Dadaism

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I hope you enjoy the programme. Hello. In the spring of 1916 in Zurich, young people gathered on a small stage in a bar, sometimes dressed in cardboard, often performing nonsense poems, and people are still talking about it today. This was the start of Dada, a cultural phenomenon that spread to other cities in war-torn Europe, part protest against the inevitability of constant wars on the continent, part artistic experiment. And if the poem Song's Costumes and Art made no sense, well, that was deliberate, since what, after all, could make sense to people of conscription age, horrified by the killing. With me to discuss Dadaism, our Dawn Addis, emeritus professor of art history and theory at the University of Essex, Ruth Hemus, professor of French and visual culture at Royal Holloway, University of London, and Stephen Forcer, professor of French at the University of Glasgow. Stephen, let me come to you first. Zurich, 1916. Why there and why then? Thank you very much. So, 1915, 16, we are, of course, in the middle of World War I, the mechanized mass murder of the Western Front. The war, of course, extends across Central Europe, into the Balkans. Rampant nationalism is on the rise. The Ottoman Empire is collapsing. Russia is about to go through a revolutionary moment. So if you're an aspiring student or an aspiring writer or artist and you don't want to be brutally murdered in an insane war or in social unrest, then Zurich is a pretty good bet. Switzerland, of course, is neutral. It's German-speaking, but ferociously multilingual, multicultural. It's a site where people are seeking refuge. It has a university where a lot of our Dadaists and proto-Dadaists are enrolled. It is a place to meet people, and that is important not only culturally, but also because friendship is really important for our young Dadaists. They're looking for a sense of community. And, of course, Zurich is home at that time to a lot of cultural and political heavyweights. Joyce spent a lot of World War I in Zurich and wrote the chunk of Ulysses in the city. Lenin is there with Nadeshia Kripskaya as well. So it's, in some ways, a sort of an unlikely place looking, I guess, back at it from a kind of, kind of Anglo-centric perspective. But if you think about the immediate context, it makes a lot of sense as a place where people can go be safe, but also be energised and come together around this feeling, as you say, a profound disgust, really, at what's going on in the world. We'll talk about this as we go on. But can you give us a first taste of the link between Dada and the absurd? Yeah. So this takes us, among other things, to Hugo Baal, who, with Emmy Hennings, has already been on the scene as a cabaret sort of empresario. And Baal was very interested in Nietzsche's work on the absurd. The absurd in Dada is an index, so their absurdity is a kind of marker of the absurd collapse of civilisation as we know it. There's also a degree of self-satire in the absurd. The Dadaists are laughing, not only at the world around them, but they're laughing about themselves. And absurdity, well, it looks like absurdity and we are meant to be provoked by it, but it's also the opportunity for a lot of very interesting aesthetic innovation. And we might get into later some of the fine detail, some of the semantics about what kind of comes out of this absurdity. So they are provoking, but they're also experimenting. And this follows on from phobism, from cubism, from a whole host of other currents that are in train, and that, of course, extend for a long while after Dada. And both Hugo Baal and Emmy Hennings were actually quite experienced performers, Emmy Hennings in particular. Is that right? Yes, exactly. So between the two of them, they've got the kind of professionalised bases covered. Hennings, particularly as a performer and as a writer in our own right as well, Baal as an organiser. They're a bit older. They're around 30 by the time they get to. To zero, confound the cabaret Voltaire. It's situated on Spiegel Gasser, which translates roughly into mirror alley, which I would think is is lovely. And Voltaire, yes, I mean, it's a rejection of an enlightenment tradition of rationalism. But there are also some affinities, I think, with with Voltaire and going back further, perhaps to Mollier, who talks about the duty of satire to correct audiences as well as to entertain them. And in that absurdity, you can certainly see a desire to entertain, to shock, but also to be a corrective for society in the direction it's headed in. Well, right now, I'd like you to give us a first example of how shocking they could be. Could you read a couple of lines from one of Hugo Baal's poems? This one goes under the title, Gadgie Berry Bimba. With great pleasure. Self-ideasy is a key theme of Dada. So here goes. Gadgie Berry Bimba, Glendridi Lola Loni Cadori. Gajama Grammar Berida, Bimbala Glendri Galasasa, Lolita Lomini. Wow. Yeah, we can discuss that and discuss that later. But Ruth, when these first performances take place with poems like that in the Cabaret Voltaire, as it's called, as Stephen has mentioned, can you take us there and give us a sense of the atmosphere of what was going on in Cabaret Voltaire? Yeah, I mean, I think that's one of the questions that drives anyone who's interested in Dada, trying to grasp what this moment must have been like. It feels ungraspable, but there's lots of memoirs and accounts and pamphlets and there's even a painting by Marcel Janko that's gone missing, but there's a reproduction of it that gives a sense of the kind of noisiness and the fact that it was so crowded and people were intervening. I think it must have been pretty chaotic and confusing. Bal talks about it as a centre for artistic entertainment. So what Stephen says about the professional side as well of Emmy Hennings would have been a draw. You know, there's parts of it that would have been, I suspect almost, oh yeah, this is what we're expecting and then other elements that would have been completely a surprise. So I think we've all seen sort of recreations over the years of these to try and understand what it's like and sometimes I've found them quite uncomfortable, but then I think that's probably right because I'm not sure that I would have thought at the time, or we wouldn't have known that this was going to turn out as it did. Well, and presumably discomfort was one of the sentiments they wanted to nurture. Yeah, absolutely. I think just to question everything, all the established systems, what your expectations of art and literature are, that the different languages going on at the same time, and we just heard this, or even something that's not language, that's not recognisable as language, so that the semantics become less important than the materiality, the emotive side of the words that are coming out of the sounds and the noises. And I think that must have been confusing. But as Stephen said, in Zurich, where you're hearing different languages overlaid or fragments of them, I think that's a perfect place for it to arise. But what were the key ideas behind Dadaism? Was there a political aspect to it, rather than this sort of anarchic sense of chaos? Yeah, absolutely. They were anti-war, anti-nationalism. There were people there avoiding the war draft, or who had perhaps gone to war and then been discharged. So they quite definitely had political ideals, but they weren't dogmatic. I would say they're more investigative than dogmatic. And I think that's again something that is appealing about Dada. They didn't align themselves quickly with any kind of current. I think they were looking for what that might be. And in some senses, it's quite spiritual experiences as well. So it's known as being anti-religion. But I think anything, they were open to many different currents and trains of thought and were drawing on those different elements to find something. But definitely anti-establishment, very unhappy about the way that language was being misused for propaganda and for nationalist aims. Dawn Addis, it starts in Zurich in 1916, 1917, but it then spreads to other places. How does it spread and is it the same movement that you see in other cities around Europe? It's spread incredibly fast, I think partly because of that wonderful name, which is completely nonsense in a way, though it has meanings in various languages. The person who really started spreading it was Tristan Zarar, who came from Romania, sort of exile to Zurich. And he started sending the little magazines that they produced to everyone he knew all over Europe and United States, New York, Paris, and Berlin and everywhere. So the name sort of spread like that. People also moved from Zurich to Berlin to Cologne and so on and ignited something else there where they were, which is not always the same. I mean in a way, that is extremely different in the different places where it took brief route. Yes, it struck me that in Berlin, for example, it was a much more political movement than say in Zurich. It was a much more political movement and the works that were produced, the very famous photo montages by Hartfield, who anglicised his name deliberately in the middle of the war, and George Gross rather than Gayle Gross also anglicised his name in the middle of the war, produced these very violent photo montages which juxtaposed things to, as it were, to sort of undermine the surface, the kind of apparent reason that governs things, even the war. So was there any sense of coherence at the time as to what Dadaism actually was, or was it forever shifting? Oh no, I mean I think no, they didn't want to define it. They rather preferred producing sort of little manifesto things like, what is Dada? Is it a state religion? Is it a philosophy? Or is it nothing at all? They were challenging people all the time, but of course in a sense it did have importance, is what we're still talking about it in a way. And one of the things that Zara said when he was interviewed here in the BBC in 1959, was that it was a kind of dialectical negativity. We, egal, non. Yes, equals no. So you can start trying to unpick that. I'm, well please do unpick it Stephen. Yeah, I mean amazingly, this is a job working on this kind of stuff, and I've thought about this in some detail. So as Dawn was just saying there, that idea of something which is simultaneously a cancellation on the one hand and a renewal on the other is very Hegelian, that's a key notion of Hegel's dialectics. And this is fascinating parallel, and it comes into view around 1922, where Zara is calling time on Dada. Dada has run its course, it must not prolong itself needlessly. He's going around Europe giving this talk and he goes to Jaina and at that same year down the road in Gottingen I think, a young Werner Heisenberg is starting his studies in physics, and will go on over the late 20s to produce the uncertainty principle. And of course quantum physics, uncertainty principles, entanglements, which are still live questions for scientists now recently, I think, recognized in the Nobel. This idea that there are these bizarre, yet real contradictions going on at a subatomic level, at a philosophical level, at an artistic level. Dada really encourages us to think beyond simple binaries of yes or no, of this or that. Dada wants to synthesize this, and it comes together actually in what Ruth was saying earlier about Dada as a profoundly ethical thing. Yes, it's a violent rejection, but it's also a profoundly sort of, yeah, kind of ethical drive towards a world that can be better. We haven't used the word nihilism yet, and I don't like using the word nihilism about Dada, but it's not pure nihilism. It is a rejection and an endorsement of ways in which we can live better together. So Dawn, just going back to the movement, it goes to Berlin, it goes to Paris, it also goes to Cologne, which is a strange place for it to be. Why would it go to Cologne? It went to Cologne largely because of Max Ernst. He'd been fighting, and on the front he had actually fought opposite Elioir, one of the earliest surrealists they discovered later when they became great friends. But Ernst was there. Hans Arp, who had been in Zurich, he moved to Cologne as well, and they joined one other person. It was a tiny little group, just really three of them, who put on an exhibition which challenged people. It's one of those exhibitions that must have been quite extraordinary, and one finds echoes of it today. It included an aquarium with a woman's sort of false wig floating on the surface of it, and various other objects, and there was a pile of chairs in the corner, and one of the visitors thought the chairs were a sculpture, but they were actually chairs. They were chairs. So I think that confusion between what is art and what is not art was already there in Cologne. The two worked very happily together with Bargeld as well, produced a magazine, as all Dadaists did in every site where it took root. But they weren't sort of in constant contact with each other. They were emerging as separate? Well, I think they were in contact. I mean, Zahra made sure that everybody sort of knew what he was doing in Zurich, and he called it Movement Dada, I think, partly ironically. But that was the name that was attached to it. They were in contact, not so much necessarily individually, but Arp, he'd moved from Zurich, and he kept his connections there. So there were connections. So sort of loose network, as it were. Ruth Hamas, the use of language is absolutely critical in Dadaism, even with the name Dada. Can you enlighten us about language, and also what does Dada mean? Okay, so I've got a few quotes from what Dada means, which I don't think will enlighten, but maybe further confuse, because it's always like a fascinating question, which I think is part of its enduring charm and appeal somehow. It's like sort of trailing a brand when you don't know yet what it is. And it's kind of clever marketing, isn't it? So there's various examples, yes, yes, in Romanian. And of course, there were a lot of Romanian participants, hobby horse in French, sign of foolish naivety, the beginning at zero. I mean, they did say, Arp says, the le rust dictionary was consulted for an international word free from any political or partisan colour, and even from any exact meaning. So they were trying to get beyond meanings and get beyond fixed, semantic ideas. But that's very difficult still, because of course, you do whatever language you're using, it brings bells in your head. So I'm also intrigued by the fact that for many participants in Cabaret Voltaire and other areas in other centres in Dada, they had different languages, you know, the language that they were using in that place was not their first language. And I think part of the, what you see is this real revelry in the texture of language. So we heard Stephen reading that sound poem. There's another example, which is a simultaneous poem called La Merelle Cherche Une Maison Alluée, the Admiral is looking for a house to rent. And here you have three overlapping voices in largely in French, German and English, but also bells and whistles and drums, all sorts of percussion. And, you know, these speaking these at the same time, it's like a musical score, it was also printed in the magazine. And it's at once sort of, you know, you can't guess the meaning, but it's generating new meanings, new words. So I love this texture of language, when even if you don't understand what's being said, you get a feel for something, you get, you get emotion and it can have an impact on you. Is that almost axiomatic for works in of Dadaism that they defy interpretation? I read that article, that sound poem of the Admiral looking for a house. And I mean, I found it quite entertaining, but I didn't really know why. Yeah, it's a bit like being moved, I think, by a piece of abstract art or music that hasn't got a very clear narrative. I suppose that sense of anti-narrative, but still feeling something from it. And you're not always sure why, but you're getting something from tone. And yeah, this texture breaking apart the elements of language. And I think someone like Tristan Zara or Celina Noe, who is another Romanian who was working in Paris a bit later. Sometimes I see these like these lists or these words. And I think of learning vocabulary or coming across a strange word or an expression that's really far nor different in another language. So I think the multilingual element is really important to how Dada was propagated elsewhere. Stephen. Ruth, you mentioned the simultaneous poem. Again, not to sort of flog the horse, but it's a rejection of the reader and our attempts to interpret it or just a kind of, you know, an absence of that possibility. And yet, at the same time, these are the three languages primarily involved in the Western Front, French, German, English. It's as if you're kind of tuning in to a radio that's broadcasting simultaneously. Quantum physics, simultaneity, you know, a very different sphere. But that idea of simultaneity of a whole profusion of things going on at the same time as you find in the George Gross paintings, actually, the kind of the undigestible rush of modernity. That is something that's captured in those things. I've had to describe paintings or photo montages as noisy, you know, because they do feel multi-sensory. I think they were trying to capture that sense in some of these works of the huge rush of the sensations and modern life. Dawn, you wanted to come in there. Well, I was just thinking that it's interesting to consider the kind of artistic and cultural bedrock, which existed just before the First World War, which, of course, the Dadaists in Zurich were very aware of. And Zara had sent his little magazine to Marinetti, the leader of the futurists in Italy, as well as to a pollinaire in Paris. And I think there's a kind of, it's interesting to think about that simultaneous poem in terms of futurist simultaneity, because it's like a deviation of what was intended to be a genuinely sort of modern experience. And Dada is not a, it is not an expression of modernity at all. It's something quite different. And they were very anti-modern. You mentioned that Zara referred to it as an art movement. Does that help us to understand it? Is it a movement? I suspect that he used it partly in the spirit of irony, as I said, it's called a movement dada. You know, we have the futurist movement, which has its manifestos. Dada had its manifestos, lots of manifestos, but they aren't necessarily saying, this is what we should be doing as artists. This is what we should be doing as poets. They're something else. They're disruptive. They're aggressive. He's not trying to propagate a particular thing. So calling it movement dada is both a challenge to the existing movements and a sort of genuine feeling that something is going on here. It's an adventure we're all involved in. One of the problems that I think some people have with dadaism is that there are no iconic works from the movement itself. It's not like surrealism with Magritte and Salvador Dali. So when somebody says, tell me about a work of art that dada produced, what do you say? Well, there are several things you can say, because actually everywhere dada sprung up, something appeared that was visually very arresting. Arp is particularly interesting in Zuri, because he begins with a kind of attempt to make things as non-expressionist as possible. He cut paper for collages using a knife rather than using his hand. Then he discovered chance, and he thought that chance was a very, very productive possible process to use. He started tearing up paper and dropping it down and making collages. Ruth? I would mention photo montage as a technique that was a popular technique. It wasn't owned by the dadaists, but they used this technique to artistic effect. Somebody like Hannah Hough, who I really find resonates with students. She's one of the Berlin dadaists. Yes, that's right. She worked with Raoul Hausmann, and there's a photo montage called Das Schöne Medtion from 1920, or The Beautiful Girl, the new woman. She's got a jaunty in a swimsuit with her legs crossed and then this huge spoof on modern haircut, a light bulb instead of a face. And then in the background, there's the BMW Insignia repeated over and over again, machinery, a watch to think about time. And that's the comment on modernity, I think, and on beauty and on the mass media. So this cutting up of newspapers and popular magazines to create these surprising new images. And that's something that I think is used now, but in a more digital rather than handmade way. Usually people see that and find really intriguing because it's both of its time. All the photo matter is from its time, but it's something that one can do as well. And we've got lots of questions about now about what's real and what's not real when you first come across one of these images. So it strikes me that what Dadaism was was about various techniques emerging, various which became traditions later on, but were not necessarily themselves set in stone as it were. Stephen, can you tell us about the poetry and how it was performed? Well, your listeners might well be thinking, in what way can this possibly be poetry? It's just a load of slobloc to pick up a word used by Fry and Laurie in a sort of, you know, post Dada moment. If you think about the Greek etymology of poetry, it means to create, to imagine, to make something. That is exactly what these people are up to. Ugo Baal, back to him, talks about the urgent need to reinvent language and no less illuminary than André Gide at the end of World War I says, we cannot just sit down at the table and start writing and speaking and using language in the way that we did in 1914. Discourse has got to change. So it's poetic to the extent that it's messing around with and experimenting with language. You don't necessarily know what that is going to produce at the outcome. And if you look at, well, some of the iconic as well as the ephemera that's buried away in the magazines that you can consult at the International Dada Archive, which fittingly is based in Iowa, if you look at some of this material, it is profoundly poetic. Because the Iowas is unlikely a place. Exactly. I've yet to go. If you look at some of this stuff, it has the features of poetry. It has a Naffora. It has Mita. It has rhyme of different sorts. It has occasionally the, in French, the Alexandrian, you know, the kind of gold standard of 12 syllable lines and people like Zara messing around with the place of the Sezure. So it does respond actually to poetic analysis in understood in a kind of a serious sense. The other thing about the manuscripts is that the Dadaists corrected their work. So I've looked at Zara's manuscripts where you get this nonsense verse. He corrects the nonsense words. So he'll write off, you know, it's starting off, bouz duk, that will be a double O, but then you correct it to an OU to make that more distinctive sound. And then it's very amusing and interesting looking at what translators try to do with this stuff. Because let's say you're translating bouz duk into English, what do you translate that into into? And another thing that you've mentioned, Ruth, is photo montage because this really is one of the great legacies, surely. I mean, we see it emerging Russia in Germany, in France, in Britain, everywhere. Photo montage becomes, you know, one of the great innovations. It really appeals to people as well because it can be, it's very rooted in its particular moment. It's, you know, political social context. It tells us a lot about what's going on. But it also seems to, you know, you can still respond to it now. So Hannah, for example, started using colour, which has a whole different aesthetic later in her life. And it can really relate it to that moment. And then it was used for very political reasons. I mean, I would say that she was political. They were poke fun at politicians of the time. There was lots of celebrities from that moment, the fashions, the sport. It was like a real kaleidoscopic version of what was going on. But it became especially political in the 1930s. When John Hartfield's work above all else. Absolutely. So very, you know, there was an urgency in the late 20s and early 30s. And some of the photo montages that Hartfield produced, you know, very particularly against fascism and this combination of text and image as well is something because we've talked about the visual and the verbal, but the interaction between them. So you have the slogans remade, you have the images remade, something that looks familiar, that is not quite familiar. So it asks you to look again. And I think that technique is very useful still. So Dawn, it's time to talk about the fountain. Can you tell us about Marshall Duchamp's fountain, the porcelain urinal signed our mutt. Is this a Dada's work? And if so, what is its importance? Well, it's kind of been annexed to Dada, but it certainly was not linked to Dada in Europe at the time. It's not quite clear whether Duchamp at the time is in 1917 in New York, had even heard or seen the name. His friend Picabia might have done, but that would be, I think, irrelevant to the incident, which has actually had such reverberations throughout the 20th century. There was an exhibition being planned for the Society of Independent Artists. And Duchamp was one of the people on the kind of board that was organizing it. And shortly before it opened, a porcelain urinal arrived just before it was open to the public. It then was never shown. And there is a considerable confusion about what actually happened. There are lots of different accounts of what happened and why it wasn't exhibited. But it wasn't exhibited. And as a result, Duchamp, of course, his name was not officially linked to it, immediately resigned from the board of the Independent Artists. And he and his friends, Beatrice Wood and Henri Pierre Rocher, produced another little magazine called The Blind Man, asking the question, why was Mr. Mutt, the fountain had been signed, the porcelain fountain had been signed with the words, are Mutt, why was Mr. Mutt's sculpture refused? So it turned into a publicity event. He had already been experimenting, if you like, with giving ordinary objects a title. The question, of course, is, are they to be called art? And he was always, I think, quite clear that they were asking a question about what is art. They're not saying this is art. But his point was actually that he was questioning it. I mean, what is art? Can you define art? And this is a question, of course, which we've heard repeatedly ever, ever since then, from the parlour, bricks in the tate, onto some of the young British artists' work and so on. This is a question which hasn't yet been answered. But it was posed by Dadaism. It was posed by Dadaism. And it was also posed in the text that was published together with the photograph of the fountain that appeared in the little magazine, The Blind Man, a text saying that what happened was the object was given a new thought, very carefully sidestepping the question of whether it is art or not. Stephen, some of Dada was intended to prompt laughter. But what sort of a laughter was it intending to prompt? Yeah, that's an excellent question. And Dada is a case study, really, in the multifaceted directions and functions and consequences of humour. So Dada is a joke. It's a joke about the sick joke of a civilisation, flushing itself into the fountain as it were, or kind of down the toilet of history. It is a joke about themselves. And part of that is not only to satirise themselves, but also, again, back to contradiction. It's a joke against the viewer or the audience, but also with them. And it's really clear that the audiences were in on the joke. André Portrand, who was a Dada, as they called themselves before, he was a surrealist, writes about 1921, a visit to Saint-Julien-en-Pauvre in Paris, attended by crowds and crowds of people in the rain. There was this public interest and affection for Dada. And in the Bibliothèque L'Éterrages d'Ousse, in Paris, there's this wonderful series of scrapbooks that Francis Picabia kept. And they are press cuttings of Dada being mentioned by journalists. So journalists are also sort of interested and sceptical. There's something going on here. They're not convinced, but they're sort of interested. So the humour is pushing you away, but also kind of drawing you in. And there is this ethical dimension to humour as well. The Dadaists are laughing at themselves. They're making a joke about language. And I think they're promoting, going back to what we were saying earlier about satire, absurdist culture as not a political party, it's not a political programme, but as something that society needs a radical injection of in order to progress. Now, Dadaism didn't really make it over to London. And yet that humour that you're talking about appears to be shot through all of British satire ever since. What is that linkage between British humour and Dadaism? This is fascinating. In a way, it's as if British cultural, at least, figures in an organised sense don't need Dada. There are these interesting individual cases. So Hope Mealy's, for example, wrote a very long and quite lauded poem in 1920. Paris, it looks very much like a sort of mix of Dada and a Polinaire. There's Helen Bigger, who wrote an experimental quasi-Dadaist film about the commercialisation of armaments. There was this prank that was on the BBC recently, the centenary of the 1926 hoax by Father Knox about ministers of transport being hanged from lamp posts. And that was on the BBC in 1926. So we understand. I don't think there's a recording of it, but it was commemorated recently. And it's a joke. So there's something about British cultural elites and artists that says, we're not interested in this in an organised form, but as you say, Misha, if you look at British culture since, it's shot through with examples of this Dada spirit. And Dada refers to Dada as a spirit. You're absolutely right, Dawn. He's messing around with the idea of a movement, but he also says Dada is a state of mind. So whether it's the Bonzo Dog, Duda band, whether it's Filomena Kunk, whether it's Fry and Laurie Python, of course, it's kind of nowhere formally and everywhere in comedic and cultural discourse. I'm very pleased that Filomena Kunk has been named on in our time. Ruth, you mentioned Hannah Höch in Berlin, but can you tell us about some of the other women who are engaged in Dada? We've heard of Emmy Jennings as well. Yeah. So we often come to them through talking about one of the men in the movement, but that wasn't unusual in that there was quite a network. So Emmy Hennings was the star of the cabaret. And as Stephen said, a writer herself, although we think of her as a performer, but she used to sell her poems in the cabaret and go around with her photographs and so on and was involved in the expressionism before as well. And then Sophie Toeba-Arp, who has got a lot of recognition actually, because she's such a talented artist, designer, maker. She was doing textiles and jewelry and furniture and architecture and was a dancer in the cabaret as well. What's striking, I think, about a lot of the women that we come across is how many different activities they were involved in as well, as were many of the men. But I think there's no area in which they weren't participating. And then she became very important in terms of geometric abstraction later on. Another person to mention is Suzanne Duchamp, sister of Marcel, very briefly, but nonetheless quite interesting and small body of work in the mechanomorphic style from around like 1916. So there's a work called Ernétine Menace, or male and female threatened, which is this kind of strange, crane-like machine imagery of two people, of two figures that would also have been, was very unusual, quite early on, in the sort of style of Francis Bacabia or Marcel Duchamp. And then finally I would mention a poet called Celina Nureau, I think I spoke about her earlier, who was like Tristan Zara, was Romanian, Jewish, born Carolina Goldstein and moved to Paris around 1914 to 15. And then she produced a huge amount of poetry and manifestos and dramatic texts and so on. Largely for these magazines that we've been talking about, these pamphlets, she started her own, again just a one-off called Projecteur in 1920, which included all of the kinds of Dada and proto-surrealist writers of the time, and 11 of her own volumes. And she was forgotten until relatively recently and didn't much take to surrealism or Breton, precisely perhaps for some of the reasons we've been talking about, about keeping a free spirit. So Dawn, tell us how Dada comes to an end, but what happens to it? It does come to an end, exactly who wanted it to end is another question. Zara had moved to Paris in I think 1920 and interrupted what was already a kind of budding movement, which became surrealism, a little magazine called Literature, which was very experimental and very interested in automatic writing. But Zara arrived and Picabia was also there and Duchamp was there and so a kind of Dada in Paris moment, yes, yes, a lot of activity. I think it was about 1922 when Breton began to tire of Dada, Andre Breton, who became, of course, the leader of the surrealist movement, been very involved with Dada. He tried to organize what he wanted to call a Congress to determine the direction of the modern spirit. Now this was far too organized, far too deliberate for Zara, who immediately sabotaged it. And that was one of the reasons, it just broke up, it split up. Zara went on talking about Dada, went on visiting and giving lectures about it, but basically that was the end and after a gap, surrealism was launched. We've heard a lot, Stephen, about how it spawned all sorts of other things in large parts of Europe. What was its fate? It was actually really dangerous to be associated with this kind of activity, especially in someone like Berlin, you know, German Revolution right after the end of World War I, the nation of our republic, alongside national socialism. And as a modern embodiment of Dada, we've thought about where is Dada to be found today. I often think of Pussy Riot as an iconoclastic, brave, anti-orthodox, anti-authoritarian phenomenon who have got that Dada spirit. I don't know if they have any conscious connection to Dada, they may, they may not, but there's that sense of political protest through culture. Grail Marcus has produced a really nice book on this called Lipstick Traces. It tracks Dada and other forms of cultural revolution through hippie culture, punk, post-punk, Elvis Costello, Pete Townsend, you know, they're all there. So in a way, it's almost impossible to point to the neatly defined political relevance of Dada, but its irrelevance is profoundly relevant. Dawn, just you mentioned Andre Breton just there. Is there a direct link between Dadaism and surrealism? Surrealism is much more easy to define as it were. One of the obvious links is through the artists, because surrealism inherited a lot of the Dada artists. And this is where it becomes more difficult to disentangle them, which I think is important to do. But it is difficult because someone like Max Ernst, who was so central to Dada and Cologne, then moved to Paris. And what he'd been doing with photo montage, what he called collage, was so unlike what the Berlin Dadaists were doing, and was far more in the line of a spark that is produced from unlikely juxtapositions that seem to have been brought together by chance. So artists are a link, but I think it's a mistake to put them together too much. I have done so myself frequently in the past, Dada and surrealism, they seem to go together, but actually they are very distinct. And I think that's quite, quite significant. Ruth, a final question to you, and it's a big one. What's the legacy of Dada? I mean, we've heard some of the sort of disparate things that it appeared to spawn. But why do you think that it's, it has so much persistence, so much energy culturally? It's a bit of a paradox because it resists definition. People can identify in so many different ways. I like the slogan, Jaider can Dada. Anybody can do Dada really. Anybody can make art. I think that's often, I don't know, if you're working with school groups or students, then it feels like an accessible way to use techniques and the spirit, as Stephen said, it's a spirit, it's an attitude, and to redeploy them for things that matter to you. And because it's not dogmatic, precisely because it's not dogmatic, it sort of persists in that way, I think, like a protest, a rebellion, anti-authority, feels like a sort of democratic way of approach art. So that sense, I think, continues. And then the absurdity, I mean, we talked about laughing, but I often think we take ourselves very seriously about this and you can forget to laugh sometimes. You know, you're like looking at something and thinking that discomfort, actually, that we mentioned before. That actually it's quite funny, you know, and I've seen lots of good examples where, how to make museum exhibits about Dada, for example, is a really trying question. But where humor is brought into that, where like cabaret elements that remind you what it must have been like, to have this multi-sensory experience, I think. That's another thing, you know, it's musical, it's verbal, it's visual, it has all those different elements, it has different languages, and it's not just tied to one person, which kind of confuses us, but it's not aligned with, do I like this artist or not, because it's so multifarious. Yes, I think that it's quite extraordinary. You've mentioned Filomena, Kunk and Pussy Riot. I also watched in preparation for this the Franz Ferdinand video, Take Me Out, and it almost transported me back to the beginning of the 20th century. It was extraordinary. Dawn, a final word from you on the legacy. I was just thinking about the tremendous presence that Dada managed to have, disparate as it was, all those different places, and I was thinking about a photo montage with the phrase, Dada seeked, Dada conquers. And I think actually, yes, that was a terrific slogan. My thanks to Dawn Addis, Ruth Hemus and Stephen Forcer. Next week, Silicon, not just chips, but a fundamental building block of life on this planet, and perhaps elsewhere. Thank you for listening. And the In Our Time podcast gets some extra time now with a few minutes of bonus material from Misha and his guests. And now we can go on to the podcast bit, where we discuss what was missing. There's one thing that intrigued me. I mean, we mentioned that it never reached London, really, as a movement. The other place it strikes me that it didn't reach is Vienna. Even though, you know, Vienna was this cauldron of activity, and I wonder if there's was it just through the persons that it, I mean, Cologne was a straight, I highlighted Cologne, because it struck me as odd that it would go to Cologne, not that Cologne isn't an interesting place, but it's not usually associated with innovative movements. That's a fascinating question. I don't really feel qualified to answer it. But in Dada style, I'll have a go. I mean, maybe it's got something to do with the imperial context that it's perhaps got two kind of close or too closed to take off there. I mean, it must be something to do with the collapse of the old order in Europe and the complete collapse of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. And Vienna, obviously, changes identity. So we may think of it now as a wonderful artistic and musical center. I don't know what it was like, you know, 1916, 1718. Very traumatized. Yes. This is the answer to that. I mean, very traumatized in a way that I don't think Berlin was at the same time. The other interesting thing I wanted to ask you about was the contrast between futurism, Italian futurism, which of course was so aligned with fascism and Dadaism, which was so not aligned with fascism. And yet there seems to be some sort of connectivity there. I mean, that's one of the deeply fascinating aspects of the avant-garde, then if we use that term, I hope that how can we can talk about it of these multiple groups, but there was so different in different places, which kind of reminds us that they were generated from very specific political, social, cultural circumstances to have such different approaches. Because as you say, there's techniques that you can sort of a similar, both poetic techniques of fragmentation and sound and so on. And what you mentioned earlier about simultaneity, these paintings of speed and so on, but they were very into modernity. I think Dawn, you said, you know, Dada wasn't, but the futurists loved the idea of speed and machinery and modernity. So I like the fact that the big umbrella term embraces so many different elements of what the avant-garde was doing in different places. Just on the spreads, Dawn, you alluded to this, they're writing each other loads of letters. They're sending the magazines. I got into French through pen pals. And there's this beautiful sense of them writing each other letters in the Douce holdings. There's this gorgeous set of letters between Zara and Breton. Breton writes with his immaculate pretty blue ink. And there's so much excitement and love between them. And they're desperate for something to do and for an outlet. So when Zara arrives in Paris in 1920, he's waited as Breton says, or he's awaited as a sort of messiah. When he arrives, he's a bit of a disappointment to them. He's not a physically imposing person. But back to politics, one of the things that he would do Zara at these dada soirees in Paris would be to read a political tract, but simultaneously undercut himself by having a siren going or an alarm bell going. And again, it's that kind of political, anti-political, as there's a synthesis of opposites here. Yeah, Dawn. He lived in this interview with the BBC in 1959. He denied that there was any real politics in Zurich. Of course, in Berlin there was. I think futurism, I mean, of course, it wasn't aligned with what became fascism at this time. And Marinetti was certainly in contact with Zara and visit. And they would reproduce works by futurist artists as well as, you know, expressionists and so on in the magazine. So there was a considerable eclecticism that also at the beginning. This idea of a network, I mean, it's fascinating because you said, you know, it's it relied on people moving, you know, actual movement of people or letter writing and contact making in that way. That's how it proliferates. How are we going to change the letters? I mean, presumably a lot of the letters are extant and you can read them. Yes, a lot of them have been published. Yeah. There's a chunky correspondence at the end of Michel Sandu's volume. I'm always intrigued by the number of Romanians who pop up in the absurdist movement. I mean, there's UNESCO as well, of course, later on. Is there anything special about the Romanians? Of course, most of them are Jewish as well, which is very important because they lived in very difficult circumstances in Romania. So I'm not an expert on Romanian. I spent time in the country for research. And I actually feel very affectionate about the the data scholars that I've met there. There was a Romanian avant garde and Zara plugs into that and works with with others associated with symbolism and post-symbolist journals. So there's that going on. The education system in Romania provides French and German. Bucharest is one of these places described as the Paris of the East. So, you know, France and Paris has, I think, significant cultural capital in Romania over the 19th century. So in a way, it's a natural thing for Zara to gravitate towards French and towards Romania. And of course, Romanian is a Latin language. Exactly. It's quite easy, certainly, to learn French if you're a representative. Exactly. And one of them was the artist Marcel Yanco in Zurich. And he was responsible for some of the tremendous masks that they would wear in the performances, which are very, very strange, transforming people's appearance. In Cabaret Voltaire. In Cabaret Voltaire. We've not mentioned Sophie Toyba, who worked with Yanco on these masks. And between the two of them, they provide these masks and they write afterwards about just how liberating it was to put on a mask, to be someone different for a bit. They're trying on new ideas, new senses of self. And Ugal Baal says in his daries, it's hard to say just how constricting society at the time was. So this chance to experiment, to mess around, is so empowering for them. Ruth and then Dawn. I just think it's a good question about the Romanian presence, because although we're saying, oh, it's multilingual, it's wonderful, and you use all these different languages, we can erase it a little bit. It would have been a very different experience to be, and sometimes there is a feeling of being an outsider or of coming from elsewhere when you're in that environment. And I know, for example, Selina, I know where she writes, a lot of her, where you can pull out thematic threads, it's about that kind of sense of being away from home and being somewhere else and the way one is treated, even in an avant-garde group. So I think, yeah, I think sometimes we, although we say we don't think of it as a Swiss group or a French group or a German, it's important to remember that these were a mix of people who with very different cultural linguistic backgrounds. And that's what makes it so thrilling. But also, I think I always hoped that they'd also be very, very close to each other. It's not always the case. No, there's plenty of falling out. Always supporting each other. Don, you wanted to say something, and then we can have a couple of meetings. Well, I was just thinking about the fact that it was so liberating as an experience, these performances, and how that might show a little light on why it never, I doubt I really never came to this country. I was thinking about the origins of the Cabaret Voltaire in the literary cabaret in Germany, which is a very different kind of cultural event from anything we have, I think. And the idea that you could act to produce serious avant-garde things in a sort of cabaret context is interesting. And I think that's one of the ways, perhaps, that they were able to have this liberating experience. That's true. The tradition here was musical, which is a rather different experience. There's Simon hanging out, which means our tea is on its way. Who'd like two of coffee? Tea? Coffee. Tea, please. Tea. Three teas and a coffee. I should ask for eggnog or cabbage or something. In our time with Misha Glene is produced by Simon Tillitson, and it's a BBC Studios production. I'm Jamie Bartlett, and for BBC Radio 4, I'll be looking at how fakery took over the world. No, no, hang on, hang on, sorry. You're not Jamie Bartlett, I'm Jamie Bartlett. Oh really? Well, who am I then? I'm afraid you're not real pal. You're just an imitation chap, but I created to help me make this series on modern fakery and why it's everywhere. Sounds good. What's going to be in it? Well, there's a lot. 1980s professional wrestling, dodgy academics, AIS psychosis, COVID vaccine, skeptics. What's it called? Everything is fake and nobody cares with me, Jamie Bartlett. And me, Jimmy Bartlett. Listen first on BBC Sounds.