

Figure 59: Bruno Taut, “Our World is Light,” in Die Ehrebung 2, Berlin: S. Fischer,
1920.

226
future confusion within the public sphere. Luckhardt defined “pure form” as “that form,
which released from all embellishment, is freely composed out of the basic elements of
straight line, curve, and irregular form, and can serve any expressive purpose, be it for a
religious building or a factory.” He found some of Taut’s work problematic because
Taut’s idealization of the Gothic placed such an emphasis on the spiritual that it
occasionally inhibited his ability to see anything other than the spiritual in forms.
Luckhardt praised Taut’s 1919 portfolio Alpine Architecture as a work more emblematic
of the universalist approach, which he described as “far removed from the primeval and
the primitive.”
19
Rather than look backward in time and romanticize the spirituality and
forms of the Gothic period as the German architect’s ideal, Taut used Alpine Architecture
to address the harsh reality of Germany’s present, particularly in plates such as “Appeal
to the Europeans,” which criticized humanity’s capacity for hatred and violence. (Fig. 30)
More importantly, Alpine Architecture offered to the public an architectural
program that, in Taut’s mind, could positively impact Germany and other nations in the
future. Luckhardt, as a proponent of universalism and pure form, was likely drawn to the
political and social idealism at the center of Alpine Architecture and its promotion of
glass architecture as a form of architecture suitable for a variety of structures in a variety
of geographical contexts. He likely would have also been attracted to the relative
simplicity of Taut’s line drawings, which predominantly use basic, or “pure,” forms and
shapes rather than overly fantastic or embellished ones to convey the possibilities of glass

19
Luckhardt, letter to the Crystal Chain, May 31, 1920 (second of two letters dated to May 31). Reprinted
in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 101. Luckhardt also praised Taut’s portfolios The City-Crown (Jena:
Eugen Diedrichs Verlag, 1919) and The Dissolution of the Cities (Hagen: Folkwang-Verlag, 1920) as
additional examples of Taut’s universalist approach to architecture.
227
construction. (Fig. 24) Luckhardt commented that his personal aim as an organizer of
“New Building” had been to “show this pure form as far as is possible,” and that the
Crystal Chain’s collective failure to accomplish this task could only be attributed to their
immaturity and “own lack of quality” as architects, and not to the general ignorance of
the public.
20

As might be expected, Taut’s views concerning “New Building’s” lack of
success and the negative critical reaction to his own work were quite different from
Luckhardt’s. Coincidentally, on the same day Luckhardt conveyed his thoughts on the
exhibition to the Crystal Chain, Taut composed his own letter evaluating the event that
opened with the following:
We, that is to say some of us, are now appearing before the public
in the Neues Bauen exhibition. It may have some value in
attracting sympathetic spirits who will help lift the great weight. If
this happens in only one case, then the exhibition was justified.
Apart from this, I can’t believe it has any other value. Even if a
small section of the public gains a certain respect for the new
developments, it does not mean that a bridge of understanding has
been built, for our work can never be evaluated from pictures
alone, but only by entering into the ideas and attitudes on which
the individual creations are based.
21

Taut’s remarks indicate another critical shift in his views concerning the concept of the
architectural exhibition, and paper architecture in general. It is clear that, unlike
Luckhardt, Taut placed responsibility squarely on the shoulders of the public to find

20
Luckhardt, letter to the Crystal Chain, May 31, 1920 (second of two letters dated to May 31). Reprinted
in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 101. In his letter, Luckhardt does not discuss printed reviews of the
exhibition at great length. However, he does broach the subject, noting that he had not read any reviews “of
particular interest.” It does appear that these reviews were of a negative variety, because he adds brusquely,
“I know of no journalists who are capable of a sympathetic understanding of something that is still in the
process of creation” (p. 113).

21
Bruno Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, May 31, 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters,
95.
228
within itself the respect and sympathy his work and the work of his colleagues demanded.
If Luckhardt had argued that blame for “New Building’s” failure lay solely with the
Crystal Chain and their flawed drawings, then Taut argued that blame fell with the
ignorant public Luckhardt refused to acknowledge.
Furthermore, it appears that Taut’s frustration with the public prompted him to
question the overall usefulness of the architectural exhibition as a means to communicate
tectonic ideas. His change in perspective is significant considering that only one year
earlier, he upheld the “Exhibition for Unknown Architects” as the key to destabilizing the
Berlin bourgeois gallery and exhibition system. However, with the negative critical
reaction generated by both the “Exhibition for Unknown Architects” and “New
Building,” Taut eventually concluded that there was little, if any, value in exhibiting
architectural drawings, particularly if they were to be unappreciated and mocked by both
critics and the mass public alike.
It is clear that Taut’s devaluation of the architectural exhibition primarily derived
from his increasing frustration with the medium of paper itself and its limitations. His
statement that the Crystal Chain’s work “can never be evaluated from pictures alone” is
important in that his use of the term “pictures” implies something quite different here
than “architectural drawings.” Architectural drawings, such as the one Taut produced for
the 1916 House of Friendship Competition (Fig.19), are predominantly technical in
nature, and are critical to the business and practice of architecture. The purpose of the
architectural drawing is to convey to a potential client as precisely as is possible a
prospective building’s spatial, aesthetic, and material qualities. The architectural drawing
229
is thus not an exercise in art for art’s sake, but is architecture in two-dimensional terms
seeking to become a three-dimensional reality.
“Pictures,” on the other hand, are works that are irrefutably artistic in nature, and,
as the Oxford English Dictionary confirms, are conceived and perceived primarily as
“works of art.” Therefore, in contrast with the technically-driven architectural drawing,
pictures are not only ends unto themselves, they are also artistic exercises dependant
upon visual effects, explorations into the imagination, and the successful communication
of an idea or narrative. In other words, while the focus of the architectural drawing
remains the architecture, the focus of the picture – even one with an architectural theme –
is the creative attributes that make it a work of art. Taut’s eventual categorization of the
drawings displayed in “New Building” as “pictures” seems to indicate that his overall
confidence in his paper projects as substantive and legitimate examples of architecture
had diminished considerably by this point. Without the demands of clients and
commissions to encourage him to keep his drawings technical and buildable, their
tectonic qualities were gradually replaced by elements more pictorial, intuitive, and,
ultimately, artistic in nature. (Fig. 46) This shift resulted in sketches that, when
compared to Taut’s elevation drawing for the House of Friendship competition, appear
spatially false, conceptually unrestrained, and lacking in architectural detail. The fantasy
at the basis of the drawings also generates ambiguity as to whether the architecture is to
be taken seriously by the viewer – an element that contrasts sharply with the architectural
drawing, which actively asserts itself as architecture.
230
The increasingly pictorial quality of Taut’s work was also evident with the
publication of Alpine Architecture by the Folkwang-Verlag, which presented the
portfolio’s drawings as illustrations to a phantasmagoric story rather than as successive
examples of a serious architectural program.
22
(Fig. 34) Although this was not Taut’s
intention for Alpine Architecture, he eventually came to view the portfolio as little more
than illustrations in a book. His April 1920 letter to the Crystal Chain, written shortly
before “New Building” opened, confirms that he viewed this shift within his work away
from architectural drawings toward “pictures” and “illustrations” to be highly
problematic and dangerous to his constitution as an architect. Having considered the
negative implications of his recent drawings and projects for his career, he proclaimed: “I
am now finished with intuitive, illustrative works, I almost hope for ever. Concrete
matters, hard objects must now strike me.”
23
Taut’s expressed desire to abandon
“intuitive” and “illustrative” works is essentially a rejection of paper architecture as
something antagonistic to his mission. The creative freedom paper invited had, in his
mind, caused him to strip his architectural ideas of their very architectural qualities,
leaving nothing more than “pictures” on a gallery wall, and “illustrations” on the pages of
a portfolio. In order to overcome this dilemma, Taut determined he needed to reject the
false notion of paper architecture as architecture, and, instead, direct his attention once
again to concept of the building as a three-dimensional, tectonic entity, or, in his words,
as a “hard object.”

22
See chapter two of the dissertation for a thorough discussion of the criticism Alpine Architecture
received as a phantasmagoric rather than architectural work.

23
Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, April 15, 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 82.
231
Significantly, Luckhardt agreed with Taut that the relationship between paper and
architecture was an inherently antagonistic one, and that this was highly problematic for
all members of the Crystal Chain who sought to use paper to convey tectonic ideas to the
public through exhibitions. Although Luckhardt refused to consider “New Building” an
outright failure, he did concede an important point concerning the concept of paper
architecture based on his experiences with the exhibition: namely, that “something in the
public mind rejects architectural sketches.”
24
His conclusion that the public was not
naturally inclined to relate to or understand architecture outside its built form was an idea
that had increasingly become a point of concern for the architectural avant-garde,
particularly in a technological age when architecture could appear in a variety of two-
dimensional formats, including mass publications and photographs.
As Beatriz Colomina has explored in relation to the Viennese architect, Adolf
Loos, in his writings a decade earlier, Loos contemplated this issue in relation to both
architectural drawings and architectural photographs. In his 1910 essay “Architecture,”
he wrote:
It is a well-known fact that every work of art possesses such strong
internal laws that it can only appear in its own form…The
realization in stone, iron, and glass of an architectural drawing
taken literally, even though one would have to admit to the
drawing as being a graphic work of art, is a horrifying sight; and
there are many such graphic artists amongst architects. The mark
of a building which is truly established is that it remains ineffective
in two dimensions.
25

24
Luckhardt, letter to the Crystal Chain, May 31, 1920 (second of two letters dated to May 31). Reprinted
in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 102, 113.

25
Adolf Loos, “Architecture” (“Architektur”) [1910]. Reprinted in the appendix to The Architecture of
Adolf Loos: An Arts Council Exhibition, ed. Yahuda Safran, trans. Wilfried Wang (London: Arts Council of
Great Britain, 1985), 105-106.
232

For Loos, Colomina writes, “neither drawing nor photography can translate architecture
adequately,” because, as Loos argued, “what has been conceived in one art does not
reveal itself in another.”
26
In other words, if individual art forms are truly guided by their
respective “internal laws,” then the very notion of the architectural drawing as
architecture is impossible. A drawing – even one with architectural themes – is still
fundamentally a drawing, and will therefore reveal itself to the public as a drawing; it will
never reveal itself as architecture. To follow Loos’s idea through to its natural conclusion
then, all attempts to communicate architectural ideas through any medium other than
architecture – and by architecture, Loos meant built architecture – are automatically
doomed to failure.
This was the same conclusion Luckhardt and Taut eventually reached on their
own from their experiences with the “Exhibition for Unknown Architects” and “New
Building.” As a group, the WCA and the Crystal Chain could present what they perceived
to be legitimate architectural works on paper, but the public mind would automatically be
predisposed to reject them. Luckhardt still believed this obstacle could be surmounted if
architects could attain a purity of form in their designs that was unadulterated by unclear
and outdated forms that further confused the public. Taut, however, began to view the
exhibition of paper architecture as a lost cause. To his mind, the public would never fully
appreciate any visionary architecture designed in a two-dimensional format, especially
when displayed as a work of art in an art gallery. Taut in fact felt so strongly about the

26
Beatriz Colomina, Privacy and Publicity: Modern Architecture as Mass Media (Cambridge, MA: MIT
Press, 2000 [1994]), 65.
233
futility of these efforts that he informed Luckhardt he would no longer exhibit any of his
paper projects in the future, explaining, “In this form they appear to be too liable as
graphic art, with the cultural ideas pushed to the background.”
27
His decision ultimately
put an end to Luckhardt’s original plans for “New Building” to travel to other cities, as
the latter did not believe there to be sufficient quality in the remaining works for the
exhibition to continue.
28

Taut’s growing disillusionment with paper, combined with the general boredom
and frustration one might expect of an architect who had been unable to build for six
years, propelled him and several colleagues in the Crystal Chain to seek a different route
by which they might realize certain ideas in three-dimensional terms. With the building
industry still in shambles, and thus a limited source of options, this route ultimately led
them to the realm of stage design. The shift in interest toward architecture specifically
conceived for a theatrical context appears from a certain perspective to be a logical, even
organic, course for Expressionist architecture to take.
As I demonstrate in chapter one, Expressionist architecture owes much to the
influence of Scheerbartian fantasy, a heritage that naturally complemented forays into the
dramatic arts. As Rosemarie Haag Bletter has argued, the type of architecture Paul

27
Luckhardt, letter to the Crystal Chain, May 31, 1920 (second of two letters dated to May 31). Reprinted
in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 113.

28
Ibid., 113. By September 1920, Luckhardt would come to agree with Taut that architectural drawings,
when presented as individual works, make no visible impact on the public, although he did assert that such
drawings still exhibit a “persuasive power” when preserved in their original series as a complete idea. Taut,
as the author of elaborate sequential portfolios such as Alpine Architecture and The Dissolution of the
Cities, agreed with Luckhardt on this point. However, Taut goes on to say that such serial works are
appropriate only for a “special publication,” and that The Dissolution of the Cities was probably his last
individual publication of this kind. He encourages the other members of the Crystal Chain to embark on
projects only with a “developed whole,” with “The Book” being the most important. See Taut, letter to the
Crystal Chain, September 2, 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 148.
234
Scheerbart envisioned for his fictional works was innately theatrical, meaning that the
dynamism of the buildings themselves functioned as a stage on which the drama and
emotion of the narrative's characters was enhanced.
29
For example, in the 1914 novel,
The Gray Cloth and Ten Percent White, Scheerbart’s protagonists, Herr Krug and Clara
Weber, are standing in the Tower of Babel, an extraordinary exhibition structure built by
Krug near Lake Michigan. A pivotal setting in the story, Scheerbart describes the Tower
of Babel as follows:
The Tower of Babel had thirty platforms, with a circular platform
on top. On all the platforms were refreshment rooms. It was most
impressive up on the circular platform. One saw the colorful,
electrically lit glass walls on all sides. And down from the ceiling
hung many thousand-color lights that lowered slowly and then rose
back up. Also, the glass wall darkened piece by piece, and the light
was constantly changing. This metamorphosis of colored light
occurred so slowly and subtly that it was in no way disturbing.
30

The dazzling effects of the Tower of Babel – effects produced through a complex
balance of glass architecture, color, and light – invite the reader to imagine an
architectural world in which fantasy and beauty have triumphed over mundane demands
for functionality and affordability. More importantly, these effects set a literal stage for
Krug and Clara’s love story. Immersed in the Tower of Babel’s architectural splendor,
Krug notices for the first time Clara’s comparatively subdued gray garment with ten-
percent white trim. The contrast between the extravagance of the building and Clara’s
clothing immediately causes Krug to declare that he has discovered the perfect women’s

29
Rosemarie Haag Bletter, "Scheerbart's Architectural Fantasies," Journal of the Society of Architectural
Historians 34, no. 2 (May 1975): 86.

30
Paul Scheerbart, The Gray Cloth and Ten Percent White, trans. John A. Stuart (Cambridge, MA: MIT
Press. 2001), 8. Originally published as Das graue Tuch und zehn Prozent Weiß. Ein Damenroman
(Munich and Leipzig: Georg Müller, 1914).
235
dress to compliment his glass architecture; a few hours later, he asks for Clara’s hand in
marriage. In Scheerbart’s texts, then, color, light, and material were not aspects of
architecture merely to observe, they were to be experienced. This experience, in turn,
functioned as a catalyst for emotions and happenings that were equally theatrical in
nature and, ultimately, complemented the drama and fantasy defining the realm of theater
in general.
Expressionist architecture, at least as it manifested itself within the Crystal Chain,
may also have been predisposed to theatrical experimentation due to Taut’s personal
participation in and association with specific left-wing social and political movements
that had links to the theater. Taut was involved as a young architect with several circles
associated with the garden city movement in Germany at the turn of the century,
including the Choriner Kreis (Chorin Circle) and the Deutsche Gartenstadtgesellschaft
(German Garden City Association), which centered on a romanticization of rural life,
urban decentralization, and, in many cases, anarcho-socialist politics.
31
From this
movement came the foundation of Germany’s “People’s Theater” (Volksbühne) groups,
including the Free People’s Theater (Freie Volksbühne) and the New Free People’s
Theater (Neue Freie Volksbühne). Both institutions sought to bring theater to the lower
classes, inspiring Taut in 1914 to proclaim that the social idealism at the core of the
People’s Theater would help to shape the “new architecture” he desperately hoped to

31
Whyte, Bruno Taut and the Architecture of Activism, 9.

236
establish.
32
In 1919, at the same time as Taut was a member of the WCA, he also joined
the communist Proletarian Culture Association (Bund für proletarische Kultur). That
October, the PCA officially established the Theater of the Proletarian Culture Association
(Theater des Bundes für proletarische Kultur), although the extent to which Taut
participated in its activities, if at all, is unknown.
33
It is conceivable that Taut’s regular
exposure to the sphere of theater over the course of two decades prompted discussion of
this subject with multiple colleagues in a variety of contexts.
Although these ideological and political factors likely helped give shape to the
Crystal Chain’s views of architecture and its relationship to the performing arts, it seems
several architects simply reached a point at which they began to believe stage design
could provide an escape from their current work in the comparatively static realm of
paper. The stage, whether in the context of theater or film, perhaps provided in their
minds a unique venue in which even Expressionism’s most fantastic architectural designs
could potentially be physically constructed, thus bypassing the issue of whether or not the
public would or could intellectually engage themselves with two-dimensional projects.
It is hardly coincidental that letters and texts dated to 1919-1920 written by
Crystal Chain members with themes pertaining to the theater began to appear at
approximately the same time as Hans Poelzig’s cavernous theater for director Max
Reinhardt, the Große Schauspielhaus, opened in Berlin. (Fig. 60) Built on the site of the

32
Whyte, Bruno Taut and the Architecture of Activism, 10, 29. Taut’s quote regarding the People’s Theater
cited by Whyte on p. 29 can be found in Taut’s essay, “Das Problem des Opernbaues,” in Sozialistische
Monatshefte 20, I, no. 6 (March 26, 1914): 357. The Freie Volksbühne and the Neue Freie Volksbühne
were founded in 1890 and 1892, respectively.

33
Ibid., 155.
237

Figure 60: Hans Poelzig, Große Schauspielhaus, Berlin, 1919.

238
former Circus Schumann, the Große Schauspielhaus featured an interior dominated by an
expansive dome and a semi-circular seating arrangement that could accommodate up to
3,500 theatergoers from all social strata within the community.
34
Adorning the surface of
the dome, as well as the theater’s columns, were tiers of plaster stalactites that, during
performances, were bathed in light and myriad color. The Große Schauspielhaus’s
monumentality, visual fantasy, vibrant color, and creative lighting captured the attention
of Poelzig’s fellow Expressionist architects, including Wassili Luckhardt, who praised
Poelzig for successfully evoking within the architecture of the theater a feeling of unity
and infinity generally reserved for nature and the cosmos.
35

It was also at this time that two of the earliest and most important Expressionist
films, The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari (Das Cabinet des Doktor Caligari) (1919) and The
Golem (Der Golem) (1920), premiered in Germany.
36
(Figs. 61 and 62) As the stills for
both films reveal, certain post-war film directors, including Robert Wiene and Paul
Wegener, desired to create a cinematic experience in which the set played a vital role in
transforming reality and “participating in the very emotions” of what were essentially
horror movies.
37
The sheer size of the films’ architecture, for example, dwarfed the actors

34
Kathleen James-Chakraborty, German Architecture for a Mass Audience (London: Routledge, 2000), 76,
78. James-Chakraborty argues that the Große Schauspielhaus was conceived as a true community theater in
which scaled ticket pricing, based on the location of one’s seat, ensured that the working classes could
attend performances alongside members of the social elite.

35
Wassili Luckhardt, letter to the Crystal Chain, no date. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters,
31.

36
Poelzig was the primary set designer for The Golem. The set designers for The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari
were Walter Reimann, Hermann Warm, and Walter Röhrig.

37
Anthony Vidler, “The Explosion of Space: Architecture and the Filmic Imaginary,” in Film Architecture:
From Metropolis to Blade Runner, ed. Dietrich Neumann (Munich: Prestel, 1999), 15.
239

Figure 61: Scene from The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, 1919.

240

Figure 62: Scene from The Golem, 1920.

241
so that they often appeared vulnerable and powerless during key dramatic scenes. More
importantly, the sets for The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari and The Golem were highly stylized,
abstract in form, and employed twisted perspective. These visual elements – now
categorized as “Expressionist” by critics – helped to create the dark mood and sense of
foreboding danger upon which both films depended for their success. In other words,
architects like Poelzig, as well as stage designers with an Expressionist sensibility, were
proving they could secure work in the spheres of film and theater with projects that were
ultimately more real than “building” on paper.
We know with certainty that theater was on the minds of several Crystal Chain
members well before the “New Building” exhibition opened. This is evidenced by the
fact that two of the four contributions to the catalogue, A Call to Building, address the
relationship between architecture, space, and performance. One of these contributions is a
short essay written by Hans Scharoun entitled “Thoughts on Theatrical Space”
("Gedanken zum Theaterraum"). Scharoun, who would later achieve considerable fame
for his 1963 Philharmonic Hall in Berlin, was one of the quieter participants in the
Crystal Chain, contributing only four surviving letters early in the group’s life.
38
Of these
four letters, three are notably short in length, and in their content reveals little about his
personal views at this time. Scharoun’s rhetoric in these letters, with their general calls to

38
Three of the four letters written by Scharoun are also undated. Scharoun’s first letter contains a date of
January 22, 1920. Whyte has estimated, based on information and themes contained in other Crystal Chain
letters at this time, that the remaining three letters were written sometime between late January and late
February. With one or more of these letters, Scharoun also included architectural drawings for a Volkshaus
(see Scharoun’s January 22 letter in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 42). In regard to Scharoun’s
background prior to his involvement with the Crystal Chain, Whyte notes that Scharoun had only recently
completed his training to be an architect, and “his sole claim to fame” was his first prize in a Prenzlau
design competition (Whyte, “Introduction,” in The Crystal Chain Letters, 2).
242
fantasy, “purity of spirit,” and the Volk, primarily mimics the rhetoric used in many other
Crystal Chain letters from this period, making it difficult to discern Scharoun’s individual
views from the collective mindset of the group.
39

One letter, however, is helpful in constructing at least a partial identity for
Scharoun within the context of the Crystal Chain, as it contains a lengthy philosophical
treatise to his “fellow campaigners” on the subject of artistic creation. This text reveals an
architect who had a very human-oriented approach to building following the war, one
steeped in a deep conviction that all things begin with and come alive through people.
40

In his desire to meet humanity’s needs, Scharoun advocated a pure creativity divorced
from intellectualism that drew from the natural strength, rhythm, and passion of
humanity’s ancestors. It was these organic, expressive forces, rather than the power of
the mind and erudition, that would ideally protect society from “isolated disillusionment”
and “a mechanization of forces,” and in their place allow fantasy and an uninhibited
bonding with the cosmic universe to take root.
41
In his last two letters, Scharoun indicated
his desire to see architecture specifically “have its function in the sensuality of mankind,”
because as humans, “we mean to experience, and be experienced.”
42
To demonstrate how
these ideas might translate visually, he included with one letter a drawing of a crystalline
temple-like structure, one similar in concept and aesthetic to Taut’s organic crystal

39
All four of Scharoun’s letters are reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 42-46, 61.

40
Hans Scharoun, letter to the Crystal Chain, no date. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 42.
Although Scharoun does not date this specific letter, Whyte approximates that it was written in late January
1920.

41
Ibid., 45.

42
Scharoun, two letters to the Crystal Chain, no date. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 61.
243
houses in Alpine Architecture. (Figs. 24 and 41) Like Taut, Scharoun envisioned a
monumental glass edifice in which geometric, abstract forms radiate natural light in a
seemingly vast and isolated natural landscape. It is through this communion between
architecture and nature that humankind is reconnected with the universe and ultimately
restored. Scharoun’s drawing is also similar in style to several drawings he produced at
this time for a “People’s House” (“Volkshaus”), one of which was reproduced in the
journal Die Erhebung.
43
(Fig. 63)
Given Scharoun’s interest in pure expression, experience, and the primeval
impulses at the core of humanity, it seems natural that he would develop an interest in
theater as a particularly powerful manifestation of his ideals. Theater encapsulated the
very passion and dynamism he desired to harness within the broader culture and within
architecture more specifically, a sentiment he addressed in “Thoughts on Theatrical
Space.”
44
The overall premise of Scharoun’s essay is that “conventional” theater design
in the present age had failed its audience in two significant ways. First, he argues that the
typical theater building caters to the spectator over the spectacle, meaning that the
audience member observes the stage rather than experiences it. This chasm between
observation and experience was the direct result of the second problem Scharoun
perceived, which was that theater was a casualty of an architectural vision “too spatially
false and too pictorial” to allow the physical space of the spectator and the spectacle of

43
The specific issue this drawing appeared in was Die Erhebung 2 (Berlin: S. Fischer, 1920). For more on
Scharoun, see Peter Blundell Jones’s monograph, Hans Scharoun (London: Phaidon Press, 1995).

44
Hans Scharoun, “Thoughts on Theatrical Space” (“Gedanken zum Theaterraum”), Ruf zum Bauen
(Berlin: E. Wasmuth, 1920). Reprinted in Expressionist Utopias: Paradise, Metropolis, Architectural
Fantasy, ed. Timothy Benson, trans. David Britt (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California
Press, 2001), 318.
244

Figure 63: Hans Scharoun, “People’s House,” in Die Ehrebung 2, Berlin: S. Fischer,
1920.

245
the stage to unite as one.
45
He proposes that a new conception of theatrical space be
established that would better represent “the present day yearning to unite art and life,”
one based on the modern ideals of “form, collective consciousness, and collective
experience.”
46

Scharoun’s interest in the relationship between form, theater, and experience was
a theme similarly explored in the writing of another figure critical to German
Expressionism’s development, Wassily Kandinsky. In an essay entitled “On Stage
Composition” included in the 1912 Blaue Reiter Almanac, Kandinsky advocated for an
innovative form of theatrical composition modeled after composer Richard Wagner's
experiments with the Gesamtkunstwerk (total work of art) in the mid nineteenth-
century.
47
Wagner's primary objective was to create a monumental “total drama” in
which the individual art forms comprising his operas – including music, drama, and the
architecture of the stage – would become subordinate to the whole of the production.
48
In
his 1849 essay, “The Art-Work of the Future,” Wagner argued that this synthesis of
sound and form, conceived through the “reciprocal agreement and co-operation of all the

45
Scharoun, “Thoughts on Theatrical Space.” Reprinted in Benson, Expressionist Utopias, 318.

46
Ibid., 318.

47
Wassily Kandinsky, “On Stage Composition” (“Über Bühnenkomposition”), in Der Blaue Reiter.
Herausgeber: Wassily Kandinsky, Franz Marc (Munich: R. Piper and Co., 1912), 103-113. Reprinted in
Kandinsky: Complete Writings on Art, eds. Kenneth C. Lindsay and Peter Vergo, trans. Peter Vergo (New
York: Da Capo Press, 1998), 257-265.

48
Jack Stein, Richard Wagner and the Synthesis of the Arts (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1960),
6. Stein makes the important point that while the notion of the Gesamtkunstwerk is traditionally associated
with Wagner, the composer himself never used the term, nor was he the only figure in his time to advocate
a synthesis of the arts (other Romantic figures interested in this concept include the writer E.T.A.
Hoffmann and the artist Otto Runge). Wagner was, however, the first to successfully combine what Stein
describes as “musical-practical experimentation” with “literary-theoretical application,” and therefore
brought the Gesamtkunstwerk to life, so to speak.
246
branches in their common message,” would result in the birth of a pure Drama that would
appeal to the common public and bring glory to humanity.
49

Wagner's concept of the Gesamtkunstwerk in the realm of theater intrigued
Kandinsky, who encouraged artists to explore the Gesamtkunstwerk’s potential in the
twentieth-century. To maximize this potential, Kandinsky argued that one must recognize
the primary weakness at the core of Wagner's approach, namely his desire to repair the
external, formal aspects of drama instead of addressing the internal feelings drama
evoked. For Kandinsky, the goal of the modern artist should be to invent a type of stage
composition wherein sound, word, and color collaboratively reveal their individual “inner
identities.” Once exposed, the truths intrinsic to each art form would collectively produce
a unique “knowledge” capable of penetrating and refining the spectator's soul.
50
Within
Kandinsky's notion of the total work of art then, the aesthetic elements of the stage are as
important as any music and/or dialogue.
51
If Wagner intended to enrapture the human
soul with the beauty of Drama, then Kandinsky aimed to transform the human spirit
through the sensations drama evoked directly within the spectator.
52

49
Richard Wagner, “The Art-Work of the Future” (“Das Kunstwerk der Zukunft”) (Leipzig: Otto Wigand,
1849). Reprinted in Art in Theory,1815-1900: An Anthology of Changing Ideas, eds. Charles Harrison, Paul
Wood, and Jason Gaiger (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1998), 472. The text reprinted here was originally
translated by William Ashton Ellis in Richard Wagner's Prose Works, Vol. 1 (London: Kegan Paul, Trench
and Trübner & Co., 1892).

50
Kandinsky, “On Stage Composition.” Reprinted in Lindsay and Vergo, Kandinsky: Complete Writings on
Art, 257.

51
Ibid., 264.

52
To illustrate his arguments concerning the Gesamtkunstwerk in the Blaue Reiter Almanac, Kandinsky
followed “On Stage Composition” with his theatrical piece, The Yellow Sound (Der Gelbe Klang).
247
Kandinsky’s aspiration – to unite space, soul, and performance in a total work of
art – is strikingly similar to the approach Expressionist architects such as Scharoun would
take as they began to formulate their own concepts of theater and stage design. As an
answer to what Scharoun perceived to be the problems with conventional theater, he
described an ideal venue where form, color, light, and sound enveloped the audience in
such a way that the space of the spectator becomes primarily an extension of the stage
itself. The boundaries between stage and spectator appear so blurred within Scharoun’s
description, that it is in fact unclear where the space of the performers begins and ends, or
whether such a space exists at all.
This spatial breakdown begins with the architecture of the building. Scharoun
described the building as having curved walls and circular seating that allowed
individuals to view one another in a living chain of visual connection. In this formation,
one’s fellow spectators rather than a stage or platform is the focal point of one’s gaze.
Around the perimeter of the walls are “upthrusting crystal pyramids” that mimic the
dynamism of numerous arches and ribs that extend upward, seemingly endlessly, from a
domed ceiling. Scharoun explained that this space should appear vast to the extent that
the building itself disappears into a “nonspatial infinity” clothed in black and blue light,
broken only by bursts of color from unknown sources, similar to what one might see
naturally when staring into the cosmos.
53
The performers in this theater, like the building
itself, are also consumed by the darkness, thus indicating that the space, not the
performance, is the true source of spectacle and the means by which the collective

53
Scharoun, “Thoughts on Theatrical Space.” Reprinted in Benson, Expressionist Utopias, 318.
248
consciousness and experience Scharoun desired comes to life. The performers provide
sound through words or song, but in this context, these are in service to the spectacle in
its totality and its mission to unite art and humanity in a transformative and emotionally
powerful way.
As naturally as the theater may have complemented Scharoun’s belief in
collective experience and its relationship to artistic creation, the theater was a concrete
example of the way Expressionist conceptions of space, color, and light might be realized
in a three-dimensional, real-world context. In other words, as utopian – and perhaps
eccentric – as its premise may seem, “Thoughts on Theatrical Space” is not a
phantasmagoric musing on a theater of the future; it is Scharoun’s physical formula, or
plan, for theater building and stage design in Germany’s post-war era. It is important to
note that at approximately the same time Scharoun wrote “Thoughts on Theatrical
Space,” he commented to the Crystal Chain, just as Taut had, on their collective
confinement to the conceptual world of paper architecture. Toward the end of a letter
outlining the fundamentals of his architectural philosophy, Scharoun made the following
observations:
In creating we are gods, in understanding sheep. That is how it should
be.... Now we are supposed to illustrate books – fine – but don’t talk
too much about it beforehand and thus force us, consciously or
unconsciously, to reflect and make judgments. That which reason
stamps as suitable for such a purpose has already been eaten away
by the worms of disappointment. Send the book – it arrives – some
sort of happiness is painted into it – and off it goes again. Measured
judgments are paralyzing. Endless excursions into the realm of the
intellect are torture.
54

54
Scharoun, letter to the Crystal Chain, no date. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 45.
249
Here, Scharoun expresses what he personally perceived to be the fundamental problem of
paper architecture. If Taut and Luckhardt were conflicted over paper’s ability to convey
three-dimensional concepts in a two-dimensional format, then Scharoun was concerned
with the fact that experiments on paper result in an intellectualization of architecture that
was both dangerous and demoralizing to the architect. Scharoun linked the very act of
creation with humanity’s primordial need to express and experience, and since paper
condemned architecture strictly to the world of the mind, the concept of paper
architecture as architecture – as something to be experienced – went against the very
nature of creativity itself.
It is important to emphasize, however, that as an architect, Scharoun did not reject
paper projects such as book illustration outright. In fact, he is adamant in his letter to the
Crystal Chain that they remain creators in whatever capacity they can do so, stating at
one point, “We are still circulating blood, spreading comfortably into alley-gutters and
onto the Milky Way. We believe in everything…and we exist!!! Otherwise, we would
have to vegetate in the labyrinth of conceptual botany.”
55
Yet, his admission that the
kinds of projects with which the group was engaging – text and letter writing, and
drawing – were “paralyzing,” and “torture,” confirm this was not a satisfying way to
work as an architect, nor was it necessarily effective. Scharoun even goes so far as to
complain that the group’s collective postulating had resulted primarily in bickering, with
“shouts of disagreement on all sides! Like arguments in a nursery.” He also scoffs at the

55
Scharoun, letter to the Crystal Chain, no date. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 45.
250
notion that Taut, the most prolific of the paper architects, had somehow become a type of
“scholastic” as a result of their collective activities.
56

To bring these points back to “Thoughts on Theatrical Space” then, one can argue
Scharoun’s essay is an attempt to escape the conundrum of wanting to continue to create
as a “god” while having to do so using a medium that required the understanding of
“sheep.” While the essay is still technically an example of paper architecture, it is an
architectural vision applicable to a specific type of venue, a theater, with a function
already based in fantasy and imagination. If quality architecture demanded to be
experienced, then arguably the easiest and most realistic way to unite the two would be in
an environment where promoting experience was already a primary objective or function
of the building. In other words, Scharoun most likely did not view “Thoughts on
Theatrical Space” as another intellectual exercise. Rather, given that the text circulated
within the public as part of an exhibition dedicated to raising expectations about
Germany’s quality of life, it is reasonable to assume that Scharoun presented it as a
legitimate architectural solution fully realizable in a contemporary context – a context in
which Expressionist-style theaters and film sets were already coming to life. “Thoughts
on Theatrical Space” therefore moved away from the pure intellectualizing primarily
taking place within the confines of the Crystal Chain and its paper projects, and offered a
comparatively more focused and applicable formula for transforming one aspect of public
building with applied Expressionist ideals.

56
Scharoun, letter to the Crystal Chain, no date. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 45.
Scharoun’s exact words here are, “Glas [Taut] – a scholastic? Aha!”
251
If Scharoun’s interest in theater design was cultivated in reaction to architecture’s
increased intellectualization through paper amid Germany’s economic collapse, then
Taut’s interest in the realm of the stage has similar, but more complex, origins. As
discussed above, Taut resented what he saw as the increasingly literary and “illustrative”
nature of his work, and in letters to colleagues wrote often about the isolation he
experienced while confined at home working on his numerous conceptual projects. In
May 1919, only six months after the energizing events of the November Revolution, a
resigned Taut lamented to Karl Ernst Osthaus that his post-war life had already reverted
to a state indistinguishable from his wartime existence, noting, “I am sitting alone, hidden
in the middle of Berlin at my drawing table that has already become more like a writing
desk.”
57
This professional frustration only grew more intense with the public criticism
Taut and his colleagues received over the course of the next year with the public display
of their drawings, and from Taut’s individual failure to obtain control over and find
widespread success with his publications.
It is significant that Taut’s first texts related to theater and the stage date to the
summer of 1919, months before his complete disillusionment with the medium of paper.
The indication here is that while Taut, like Scharoun, may have been moving toward a
realm where the physical realization of his ideas might seem more plausible, he had not
yet dismissed publications and drawings in general as useless, or as incompatible with
tectonic experiments. He was still regularly contributing essays on architecture in

57
Bruno Taut, letter to Karl Ernst Osthaus, May 16, 1919. Reprinted in Auf dem Weg zu einer
handgreiflichen Utopie, ed. Birgit Schulte (Hagen: Neuer Folkwang Verlag, 1994), 85. “…ich sitz weiter
einsam, mitten in Berlin verborgen, am meiner Zeichentisch, der schon mehr ein Schreibtisch geworden
ist.”
252
journals and newspapers, as well as working on portfolios such as The Dissolution of the
Cities.
Additionally, Taut – through his associations with the WCA and the PCA – was
fully enmeshed in political activism at this moment, which heavily informed his first
theater-related essay, “On New Theater Building” (“Zum neuen Theaterbau”) published
in the August 1919 issue of Das hohe Ufer (The High Shore). The overt political themes
of “On New Theater Building” render this text unique among Taut’s explorations on the
subject, as its premise centers on Taut’s left-wing condemnation of modern theaters as
“capitalist department stores” (kapitalistische Wärenhauser) for the consumption of art.
58

As an alternative to the bourgeois agenda he sees destroying the contemporary theater, he
proposed a new type of theater building in which not only artistic and architectural
integrity have been restored, but also the theater’s original function, which, according to
him, was to provide entertainment and instruction to all people. Taut specifically
promoted what Whyte calls as a “dimensionless” theater – similar to the one Scharoun
promoted in “Thoughts on Theatrical Space” – in which the building and stage are
seemingly dissolved through the use of glass, light, and color, thereby creating a
“limitless” space.
59
Whyte convincingly argues that by introducing these aesthetic
elements to the theater, Taut believed he could unite the “real world” and the
Expressionist world of fantasy so that the average working-class person could find
enjoyment in a sphere from which they were traditionally excluded on account of their

58
Bruno Taut, “Zum neuen Theaterbau,” Das hohe Ufer I, no. 8 (August 1919). Reprinted in Das hohe
Ufer, Jahrgang 1-2, 1919-1920 (Nendeln: Kraus, 1969), 204.

59
Whyte, Bruno Taut and the Architecture of Activism, 149.
253
social standing and their perceived lack of cultural awareness.
60
Although “On New
Theater Building” clearly advocated certain aesthetic principles typical of Expressionist
architecture, the essay therefore remains, by and large, a socio-political manifesto
condemning theater’s overall perversion by elitist, capitalist interests.
Taut’s vision of a limitless theatrical space presented in “On New Theater
Building” ultimately formed the basis for his contribution to A Call to Building the
following spring, which was a reprint of the text from his recently completed portfolio,
The Universal Master Builder: An Architectural Drama for Symphonic Music (Der
Weltbaumeister: Ein Architekturspiel für symphonische Musik). Conceived in August
1919, The Universal Master Builder was first described by Taut in a letter to Osthaus:
Today I am busying myself with a new idea that enthusiastically
excites me, and…that I want to draw out beforehand. It is an
architectural drama, really: pantomime. I would like Pfitzner to
produce the score of the symphony. It shall be an absolutely
magnificent thing, everything in it is already quite clear to me.
Music and architecture, together abstract and in purest harmony.
61

Having established what the ideal theater ought to look like in “On New Theater
Buuilding,” Taut formulated The Universal Master Builder as the ideal theatrical
performance that might someday accompany it. The first lines of the Universal Master
Builder, which complement Scharoun’s essay in the exhibition catalogue, describe a
seemingly endless dramatic space in which “no floor, no ceiling, no walls” are visible,

60
Whyte, Bruno Taut and the Architecture of Activism, 149-150.

61
Taut, letter to Karl Ernst Osthaus, August 2, 1919. Reprinted in Schulte, Auf dem Weg zu einer
handgreiflichen Utopie, 89. “Heute beschäftige mich eine neue Idee, die mich rauschhaft begistert und die
ich, da sie weniger umfangreich zu geben ist, vorher zeichnen will. Es ist ein Architektur-Drama, richtiger:
Pantomime. Ich möchte Pfitzner gewinnen, die Partitur der Symphonie dazu der schreiben. Es wird eine
ganz herrliche Sache, alles ist mir daran schon ganz klar. Musik und Architektur, beide abstract und beide
im reinsten Einklang.”
254
and the stage appears to the spectator as nothing more than a wash of radiant yellow
light.
62
Anti-melodic sound also helps set the tone for the production, which is described
as “ringing.” This ringing builds and dissipates along with the action taking place on the
stage to maximize the effects of the sensory experience for the viewer.
The plot of The Universal Master Builder, which Taut illustrated in twenty-eight
plates, centers on the birth and life of the symbolic glass cathedral. The drama begins
with the emergence of mysterious forms from the earth that energetically come together
in the formation of a great crystal building – a building that visually recalls, albeit in far
greater detail, the Crystal House illustrated in part one of Alpine Architecture. (Figs. 24
and 64) If Taut’s sketches of the Crystal House for Alpine Architecture provide the
reader with a general idea of the forms he envisioned for his glass architectural program,
then the opening plates of The Universal Master Builder reveal the actual complexities
and intricacies of those forms when examined more closely. The exterior façade of the
cathedral, for example, is not smooth as it appears in the illustration of Alpine
Architecture’s distant Crystal House. Rather, the close perspective Taut embraced for The
Universal Master Builder reveals that the entire surface is in fact covered with geometric
patterns, spirals, and irregular forms that convey so much texture and movement that they
appear to dance on the façade. At this point, the building opens and reveals its great halls
and a maze of elaborate arches to the audience amidst bright light and the ringing of
bells. (Fig. 65) Suddenly, the entire edifice begins to spin and then is shaken by a great

62
The translation of the text for The Universal Master Builder used here is David Britt’s translation
reprinted in Benson, Expressionist Utopias, 310-311. The Universal Master-Builder was originally
published as Der Weltbaumeister: ein Architektur-Schauspiel für symphonische Musik (Hagen: Folkwang-
Verlag, 1920).
255

Figure 64: Bruno Taut, “Grows, forms an arch…,” in The Universal Master Builder,
Hagen: Folkwang-Verlag, 1920.

256

Figure 65: Bruno Taut, “Unfolds its halls…,” in The Universal Master Builder, 1920.

257
“tremor,” events that eventually cause the great building to break apart into pieces that
dissolve into a dark spatial void enveloping the stage. From this void appear two stars,
one of which is a dancing “cathedral star” – a plot point that recalls the elaborate
Cathedral Star introduced in part four of Alpine Architecture – that dramatically
transforms into a meteor and later disappears into the darkness. (Fig. 66)
Eventually, out of the darkness a brightly colored landscape of plants and flowers
drenched in heavy rain begins to reveal itself to the audience. From this freshly-watered
earth, multi-colored housing begins to grow as though it were a typical tree or plant, as
well as a new “crystal house.” (Fig. 67) This cathedral-like structure, as with the one
before it, grows upward into the light, and slowly opens to reveal its inner beauty and
radiance. The drama ends with the sight of stars glimmering through the cathedral’s
crystal walls, creating a perfect unity of “architecture, night, and cosmos.” (Fig. 68)
The Universal Master Builder, like almost all Expressionist architectural projects,
was never realized, despite Taut’s hope that he would eventually find enough support for
such a project.
63
The architectural drama thus remained confined to the realm of paper,
and in 1920, was published by Osthaus’s Folkwang-Verlag as another expensive portfolio
of hand-drawn plates, this time annotated with Taut’s stage directions and plot
exposition. Scholars of Expressionist architecture, generally speaking, have given little
attention to The Universal Master Builder, although a few of the interpretations that do
exist are revealing in terms of how some academics understand Taut’s mindset at this

63
According to Whyte, the closest The Universal Master Builder ever came to being performed was in
1921, when a group Taut was associated with known as the Bauwandlung agreed to include it as part of
their exhibition festivities at the Mathildenhöhe in Darmstadt. A score was drafted for the performance by
composer Heinz Tiessen, which no longer survives. Unfortunately for Taut, the Bauwandlung disbanded
shortly before the exhibition. See Whyte, Bruno Taut and the Architecture of Activism, 209.
258

Figure 66: Bruno Taut, “Dances, alters its light form,” in The Universal Master Builder,
1920.

259

Figure 67: Bruno Taut, “On the hill the house grows…,” in The Universal Master
Builder, 1920.

260

Figure 68: Bruno Taut, “Unfolding complete…,” in The Universal Master Builder, 1920.

261
time. One of the earliest scholarly references to The Universal Master Builder is found in
Wolfgang Pehnt’s critical examination of Expressionist architecture, wherein Pehnt
writes that Taut’s architectural drama should be read primarily as an “interiorization of
external troubles,” or as a reflection of Taut’s tormented mental state as he struggled with
the reality of not being able to practice his profession with any feeling of normalcy or
security.
64
Pehnt, in other words, interprets the expanding and bursting forms, and the
transitory nature of the architecture, in The Universal Master Builder as a metaphor for
the professional and personal instability inherent in Taut’s own life.
Similarly, Rosemarie Haag Bletter has argued that the Universal Master Builder
could be interpreted as Taut’s reluctant admission that it is not he as the architect, but
rather the forces at work in the universe (be they cosmic, political, or social) that exert
control over humanity and life. As such, Taut may have used The Universal Master
Builder as a platform to demonstrate that efforts by the architect to control elements of
life – including architecture – are ultimately futile in the face of these forces.
65
Bletter
concedes that the ambiguity of the drama also allows one to make the opposite argument:
that Taut is in fact equating himself with the “universal master builder” and is therefore
arguing that he is the only true cosmic force in the universe. Regardless of which
interpretation more accurately reflects Taut’s true intentions (which today remain

64
Wolfgang Pehnt, Expressionist Architecture (New York: Prestel, 1973), 73.

65
Rosemarie Haag Bletter, “Bruno Taut and Paul Scheerbart’s Vision,” unpublished Ph.D. dissertation,
Columbia University, 1973, 198.
262
unknown), Bletter argues that the text overall “seems to reveal the anxiety and wishful
thinking of [an] architect forced into early retirement.”
66

It is interesting to note that neither Pehnt nor Bletter examine how the paper
aspect of The Universal Master Builder may have played into his feelings of anxiety at
this time, especially since the tension between the architect and the cosmic forces
illustrated by Taut seems analogous to the very tension he was experiencing as he
attempted to reconcile the static medium of paper with the dynamic energy of built form.
Although the drama was written at a moment in which the problematic nature of paper
had not yet become a central issue for him and his colleagues, his numerous comments
concerning his writing and illustrating have already established that he was thinking
about the ways in which paper had transformed his identity and his purpose in a way he
found both limiting and frustrating.
67

Despite the fact that Taut did believe that The Universal Master Builder would
come three-dimensionally alive in a theater someday, he eventually categorized it as an
example of “fine art” rather than architecture – as something physically and conceptually
indistinguishable from his previous illustrative work in projects such as Alpine
Architecture and his pictorial drawings produced within the context of the Crystal
Chain.
68
In each of these cases, the artistic elements of the paper architecture – including
Taut’s experimentation with color, light, abstract form, and fantasy – overwhelm the

66
Bletter, “Bruno Taut and Paul Scheerbart’s Vision,” 198.

67
For a helpful overview of The Universal Master Builder and its relationship to Paul Scheerbart’s
writings, see Ralph Musielski, Bau-Gespräche: Architekturvisionen von Paul Scheerbart, Bruno Taut, und
der Gläsernen Kette (Berlin: Reimer, 2003), 111-119.

68
Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, July 8, 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 118.
263
architecture at the work’s center and ultimately produce an artistic rather than
architectural result. Although Taut viewed The Universal Master Builder as a particularly
high-quality example of art that warranted its special classification as “fine art,” he
understood that the tectonic integrity of the project had been compromised by its
ambitious creative and theatrical qualities.
It was at this moment, in the summer of 1920, Taut determined to abandon purely
fantastic paper experiments by embracing only architectural projects that could be
experienced, in his words, “tangibly.”
69
His sudden elevation of tangibility, which he
appears to have equated with any “whole” and well-defined architectural experiment
realized and experienced in a three-dimensional format, was to a certain extent a natural
byproduct of the architectural philosophy he had maintained since his 1914 Glass House
pavilion for the Werkbund exhibition in Cologne.
70
At that time, he argued that the new
architecture the Glass House represented – with its vibrant colors, glass and steel
materials, and abstract forms – could only come alive if the building connected with the
public on physical, sensory and spiritual levels simultaneously. The relationship between
the building and the spectator was thus a symbiotic one wherein the individual and the
architecture gave life to the other through their mutual connection on these multiple
levels. If, for example, the physical connection, created when architecture is elevated

69
Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, July 8, 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 118.

70
Taut never defines the words “tangible” or “tangibility” in his letters to the Crystal Chain, although his
usage clearly indicates that he equated the term not only with ideological clarity and completeness but also
with physicality, or the physical realization of an architectural concept. The Oxford Dictionary of Current
English defines “tangible” as something that is definite or touchable, so in Taut’s application of the word,
“tangible” indirectly equaled “built.”
264
beyond the realm of pure idea and translated into actual structures, were to be lost, then
the overall effectiveness and clarity of the building would be undermined.
Taut’s emphasis on a corporeal and metaphysical exchange between building and
spectator did not discourage him or any of his Crystal Chain colleagues from attempting
to reach the public through paper projects in which a physical connection was clearly
inhibited, if not rendered impossible. The circle had reasonably assumed that the sensory
and spiritual components at the foundation of Expressionist architecture – which strongly
appealed to the conceptual world of fantasy and the imagination – would still resonate
with the public in a two-dimensional format, and would perhaps partially compensate for
the lack of physical engagement. However, as the realization set in that this was not the
case, that the public in fact required a tangible connection to architecture in order to
intellectually grasp its objectives, the Crystal Chain began to change their views as to
how their work might progress into the future. Although Taut was willing to embrace
new directions if needed, he implied repeatedly that the public’s inability to grasp
visionary architecture in alternative formats was a weakness on its part, the result of its
“naïve wish…to see something tangible.”
71

Hans Luckhardt had also intimated a few months earlier that the Crystal Chain
needed to “give much more tangible form” to their work if they were to ever achieve real
support from a public accustomed to relating to architecture in traditional built form.
72

71
Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, September 2, 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 148.
In the original German, Taut’s statement reads as follows: “Der naïve Wille des Publikums, der Wunsch,
etwas festes zu sehen, sollte uns Wegweiser sein.”

72
Hans Luckhardt, letter to the Crystal Chain, May 31, 1920 (second of two letters dated to May 31).
Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 113.
265
Although Luckhardt did not seem to view this as an indicator of the public’s ignorance or
limitations, he did concede following the “New Building” exhibition that the Crystal
Chain had perhaps underestimated its need for concrete examples. To rectify the problem,
he advocated the construction of a large-scale architectural model as part of a new
exhibition in which the public could experience and fully engage with the visual and
spatial elements of the architecture they had unsuccessfully presented on paper. This
model, which Luckhardt suggested could be a theater or something akin to Scharoun’s
“People’s House,” would ideally be expansive enough so that all of the Crystal Chain
members could participate in its design and construction, and could work alongside
painters and sculptors who would help realize the Expressionists’ complex color schemes
and dynamic, sculptural forms.
73
Luckhardt was quick to point out, however, that a model
of this size and scope would require the same materials and resources used for standard
commissioned buildings. With Germany’s continued materials shortage, he could only
speculate as to if and when an architectural exhibition of this kind might come to fruition.
Taut, having given up on architectural exhibitions altogether by this time, focused
on achieving tangible architecture via a different route – that of film – resulting in his
first and only film proposal, “The Shoes of Fortune” (“Die Galoschen des Glücks”), a
description of which he distributed in a letter to the Crystal Chain dated July 8, 1920. As
he explained in his prefatory “advertisement” for the project, his attraction to film
stemmed from a newfound belief that the medium offered the Crystal Chain the best
opportunity “to show things that inspire us tangibly for once,” and provided at least the

73
Hans Luckhardt, letter to the Crystal Chain, May 31, 1920 (second of two letters dated to May 31).
Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters 114.

266
prospect of uniting each personality together in a single, executable project.
74
Although
these objectives were essentially the same objectives outlined by Luckhardt in his
proposal for a large scale exhibition model, Taut believed film was the more realistic
context in which they might be realized. As stated above, tremendous strides were
already being made in bringing a so-called “Expressionist” aesthetic to the realm of film,
particularly with The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari and Poelzig’s set designs for The
Golem. Because of these films, it did not seem beyond the realm of possibility for an
architect like Taut to find support for his ideas and for those of his colleagues.
Film appeared to be a viable way in which to provide the spectator with the
experience of Expressionist buildings, and even cities, in a built form without having to
deal with the difficulties of attaining a true architectural commission. The illusory nature
of film set designs also reduced the amount of materials needed. This was an appealing
solution to a shortage problem that had plagued the architectural avant-garde incessantly
since 1914. Yet, beyond these purely practical factors, film was an attractive medium
because, above all else, it provided access to the type of public Taut had always
envisioned for his paper projects but had never effectively reached: the masses.
Simply put, the masses enjoyed cinema because it appealed (in Taut’s words) to
their “simple instincts” rather than to their pocketbooks or to a cultural appreciation Taut

74
Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, July 8, 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 118. In the
original German, Taut’s statement reads, “Die Absicht werdet Ihr erkennen: einmal Körperhaft die Dinge
zu zeigen, die uns erfüllen….” Taut’s use of the word “Körperhaft” (lit. bodily) in this context underscores
the relationship in Taut’s mind between tangibility and architecture as a physical, or bodily, construct.
267
now believed they lacked.
75
If the masses were not going to have access or any real
interest in purely “artistic” works such as Alpine Architecture or The Universal Master
Builder, then it was now imperative to bring Expressionist architectural ideas in a
tangible form to a sphere in which the masses were already comfortable. Taut admits,
however, that since his utopian philosophy and aesthetic vision had essentially remained
unchanged from his other work, film companies might dismiss outright “The Shoes of
Fortune” as too artistic, and therefore it would be unlikely to generate significant interest
and financial return within the public.
76

The “artistic” film was one of three categories of film-making Taut described in
his brief 1920 essay, “Artistic Film Program” (“Kunsterlisches Filmprogramm”). He
argued that should The Universal Master Builder ever be made into a film, it would fall
into this category of “film as art,” as its emphasis would not be on the buildings
themselves, but on the fantastic and abstract effects of the buildings as they moved in
dramatic sequences to symphonic music.
77
With “The Shoes of Fortune,” Taut actually
hoped to move into the second category of film-making: films dedicated to the highly
skilled craftsmanship of quality works of art. For films in this category that specifically

75
Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, July 8, 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 118.
Although Taut was eager for other members of the Crystal Chain to collaborate with him on the execution
of “The Shoes of Fortune” (he even went so far as to envision specific scenes based on drawings and letters
circulated by certain correspondents), he was careful to emphasize that this was ultimately his project and
would therefore remain under his control. To emphasize this point, he explained that in addition to
selecting the director and the set designer, he also reserved the right to select the film’s actors.

76
Taut complained that the film industry wanted “to rake in not just 100% but 600% and more,” thereby
making “film capital…the third strongest and perhaps the nastiest of all.” Despite this potential obstacle, he
maintained confidence he could still realize his film, especially since, by his own account, he had already
secured the promise of a set designer and a “very good” director. See Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, July
8, 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 118.

77
Bruno Taut, “Artistic Film Program.” Reprinted in Benson, Expressionist Utopias, trans. David Britt,
313. Originally published as “Kunsterlisches Filmprogramme,” Das hohe Ufer 2 (1920).
268
involved architecture as its primary subject, he asserted the camera needed to capture a
building’s details (including fittings and furniture) and spatial qualities in such a way that
both the layman and the architecture student would “acquire a lively notion of the true
essence of architecture.”
78
In contrast to the artistic film, then, this type of film was
instructive in nature, and was intended to teach an audience the difference between “a
good and bad piece of work.”

The title, “The Shoes of Fortune,” was inspired by a Hans Christian Andersen
story of the same name. Taut conceived it as a “spectacular fairly tale film spanning
2,000 years.”
79
The film includes an unnamed male and female protagonist, as well as a
mysterious “Child of Fortune,” although, according to Taut’s production notes, none of
the characters were to speak or write. Instead, they were to move the plot along through
an organic flow of “rhythmic movement” and “pantomime gestures” that reflected in the
viewer’s mind a “spiritual” realm. This emphasis on spirit, and reflecting spirit visually,
carried into the overall aesthetic of the film, which Taut indicated was to be as pure as
possible, both in terms of the portrayal of natural landscape and in the portrayal of the
film’s artistic elements.
Because Taut believed that architecture was the only art form capable of actually
reflecting spiritual impulses in their purest sense, architecture became the film’s primary
artistic component, and a protagonist in its own right. It is important to note, however,
that Taut explicitly states that the film was not to be “stylized in an Expressionist way,”

78
Taut, “Artistic Film Program.” Reprinted in Benson, Expressionist Utopias, 313.

79
Taut, “The Shoes of Fortune,” scenario included with his letter to the Crystal Chain, July 8, 1920.
Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 119.
269
indicating that work now publicly equated with an Expressionist aesthetic was based
more on the unnatural, abstract forms seen in films such as The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari
(Fig. 61) and in the paintings of Ernst Ludwig Kirchner (Fig. 2) rather than in the
comparatively organic, crystalline forms defining much of Expressionist architecture as
they had manifested on paper.
80
(Fig. 59) As evidenced by the film still from The
Cabinet of Dr. Caligari and in Kirchner’s 1913-1914 painting, Berlin Street Scene, the
Expressionism with which the public was now familiar typically emphasized angularity,
twisted perspective, stylization, and themes pertaining to the darker aspects of the human
experience. Taut found that these visual and thematic elements defining such works ran
counter to his and the Crystal Chain’s goals to create an architecture in which positive,
peaceful values were promoted alongside an aesthetic of beauty derived from nature, the
cosmos, and the spiritual realm.
81
Taut’s perception of a divide between architecture and
other media reinforces that while he had been labeled by historians and critics as the
unofficial leader of the Expressionist architectural movement, he did not categorize
himself as an Expressionist following the war, nor did he use the term to describe his
work. His comment indicates that he in fact saw the popularized version of
Expressionism in the immediate post-war years as incompatible with his own visual and
ideological goals, and was thus something to avoid rather than perpetuate.
82

80
Taut, “The Shoes of Fortune.” Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 119.

81
Ibid., 119. Taut stated that in contrast to so-called “Expressionist” projects, The Shoes of Fortune would
present nature that remained “natural, and the art artistic.”

82
For more on the popularization of Expressionism after World War I see Joan Weinstein, The End of
Expressionism: Art and the November Revolution in Germany, 1918-1919 (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1990).
270
The plot of “The Shoes of Fortune,” like much of the fantasy-inspired projects on
which Taut worked, is deceptively complex and socio-politically motivated. At the center
of the story is a young couple suffering from the same societal afflictions plaguing most
Germans after World War I: unemployment, starvation, and extreme poverty. In an effort
to escape this devastation and to find something better for himself and those he cares for,
the young man leaves his female companion and heads toward the countryside, although
Taut does not reveal what his protagonist seeks there apart from a vague desire for
refuge. Malnourished and dressed in nothing but tattered clothes and worn shoes, he soon
finds himself physically exhausted on the long journey, and he suffers from “flashbacks”
of his horrendous tenement life.
83
Suddenly, the young man observes a mysterious light
in the distance, which the audience discovers is a sparkling boy “looking like good
fortune,” who places a pair of shoes on the road. Although the young man believes he is
merely hallucinating, he is shocked to discover the new pair of shoes in his path a short
time later. With his own shoes in such a state of disrepair, he warily puts on the “shoes of
fortune,” which instantly transport him into the year 2000.
From this point, Taut’s film scenario transforms into a phantasmagoric journey
into the future as experienced by the young man, and later by his young female
companion who reenters the story when she is given her own pair of shoes by the Child
of Fortune and is transported to the year 3000. As opposed to their dismal lives in
postwar Germany, the couple witness a future defined by fantasy, light, and beauty. The

83
Whyte chose to leave Taut’s word choice for this type of housing, Mietskasernen, in the original German
for his translation of “The Shoes of Fortune.” He explains in a footnote that Mietskasernen was a distinctly
pejorative term used to categorize the tenement blocks erected during the urban population explosion of the
late nineteenth- and early twentieth-centuries in cities like Berlin. See Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters,
192, fn. 75.
271
year 2000 is described as a time in which “new man is striding vigorously through the
world, in a beautiful, strange costume, surrounded by happiness.”
84
The source of this
happiness is the rebirth of nature itself, which is now filled with so much purity, radiance
and dynamic energy that the trees and springs are likened to glistening crowns. The
young man is also astonished to discover that the world’s housing grows directly from the
earth (similar to what is described in The Universal Master Builder), with stone and glass
organically “blossoming” on the inside. The sheer beauty of these habitations and the
whole of nature itself ultimately fill humanity with the endless joy and satisfaction the
young man was deprived of in his own time.
Similarly, the young woman is whisked away by her own magical shoes to the
year 3000 to find the local inhabitants so jovial that she cannot help but to dance and skip
alongside several girls she encounters upon her arrival. At this point in the future, the
buildings have become infused with so much incandescent light that they appear to be
made of fire.
85
She is eventually reunited with her beloved companion by the Child of
Fortune in the year 2000, at which time the couple travels the world in an airship
admiring the crystalline cities that dot the landscape. The story concludes with the
couple’s arrival at a cathedral where an old man shows them several books, one of which
contains numerous unsettling photographs of key moments in Germany’s modern history,
including the Franco-Prussian war, the trenches of World War I, and the tenement
housing in which they lived. Interestingly, one of the other books the young man leafs

84
Taut, “The Shoes of Fortune.” Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 119.

85
Ibid., 121. Taut explains that in the scenario it is impossible to discern whether the buildings are actually
made of flames, or merely have flames extending out from the building as one element of the architecture.
272
through is a text in which “men who are rebuilding the world” build architecture in the
Alps as an alternative to waging war. This is obviously a self-congratulatory nod to
Taut’s own Alpine Architecture, which, in his vision of the future, maintains relevance in
the year 2000 and beyond.
The young man and woman, still immersed in the unspeakable beauty and
happiness of the future, become so distraught over these potent reminders of their past
misery that they run away into the woods. There, the Child of Fortune reappears and
presents them with two new pairs of shoes from a box labeled “1920” that return them to
their own time. Upon their arrival they discover that all of their original wishes for a
better existence have been miraculously granted. The film closes with images of the
young couple and their family enjoying life in the Weimar Republic in a bright country
house with food on the table, while the Child of Fortune dances in a meadow in his
magical shoes.
Although “The Shoes of Fortune” is somewhat unique among Taut’s projects in
that the fantasy elements encapsulated by the Child of Fortune and the young couple’s
time travel are taken to an extreme, its overall themes are virtually identical to the texts,
drawings, and portfolios he had been creating since the war. The film, at its core, still
promulgates a utopianism rooted in the belief that the working classes had been destroyed
by Germany’s materialistic, war-hungry ruling class, and that the only antidote to
society’s ills was the spiritual healing power generated by non-functional glass
constructions.
273
With little to offer, then, in terms of ideological novelty, the “The Shoes of
Fortune” becomes less important as an architectural work than as a solution to the
“tangibility” problem Taut experienced as an architect with his self-described “pictures,”
“illustrations,” and “fine art.” It is interesting that Taut never specifies what exactly
renders film a more “tangible” medium in his mind than, say, a portfolio, especially since
film, like paper, is ultimately a two-dimensional medium. Yet, it would seem that the
mere possibility of realizing in some kind of three-dimensional format the architecture
described in “The Shoes of Fortune,” regardless of whether or not that architecture was
actually experienced by the public in three-dimensional terms, was enough for Taut to
believe that a more substantive connection between spectator and building could be
forged. That connection, in turn, invested the film, and also the architecture at the core of
the film, with an authenticity and a validity he found lacking with his recent projects.
If architecture was not inherently capable of revealing itself in any other form
than built form, and if the public was incapable of relating to architecture in anything
except built form, then “The Shoes of Fortune” was essentially Taut’s reclamation of his
professional identity as a true practicing architect. This move also enabled him to rescue
architecture from its banishment to the less defined realm of literature and art. While one
might not typically categorize skeletal film sets and large-scale building models as “real”
architecture, Taut understood that these endeavors would inevitably be perceived and
understood by the masses as more “real” than his architectural drawings and texts.
Taut’s excitement over the possibilities of “The Shoes of Fortune” spread to at
least a few of his Crystal Chain colleagues, who also began to contemplate film as an
274
escape from paper architecture and its ineffective power to appeal to the masses. Wenzel
Hablik was particularly energized about Taut’s film scenario, commenting that the idea
not only “delighted” him, but that they should begin work on the film’s set designs right
away. He specifically hoped to provide models for futuristic dwellings “by the sea, in the
sea (underwater), in the mountains, in the High Alps, on the plain, in the quicksand, in
rock (inside a mountain), and in the air (flying houses),” and advocated the organization
of a meeting place where all the Crystal Chain members might come together to discuss
their potential contributions.
86

Hablik’s attraction to the medium of film stemmed, by his own admission, from a
desire to create and promote the total work of art, which he claimed for over two decades
had been his “leading principle” as an intellectual and architect.
87
He even went so far as
to state that the act of building meant nothing to him if it was not in service to the
Gesamtkunstwerk. Although Hablik was still encouraging the Crystal Chain members to
contribute in the summer of 1920 to “The Book,” the circle’s most ambitious paper
project, the prospect of working on a film project in which art, architecture and cosmic
fantasy came together in such a unified, harmonious way was therefore clearly a cause
for excitement and mobilization.

86
Wenzel Hablik, letter to the Crystal Chain, July 22, 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain
Letters, 123. Hablik’s urgency to move on Taut’s film proposal was clearly motivated in part by the sheer
boredom he was experiencing at this moment. However, Hablik also underscored the fact that the timing
was unusually favorable for a cinematic project such as this, especially given the Expressionist direction in
which the film industry appeared to be heading. He wrote that the avant-garde nature of Berlin offered the
best hope of generating a producer willing to back “The Shoes of Fortune”, and recommended avoiding his
own home in “the god-forsaken, icy, conservative North, with its obstinate yet hope-inspiring blockheads”
(p. 122).

87
Ibid.,122.
275
Hablik was so energized by the possibilities of “The Shoes of Fortune” that two
weeks later he submitted to Taut his own brief film proposal entitled “The Building of a
Glass House beside the Sea” (“Erbauen eines Glashauses am Meere”).
88
Unlike Taut’s
film, which centered on the restorative relationship between humanity and building, “The
Building of a Glass House” focused exclusively on the physical act of building, thereby
rendering Hablik’s cinematic vision more documentary in nature than Taut’s project. This
is not an ordinary documentary film however, as the construction of the glass house does
not begin with the gathering of concrete, glass, or steel materials, but rather with the
mysterious placement of seven stars on a beach. Over the course of the film, the viewer
watches as the stars are exposed to a sequence of fluids, signals, sparks, and spheres
launched from a boat and an airship that eventually causes them to bubble and transform
into iridescent domes. Eventually, these domes expand to form spikes, walls, rooms, and
furniture, resulting in the final completion of a massive glass architectural wonder.
Taking into account the Crystal Chain’s collective frustration with their inability to build,
“The Building of a Glass House” appears to reflect Hablik’s desire not only to
experiment with a medium in which he might physically realize his architectural concepts
in some capacity, but also, and more importantly, to acknowledge and affirm the central
role the act of building maintains in the architectural profession. If “The Shoes of
Fortune” was intended to display to the public the beauty and power of Expressionist
architecture in built form, then “The Building of a Glass House” is, simply put, a film

88
This scenario is contained in the second half of Habilk’s July 22 letter.
276
about building, as well as the beauty and power the building process exhibits in its own
right.
Around the same time Taut circulated “The Shoes of Fortune,” Hermann
Finsterlin wrote the third and final film proposal from the Crystal Chain. We know very
little about this proposal in terms of its scope and content. The only mention of its
existence can be found in Taut’s letter to the circle dated to early September 1920,
wherein he wrote that “by happy coincidence” Finsterlin had privately given to him a
film to read entitled “The Defiance of Salvation” [“Der Trotz des Heils”].
89
Because this
film proposal no longer survives, it is unfortunate that Taut declined to provide a detailed
description of Finsterlin’s project.
90
His only statement regarding the actual content of
“The Defiance of Salvation” is his opinion that it “makes the greatest imaginable
demands on the film medium,” although he fails to specify what those demands were.
91

With such little surviving information, it may be tempting to dismiss “The
Defiance of Salvation” altogether as historically irrelevant. However, the exposition
Finsterlin’s proposal ultimately provokes from Taut on the more general subjects of film
and building is extremely important in establishing Taut’s final conclusions concerning
his efforts to realize a more tangible form of architecture. He writes:
Many of the scenes [in “The Defiance of Salvation”] have stuck in
my imagination as pictures, but I very much fear that the excessive

89
Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, September 2, 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters,
148.

90
Whyte confirms that Finsterlin’s film scenario no longer survives on pg. 193, footnote 86, of The Crystal
Chain Letters.

91
Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, September 2, 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters,
148-149.
277
piling up of fantasy would be exhausting if the film were to be
shown. It seems dangerous to me to put an important idea into a
film, which always remains merely a technical device, something
to gape at…To occupy oneself as an artist with films these days
seems to be like trying to influence clowns, the circus, and so on.
But the film is even worse than these things, that is as far as one
can talk about good and bad. It is merely a technical device, and it
has artistic worth only as a photographic record of an artistic
performance.
92

Here, in a twist of irony, Taut concludes that film, upheld by him only a few weeks
earlier as the tangible alternative to paper architecture, resulted in the same fundamental
problem from which he and his colleagues had been trying to escape: Film, like paper,
reduced architecture to ineffectual pictures for the public “to gape at.” As a result, the
architectural film, mediated by the camera, simply becomes a “film” in the public’s mind,
just as the architectural drawing, mediated by paper, simply becomes a “drawing;” in
both cases the architectural elements are unlikely to be perceived as architecture. Taut
also concedes for the first time that even if his Expressionist architectural ideas were to
be physically realized in the context of a film, the lack of color photography and the
inability of the audience to interact with the space of the set would render any
architectural film project impotent and futile.
93
He had little to worry about in this regard,
however, as neither his, nor Hablik’s or Finsterlin’s films ever moved beyond the realm
of paper, thus condemning them to the category of paper architecture all three visionaries
were attempting to escape.

92
Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, September 2, 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters,
149.

93
Ibid., 149. Taut specifically upheld The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari as an example of a film in which “good
scenes” are undermined by a lack of space and color.
278
Taut’s determination that both paper and theatrical experiments were inherently
antagonistic to the discipline of architecture ultimately reaffirmed the truth with which he
had been struggling since World War I – that the only effective and authentic architecture
is built architecture. With this realization, he began to reassess his entire architectural
philosophy, which up until this point hinged on ideas that, on a practical level, were also
antagonistic to the discipline of architecture. If the singular goal of the architect was to
build, then the architect needed to embrace an aesthetic favorable to building. As hopeful
and life-affirming as the ideas promoted in works such as Alpine Architecture or in the
letters of the Crystal Chain may have been, Expressionist architecture was never intended
to be functional, rational, or truly cost-effective. Taut thus came to understand that in
1920s Germany, a new direction for his work was not only inevitable but it was also
necessary. He described this reality as a coming “to terms with readjusting to normal
work,” which every member of the Crystal Chain would soon also have to face.
94
It is
important to note, however, that Taut did not advocate a specific, rational-based
architectural program at this time to be adopted by the avant-garde as an alternative to
Expressionism. Rather, he inferred that an approach was coming that was seemingly
oppositional to what the Crystal Chain had stood for. The apparent hypocrisy of such a
move was not lost on Taut, who lamented that “people who are inclined to put the knife
in call the fantasist who adapts to everyday reality a liar.” His only defense against such

94
Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, September 2, 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 148.
279
as accusation came was this brief comment: “I don’t see it either as a defection or a lie to
perform the tasks of everyday life.”
95

If Taut was willing to acknowledge a need for change with his career in
September 1920, but was unready to declare a specific alternative direction, then by
October he was confident enough to propose the first steps the Crystal Chain would
collectively need to take in order to re-immerse itself in “everyday reality.” In one of the
most historically significant statements found within the body of the Crystal Chain
letters, Taut wrote, “I no longer want to draw Utopias ‘in principio,’ but absolutely
palpable Utopias that ‘stand with both feet on the ground.’”
96
Here, Taut boldly declared
that the fantastic, Scheerbartian-based utopianism that had been at the core of his – and
ultimately Expressionism’s – architectural ideology since 1914 was no longer a guiding
principle. Instead, the only utopianism he would embrace was one suitable for projects
informed by the everyday demands of life and people. He goes on to outline what he
categorized as the three fundamental “tasks” of the architect in the present moment:
“First: to build (there is little of that at the present!); second: to create the new cultural
image (the so-called pure Utopia); third: to awaken the demand for building (who should
do this but the architect?).”
97
Significantly, for Taut, the act of building had now replaced
aesthetic and ideological development as the most critical aspect of the architectural
practice. It was so critical, in fact, that it encompassed two of the three primary goals of
the professional architect. This shift in emphasis from idea to practice indicates that the

95
Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, September 2, 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 148.

96
Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, October 5, 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 155.

97
Ibid.,155.
280
prolonged absence of building had forced Taut to concede that it was not enough to
cultivate innovative programs and designs in order to maintain relevance and validity as
an architect. As much as he wanted to believe that the architect was an intellectual more
than a builder, he discovered that it was only through the building aspect of the
profession that those intellectual explorations could become viable.
To fulfill the three primary tasks of the architect, Taut implored the Crystal Chain
to begin work on an “unbelievably understandable architecture” with such “obvious
clarity that anyone, any child, must grasp it.” He also laid the ground rules concerning the
format of this work:
[The designs] should neither be a series of sketches like mine,
which are really book illustrations, nor the drawings of Prometh
or Anfang, not even Hannes’s “tasteful” watercolors, nor
plaster models, nor the slightly dry art of Angkor and Zacken,
none of the early Expressionism of Tancred, and no dreams à la
Berxback. No, absolutely no studio art.
98

Taut explained that “entirely new methods” of presenting their architectural designs
should replace the artistic formats they had been using – including book illustration,
drawing, and painting – in order to halt the criticism of their projects as artwork, or as
“studio art,” rather than as architecture. He does not identify, however, what these new
methods might be. The purpose of this passage thus appears to be more of an exhortation
to avoid what he perceived as anti-architectural media rather than a true call to formulate
methods more suitable for conveying architectural concepts. As Taut and others had
already concluded, the only effective medium for architecture was architecture itself. Any

98
Taut, letter to the Crystal Chain, October 5, 1920. Reprinted in Whyte, The Crystal Chain Letters, 155.
To preserve the clarity of the passage, I have chosen to keep the pseudonyms of the Crystal Chain members
Taut used here rather than replace each one with the member’s last name.
281
future efforts to disseminate new ideas in the public sphere would therefore have to be
directed at attaining work through architectural commissions rather than through paper
architecture.
Taut’s call to abandon fantasy, “non-palpable” utopianism, and media that failed
to communicate properly architectural concepts led to the demise of the Crystal Chain
correspondence, which officially ceased in December 1920. Because almost all of its
participants adopted a comparatively more rational and functional approach to
architecture shortly thereafter, the end of the Crystal Chain is also traditionally equated
with the end of German Expressionist architecture as a movement. Many scholars have
explained this shift away from fantasy and utopianism in favor of a more traditional
Modernist aesthetic as the natural result of the German economy, unemployment, and the
building industry stabilizing and eventually recovering. The argument typically crafted in
such examinations thus centers on the idea that as commissions for traditional building
projects increasingly became available, and as the nation’s quality of life began to
improve, the Expressionists no longer had the time or the inclination to escape from their
personal, professional, and financial problems through the creation of crystalline
fantasies.
Dennis Sharp’s view is typical. He argues that Germany reached a point,
particularly after 1923, in which the nation “was no longer cowering in its own box of
frustrations.” He continues:
In architecture this meant getting on with the practical job of
building, leaving the theoretical notions of paper projects produced
during the years immediately after the war behind….The new time
282
demanded that dream architecture should be abandoned for a more
technological one.
99

Similarly, Bletter argues that the “crystal-glass metaphor” had no place in the Weimar
Republic after 1920 because on a practical level, glass materials were too expensive to
utilize, and on a symbolic level, the utopian dream of peace, beauty, and spiritual
fulfillment the crystal metaphor signified was no longer needed. Bletter claims that
beginning in 1921, once Taut secured commissions for mass housing projects, “the
yearning for a transformed society no longer seemed necessary.”
100
Whyte, for his part,
argues that the demise of Expressionist architecture should also be attributed to the
cyclical nature of the avant-garde in general.
101
As Renato Poggioli and Peter Bürger
theorized, the avant-garde only can only exist and flourish if it is in a persistent state of
flux since it works to break away from the status quo (whether the status quo is social,
political, or cultural in nature).
102
Whyte writes that Expressionist architecture only
maintained ideological power and relevance when it was working against “Wilhelmine
academicism.” Once that academicism was undermined by the November Revolution, the
Expressionists, as avant-garde architects, had nothing left to destroy but their own ideas,

99
Dennis Sharp, Modern Architecture and Expressionism (New York: George Braziller, 1966), 168.

100
Rosemarie Haag Bletter, “The Interpretation of the Glass Dream – Expressionist Architecture and the
History of the Crystal Metaphor,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 40, (no.1, March
1981): 42.

101
See Whyte, “The End of an Avant-Garde: The Example of ‘Expressionist’ Architecture,” 102-114. See
also Whyte, “Introduction,” in The Crystal Chain Letters, 12.

102
See Renato Poggioli, Theory of the Avant-Garde (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1968), and
Peter Bürger, Theory of the Avant-Garde (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1984).
283
which they did by embracing an oppositional aesthetic.
103
Whyte goes so far as to
categorize the history of the Crystal Chain in particular as essentially “the history of a
vacuum,” as an “interregnum” between Wilhelmine culture and the rise of post-war
Functionalism in 1921.
104

The arguments made by Sharp, Bletter, and Whyte are all valid, and they have
been critical in cultivating a historical explanation for why an architectural movement as
energetic as Expressionism spanned only a few short years. Yet, none of these
explanations addresses the impact of what was ultimately the most destructive enemy of
the movement – its medium. These architects embraced paper during World War I not by
choice but out of necessity, and in the end, paper transformed Expressionist architecture
into many things it was not intended by its creators to be, including “books,” “pictures,”
“illustrations,” and “fine art.” Because it was perceived by much of the general public,
and eventually by the architects themselves, as virtually everything except architecture,
the movement was, in the end, strangled by mediating factors traditionally alien to the
discipline of architecture, such as consumer culture, the publishing sphere, and the
gallery system. It was also hindered by the limitations of paper to convey effectively
complex three-dimensional ideas. While Sharp may be correct in arguing that the
Expressionists realized they needed to leave the “theoretical notions of paper projects”
behind for the “practical job of building,” he missed a more fundamental point: The
architects themselves viewed this transition as leaving the paper projects behind more so
than they viewed it as a casting aside of their theoretical notions. The demise of

103
Whyte, “Introduction,” in The Crystal Chain Letters, 12.

104
Ibid., 12.
284
Expressionism as an architectural movement was, in the end, as much a rejection of paper
architecture as it was a move toward assimilation in a new era of building in which
function, rationality, and practicality in design would become the guiding principles.
285
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Creator Olgren-Leblond, Kelli (author)

Core Title Reading expressionist architecture: German modernism and 'paper architecture,' 1914-1920

School College of Letters, Arts and Sciences

Degree Doctor of Philosophy

Degree Program Art History

Publication Date 08/26/2008

Defense Date 04/25/2008

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Tag Bruno Taut,Crystal Chain,German Expressionism,OAI-PMH Harvest,paper architecture

Place Name Germany (countries)

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Advisor Lang, Karen A. (committee chair), Lerner, Paul F. (committee member), Reynolds, Jonathan (committee member)

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