Meet the Germans | Rory's Berlin Blog | Goethe-Institut

    In Berlin it’s party time again.  On Friday evening a million people will gather at the Brandenburg Gate for the world’s largest New Year’s celebration.  Along two kilometres of the Strasse des 17. Juni there will be stage performances, laser shows and music acts.  Top guests include The Cloggs, The Drapers (featuring Yolanda be Cool), Leslie Mandoki and the Soulmates (with Chris Thompson of Manfred Mann and John Helliwell of Supertramp) as well as Paul Potts and Bonnie Tyler.  The vast, free Welcome 2011 nightclub-under-the-stars will stay open until dawn.



    The night’s highlight promises to be Gert Hof’s light and fireworks show.  Over the last twenty years Hof has established himself as one of the world’s top light artists.  His performances have dazzled millions of spectators in Red Square, at the Acropolis, in Atlantic City and in Beijing.  Hof’s ambition is ‘to spread a blanket of light over the starry night, ...to unleash a storm of light, to produce a sunrise in the middle of the eye of the night.’  At midnight he will use the sky over Berlin as the stage for his newest spectacle.

Silvester is now Germany’s brightest and loudest annual celebration.  The last night of the year is the night of Saint Sylvester, der heilige Silvester, a fourth-century pope who cured Roman emperor Constantine I of leprosy (after converting him to Christianity).  On that night modern Germans let off so many fireworks that visitors could be forgiven for thinking that the end of the world is nigh.

    In our quiet Berlin neighbourhood, teenagers – who are polite and considerate during the rest of the year – launch Jolly Joker rockets at passing taxis.  Pedestrians are showered from balconies with cherry bombs.  Sober fathers hold their toddlers in one hand while firing from the other roaring Devil’s Delight Roman candles into the cold night air.

    The key seems to be to make as much noise as possible, indeed as much noise as the old Germanic tribes did during the Rauchnächte, or ‘smoky nights’, when evil spirits were smoked out of village houses.  



    But despite the deep Christian and pagan roots, the proliferation of fireworks is a modern phenomena.  A friend of mine remembers few pyrotechnics in the small town where she grew up in the 1950s.  ‘But at the end of the fifties my family moved to Hamburg and every year my father got more rockets and stuff for the evening,’ she told me.  ‘It seems similar to what happened with pinball machines.  In the beginning you could win with 100,000 points.  Today you need 2,000,000.’

    A kitchen psychologist might say that on New Years Eve the Germans unleash their pent-up frustration in a (mostly) harmless manner.  Perhaps that’s true.  Or maybe they simply know how to enjoy themselves and to let go for one glorious kinetic night (there’s little time for British-style Health and Safety).  Whatever the explanation, in Germany at midnight, with a deafening racket and roar, the nation marks the passing of another year, and celebrates with joy the hopes of a new beginning.  Hurra!  Wir leben noch…

    This year Mrs. Cat, Maus and I will be joining the million revellers at the Brandenburg Gate.  But not every German plans to dance the night (and old year) away.  For her part, my friend in Hamburg will be snuggling down in her big armchair to watch a couple of movies, while wearing her noise-cancelling headphones.
    ‘That should do the trick,’ she told me with a laugh.

Einen guten rutsch in’s neue jahr!

        In the popular imagination no country is more of a Christmas wonderland than Germany.  Traditional Weihnachtsmarkt in Dresden and Munich, spicy Glühwein in the Alps, carol singing in Konstanz and midnight mass in Cologne: the seasonal tastes, sights and sounds are all here in abundance.  But you don’t have to be in Germany to experience eine deutsche Weihnacht.  Whether you live in Boston, Bognor or Bangkok you can now have a German Christmas by following these ten easy steps.

1.  Open a Calendar:  Germans start Christmas early.  At the start of December every child in the land receives an Adventskalender with which he or she counts off the days until Christmas.  The tradition is thought to have been started by Lutherans who chalked a line on the front door every day.  Nowadays young devotees tend to prefer calendars with holy Kinder chocolates, divine Lego toys and even sacred Pokemon cards.



2.  Find an Old Shoe:  On evening of December 5th, Germans put an old shoe outside their door for benevolent Nikolaus – and his evil sidekick Knecht Ruprecht (who is armed with a willow switch – don’t ask why) – to fill with goodies.  Nikolaus is distinct from the Weihnachtsmann – or Father Christmas – although the shoe has morphed into the stocking which Brits, Americans and Canadians hang above their fireplace on Christmas Eve.

3.  Light a Candle:  To make a German happy, give them a candle.  At this time of year the nation goes potty over twinkling lights, and almost every household has an Adventkranz, a highly-flammable pine bough on which four red candles are mounted. Germany’s fire brigades do not rest on the month’s four Advent Sundays.

4.  Stock up on Kitsch: After a single glass of spicy Glühwein, astute and discerning Germans lose their aesthetic sense as they stock up on flaxen-haired wooden angels and lucky chimneysweep figurines.  To some the Weihnachtsmarkt are little more than themed funfairs but – despite the commercial overtones -- the Christmas markets do lift the seasonal spirit.  Even those gaudy gingerbread hearts, inscribed with banal endearments like ‘Für mein Bärchen’, enable people who do not know how to express themselves to show their emotions.  They are also useful for timid Romeos who wish to lay claim to a particular woman.

5.  Get Baking: Real German women bake Christmas cookies.  Timeless recipes are passed down from mother to daughter (or lesbian lover if in Berlin) for Pläztchen: cinnamon Zimtsternen, coconut macaroons, Kipferl  and waistline-challenging Pfefferkuchen.  Also popular is Stollen, a rich and heavy loaf-shaped cake which is particularly useful for wives who need to biff Glühwein-besozzled husbands for buying two ‘Für mein Bärchen’ hearts).



6.  Buy a tree: While the womenfolk are in the kitchen, the traditional German male picks up an axe and -- in a manly fashion -- treks deep into the Teutonic ‘Urwald’ forest to cut down a tall and noble Weihnachtsbaum.  Thankfully most modern men chose to slip into the Mercedes and drive to the local do-it-yourself shop to buy a stunted Polish shrub.

7.  Cook a Carp:  At my first German Christmas I was served customary poached carp with horseradish and sweet whipped cream.  I’ve never recovered from the experience.  Berliners seem to consider sausages and potato salad as appropriate fare.  In more civilised parts of Germany the Weihnachtsgans – or Christmas goose -- is the favoured festive feast.  



8.  No Christmas Pudding:  At that first German Christmas (in Bremen) I treated my hosts – they of the poached carp – to Harrods’ Christmas pudding, a British culinary masterpiece soaked in cognac and served with homemade brandy butter.  My hosts tasted it, smiled politely and – when I was out of the room – threw it on the fire.

9.  Santa Who?  In Germany there is no Santa Claus.  In Catholic families gifts are given by the Christkind, or the baby Jesus, aided by bands of angels from the Himmelswerkstatt, or Heavenly Workshop.  Protestants ascribe the same task to the Weihnachtsmann who – depending on the depth of the family’s faith -- may be helped by angels, elves or passing Smurfs.  In days gone by families took the opportunity to read aloud from the Bible and discuss their spiritual wellbeing.  Now most of them simply watch TV.

10.  Get Back to Work: Christmas is a special time, especially for families with children, and it brings the opportunity to be together with the people we love and to reflect on ones blessings.  For all too soon the holiday will pass and the time will come to get back to the workshop (which for most us is neither at Heaven’s Gate or the North Pole).  

Frohe Weihnachten!

    Every nation has its idiosyncrasies.  England has its obsession with the weather.  France has extended holidays (also known as public sector strikes).  Italians swallow pasta and soft porn.  Canadians sport the toque.  Immigrants must either accept the national peculiarity, or remain forever outside their adopted society.  In Germany that moment has arrived for Mrs. Cat and me – with the nasal shower.



Vorsprung durch Technik did not become the world’s most popular German expression because it’s a meaningless, catchy phrase.  ‘Progress through Technology’ is part of this nation’s ethos.  Since the days of early industrialist like Borsig and Siemens, Germans have advanced themselves through the innovative use of new technology: steam locomotion, the diesel engine, rocket propulsion, the fluorescent lamp, the electron microscope ... and now the modern, medical thingamajig.

    Germany is crazy about devices which improve health and hygiene.  Among the most popular instruments is the Zunge-Schaber, a horseshoe-shaped tongue scrapper which many citizens rush home to use whenever they feel a cold coming on.  Feeling snuffly?  Throat a bit raw?  Time to start scrapping.  Enema kits also find their way into most bathroom cabinets here, and an annual anal purge is considered an essential part of ones personal hygiene, rather like cutting your toenails.  Then there are the extraordinary ‘produce-and-examine’ toilets, with raised porcelain shelf, which were the norm for years.  Many older Germans still argue that the design engendered a regime of regular self-examination, which is an individual’s best defense against intestinal disease, water-borne parasites or undercooked sausage.

    ‘I can’t believe I’m living in a country where this is considered normal,’ whispered Mrs. Cat last night.  Her cheeks were flushed.  In her hand she clutched a vessel which brought to mind a white plastic willy.  Luckily the curtains were drawn.  ‘Where do I start?’
    Germans consider the Nasendusche – or nose shower – to be an object of neither acute embarrassment or great hilarity.  Across this land, from Aachen to Wolfsburg, sensible adults manage to keep a serious face while sticking the little willy up their nose and tilting its balloon-like body.  Saline solution then swirls around the nasal passages, dislodging pollen, germs and mislaid spectacles, then gushes out the nearest orifice (usually the other nostril).  The trick – as Mrs Cat leaned after spluttering all over the sink and waking the neighbours – is to keep the mouth open and throat closed.  
    ‘That was wonderful!’ she exclaimed, making me wonder if a number of brain cells had been washed away by the cleaning process.
    Despite my suggestion that she might like to lie down and reflect on the wisdom of her actions, she then started to irrigate her other nostril.  Once again the fluid rushed around her head and then splashed down into the sink.
    ‘It may look crazy but I do see the sense of it,’ she added.

    One regular user whom I know likens the Nasendusche to a trip to the dentist.  He avoids both for as long as possible but, in the end, surrenders himself to the inevitable.
    ‘Both the Nasendusche and the dentist are awkward, awful and horrible,’ he told me, ‘but they are helpful and do the job.’
    Before his discovery of the Nasendusche he suffered for years from asthma, bronchitis and a stuffy nose.  Apart from antibiotics, only this ‘silly health machine’ now provides him some relief.
    Another friend began to suspect that Nasenspülsalzen did more harm than good – at least to his pocketbook.  He told me that the leading manufacturer of the device is also this country’s main supplier of ‘health salt’ which is sold in attractive small sachets with the right dosage for a single ‘shower’.
    ‘These sachets are only available in pharmacies at inflated prices,’ he told me.  ‘For example, a box of 50 sachets (2.5 grams of salt each) sells for about €10.  That’s €10 for a total of 125 grams of salt – which is about 500 times more expensive that the supermarket price!  Of course, Nasendusche salt is medically tested and contains additives like potassium, chloride and bicarbonate. But this is more or less a clever marketing ploy because the medically-effective substance is salt – simple sodium chloride -- and nothing else.’  He concluded, ‘Let’s put it that way: the supplier has found a profitable way to ensure that a great medieval tradition endures today -- when salt awas a real currency.’

    After last night’s nasal irrigation, Mrs Cat slept better than she had for months.  She woke refreshed and happy.  She’s determined to use the Nasendusche again this evening.
    As time passes we are embracing more and more German peculiarities.  I just hope I can keep her away from the tongue-scrapping Zunge-Schaber...and those unforgettable ‘classic’ German toilets.

    When I moved to Berlin I learned that there is a dark side to the German character.  At this time of year it haunts cozy country cottages and minimalist city apartments.  It inveigles itself into the souls of schoolchildren, housewives and politicians.  It perverts clear thinking and clutters shop windows.  It is a love of … Christmas kitsch.



    To me it remains incomprehensible that a people who can design the Porsche 911 and sleek, white ICE trains, who created the Bauhaus and speak at least three languages at birth, want to own miniature wooden figurines, painted in gaudy colours, with flaxen hair, starry skirts and doleful eyes.  Every December these cutesy icons spread their carved angel wings across the land, dive-bombing Christmas markets in Cologne, Dresden and even international Berlin.  The markets are enchanting for six-year-old children, but why do adults – from the moment they start sipping mulled wine or munching gingerbread men – completely lose their aesthetic sense and buy these folksy archetypes?

    I’m reminded of an erudite and well-travelled Swiss friend who visited me last Christmas.  I took an afternoon off work to show him some of the sights: the Brandenburg Gate, the Reichstag, the Neues Museum and the East Side Gallery.  We walked, talked and picked our way through Berlin’s remarkable history.   Did he enjoy himself?  Yes.  Was the tour complete?  No.  So what else did he want to see?
    ‘Now I’d like to go to a Weihnachtsmarkt,’ he announced, and my heart sunk.

    Regular readers will recall that my wife, Mrs. Cat, loves Berlin’s Christmas markets.  Last year she made a number of purchases which – shall we say -- disregarded the dictum of English designer and craftsman William Morris that one should ‘have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful’.  Of course beauty is in the eye of the beholder and Mrs. Cat loved the twee, little knick-knacks.  But the discovery of her German side started to take us both to some dark and dubious places.

    So in my hour of need, with my otherwise astute Swiss friend by my side, I humbly asked Mrs. Cat to recommend to us a Christmas market.  ‘Gendarmenmarkt,’ she announced without hesitation.



    Gendarmenmarkt is one of the most beautiful squares in Europe.  But come Christmas time, the open space is surrendered to star-topped white tents containing stalls from posh Berlin restaurants, busy craftsmen and bustling bars.  There’s an enormous Christmas tree and live music on the steps of the Concert House.  On sale is every kind of kitsch imaginable.  And if that wasn’t bad enough, the organisers extract an entrance fee from visitors.  Yes, dear readers, you heard me correctly: shoppers are charged for the pleasure of spending their hard-earned money on seasonal tat.  But I am devoted to my friends.  I parted with cash.  And we stepped into the forested, folksy, frozen Hell.

    At first our visit was a trial.  I hated the pipe-smoking wooden shepherds and toothy nut-cracking soldiers.  The oversized snowmen and lady-bird-bedecked ceramic chimneysweeps turned my stomach.  So I turned away from the nauseating merchandise, and noticed something truly wonderful.  All around me people were smiling.  An enchanted middle-aged couple held hands.  A young woman’s eyes sparkled as she carefully chose a glittery bauble for her family’s Christmas tree.  The real beauty was in their eyes.

    ‘There is so much kitsch to discover in Germany,’ a friend from Munich once told me.  ‘As a newcomer you’ve only seen 10% of it.’  Naturally Germans aren’t alone in having bad taste.  The English have retro Teasmades and football teamwear.  The Scots have Celtic bookmarks and ceramic Loch Ness monsters.  The urban French have their sentimental attachment to the countryside.  The Americans have Paris Hilton.  But what about my Swiss friend?  Surely the society which produced Klee, Giacometti and Corbusier would not succumb to such aesthetic poverty.   I asked him to explain.   And as he carefully chose a small wooden Santa Claus figurine I learned the terrible, dark truth.  My friend’s mother was born in Germany.

    Art is big business.  The economic crisis may have pricked the bubble but it hasn’t popped it.  Sales of modern art remain in the hands of the key players.  Auction houses, galleries and the important collectors continue to decide which artists reach the big time, and which ones end up scratching out a living painting pavement-murals by the Brandenburg Gate or in Trafalgar Square.  But for how much longer?



    In Britain and Canada the dictates of the market are leavened by government intervention, in the shape of lottery and arts council grants.  The National Endowment for the Arts supports artists and arts organisations in the United States, as do countless independent foundations.  In Germany, the Deutscher Akademischer Austausch Dienst is the world’s largest funding organisation supporting the international exchange of students and scholars.  Its Berliner Künstlerprogramm – Berlin Artists-in-Residence Programme -- is among the most renowned programmes offering grants to visual artists, writers, musicians, filmmakers and dancer/performers.  Each year, some 20 grants are awarded to international artists for a one-year stay in Berlin.  German universities and regional arts councils (there has been no national Ministry of Culture since Goebbel’s abuse of the office during 1933 – 45) also provide vital financial support.  Nevertheless here – as elsewhere -- the vast majority of artists struggle to live off their creative work alone.  

    One of the triumphs of blogs is their ability to bypass hierarchies, enabling individuals to communicate one-to-one, allowing artists to reach their audience without the involvement of agents, recording companies or galleries.  This ‘democratisation’ of communication has its failings – forget about earning a living from the Long Tail if you are a creator – but it does enable people to spread the word about a new song, book or YouTube clip.  These days it’s word-of-mouth – or click-of-mouse – which can make a creative career.

    Over the last two years I’ve had the privilege of interviewing dozens of contemporary German artists, and writing about them on the adjoining Meet the Germans pages.  I’ll never forget author Thomas Brussig’s laughter and incisive wit, or architect Jens Casper’s boyish enthusiasm for his awesome Sammlung Boros, Berlin’s most idiosyncratic art space.  I remain humbled by the technical brilliance of Jorinde Voigt’s precise, music-filled drawings and moved by Friederike Feldmann’s familiar yet totally new Persian Rug series.  Ute Mahler’s outstanding East German photographs continue to haunt me, as do sculptor Nadine Rennert’s ominous, hooded figures, lying prone on the floor, miniature lights glowing at the tips of their gloved fingers.



    This month I’ve interviewed the young Berlin artist Heike Gallmeier.  Over the last couple of years Gallmeier has recreated in her studio Giotto’s Annunciation from discarded plasterboard, reinterpreted Botticelli’s Birth of Venus by standing naked on a rough cardboard shell, and refashioned a classic image from Kabuki theatre with a cast-off sofa and a tattered Ikea cardboard box.  Her ‘living images’ are part-set design, part-performance, part-painting, part-photography ... and wholly unique.
    ‘I wanted to find my own way of “painting”’, she told me when we met.  ‘I am interested in the point where illusionary spaces meet every-day-reality. Within my work, alongside the narration, I want to show the process of how an image is constructed.’
    In her interpretation of Giorgione’s The Tempest, Gallmeier became the nursing mother, surrounded by roughly-hewn trees, torn backing paper hills and a plywood bridge. As with every creation, Gallmeier assembles the elements together over weeks and months, deconstructing and then reconstructing, dressing the elements to camera.  The image layers are staggered in rows like on a baroque stage.  A photograph is her final artwork.



    The poet and critic Craig Raine once said, ‘The task of the artist at any time is uncompromisingly simple – to discover what has not yet been done, and to do it.’  Ezra Pound was even more concise. ‘MAKE IT NEW’, he wrote in The Cantos. Have a look at the interview and I’m sure you’ll agree that, in her audacious and cheeky reinventions, Gallmeier does create the New.

    Arthur Miller once said, ‘Fashion and rejection are experiences felt by all.  Know that, or go mad.’  In the future popular artistic success need no longer be dictated by auction houses, galleries and key collectors alone.  By spreading the word about remarkable young artists like Heike Gallmeier, bloggers and browsers can celebrate, even help to support, a creative career.  In the internet age, every one of us can be a virtual Medici.