The Woman in the Park
In ancient Greece, the agora was a gathering place where statues represented the material and spiritual values of the community: deities, mythical beings, rulers. During the Cold War in Eastern Bloc, this was also a marker of the space and its function. They were statues emphasizing the omnipresence of dictators. In such communities, large squares were built for the purpose of gathering citizens attending military parades and similar demonstrations of power. Carefully choreographed ceremonies in which all architectural, urban and aesthetic factors were strictly focused on creating an atmosphere in which the focus is on the speaker standing on the balcony above them.
The phenomenon of cohabitation of politics and architecture is a continuous hallmark of art to this day. That’s why Norman Foster designed the dome of the restored Reichstag in Berlin to embody the new transparency of government. We know that’s essentially bullshit but it looks good and there’s a bar. Art has been a servant to political causes since its very beginnings. The splendor of Versailles was a breathtaking creation and pinnacle of engineering, horticulture and architecture of the day. But if you look closely, it was nothing but a strategy the King employed to control members of the court and every single aspect of their lives which especially applied to his mistresses.
Art in public spaces is always a controversial topic of discussion. All over the the world we are fooling ourselves that removing a piece of art somehow re-touches parts of our shared history that we’d like to forget. When in fact it’s rather an act worthy of shame and condemnation. It’s a symptom of weakness and cultural illiteracy. To survive as a civilisation we need people able to recognize and save valuable artefacts from destruction. Such was the American heiress Peggy Guggenheim thanks to whom the works of many European artists were preserved. They were transferred to America in wooden boxes after she bought everything she could in the studios of famous Cubists, Surrealists and others.
There is an ongoing debate about returning art from worldwide museums to their countries of origin. But isn’t all of this the heritage of all humanity? Some of it has already been accomplished. The Getty Museum returned illegally excavacated Roman artefacts to Italy. A large Moai statue has been returned to Rapa Nui from Santiago where it was kept since the 19th century. The Parthenon frieze might now be the property of the British Museum but historically belong in Athens, instead of in London. It’s culturally indisputable, everything else is politics. The story of the unusual fate of Klimt’s masterpiece, the Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer is a landmark example in this context.
It was created at the peak of Klimt’s career and it’s one of the most iconic portraits in the entire history of art. We see a wealthy Viennese woman draped in an elaborate ornamental cloak and gold jewelry. Stolen by Nazis during World War II, it was exhibited in Vienna’s Kunsthistorisches Museum until 2006. It’s so famous that it is synonymous not only with Klimt but also with the city of Vienna.
And yet the heiress Maria Altmann managed to obtain the return of the painting to the family, which in the meantime had emigrated to the USA. Rare are similar successful restitutions of this level of importance and value. Today it’s exhibited at the Neue Galerie in New York along with works by other notable artists like Oskar Kokoschka, Otto Dix and Egon Schiele. Attention-grabbing with a sensual pathos of Jugendstil, its sensational appeal is irresistible. Fortunately I got to Vienna on time to see it in person.
In my country the attitude towards art from the Yugoslavian period is still bordering on barbaric: destruction instead of rational valorization. Some of the monuments, such as Bogdanović’s Partisan Memorial probably survived only due to their size. Smaller ones get recycled in most amazing ways. There are parts of ancient temples built into walls of houses or churches. Even sadder is the fate of bronze statues melted down. This is primarily referring to the busts of Antifascist fighters or memorials plaques on buildings. One of the few surviving plaques is dedicated to Milvoj Uzelac, an artist from Mostar who spent a considerable part of his life and work in France.
This wave of indiscriminate, aggressive destruction of public art also befell the “Female Nude” (1962) by Florijan Mićković. It was his graduation work at the Academy of Fine Arts in Zagreb. After it was purchased, it was placed in the main city park next to the Austro-Hungarian promenade. It stood in that place until the 1990s on a low platform that made it seem as if it was floating above the lawn apparently hiding in the hypostyle hall of trees and their crowns. It was stolen in 1993 and even if the thieves had been caught in the act, in evil times you fight for survival, instead for art. Priorities first.
The statue disappeared leaving behind only an solitary stone resembling a poet’s corner that can be seen elsewhere in Europe. Once there was a reading where the unfortunaterly vacated plinth that turned into a stage. We woke up in this brave new world in which people resolutely rejected art that inhabited our streets because it reminded them of the price they paid for peace. Florijan Mićković designed the bust of the poet Hamza Humo which stood in front of the National Theatre together with those of three other local writers.
This quartet represents the bohemian myth for which this city it so famous. Although the bust suffered damage that was later successfully repaired , others elsewhere were not so lucky. Instead, emptiness remains. Perhaps that speaks even louder, like a ghost returning out of spite to a place where it is not welcome any more. It is therefore difficult to understand what really happened to the Nude in our park. Whether it was sent to the melting pot of history or ended up on the black market is hardly of importance right now.
Artist studios were vandalized or destroyed entirely. It’s not just the soul of those spaces that was destroyed. The entire history of an art, a life and a beauty too fragile to survive turned into in the smoke and ashes. The arson as well as the robbery represent a symptom of social sickness. Because the relationship to art and culture is the mirror of our identity. A justified question arises, whether the land of empty plinths and burnt studios is even worth those who create in them, their talent and effort. In other words, do we as a society deserve an identity at all?
Because identity is more than that. It’s about people, education, art, literature, innovation. A quick and volatile wipe of historical slate is impossible. We are not a blank sheet of paper. Rather torn, wrinkly and wet that’s beyond repair as it is. It’s only our relationship to it that we can mend. That means we should refrain from treating art as a hostage of those that couldn’t care less about its substance but are obsessed by its frame. Political anarchy ravages everything that doesn’t fit into its tight mould.
Can the missing statue therefore be called an artistic interlude between two madnesses? Possibly. We might never know for sure. But one thing is for sure. Art helps us to focus at least for a moment on something that is not superficial, disposable or dangerous. Michelangelo’s David was not placed in a Florentine square only so that passers-by could see his miniature penis but to remind them they live in a world capable of creating beauty. Invisibility is the death of beauty and it’s especially true for sculpture. In which case that old saying perfectly applies. Out of sight, out of mind. It’s not a theater prop, though we do our best to turn this city into a black comedy. Though in Dante’s Divine Comedy, we’d probably be closer to hell.
