The Flying Circus Flies Again

Growing up, one of my favorite things to do was to spend time down in the musty basement at my childhood home on Wolcott Hill Road outside of Camden, NY.

Down there, in old moldering boxes, were piled my Dad’s World War 1 model airplanes: Sopwith, SPAD, Neiuport, Fokker… All were there. As a 4 year old I was so excited to explore down there and imagine them in flight. Later on, I spent a good deal of time making my own model aircraft, and went through the enjoyment and frustration of the hobby modeler (that glue, those paints!!). But it all started in that cellar.

My father is an amateur World War 1 historian. He has fabric from Zeppelins, shell art from the trenches, original War Bonds posters, and THOUSANDS of books. Those small plastic planes, though. I loved those most of all. If I could have anything from my childhood, I think it would be those.

Last week I took my son to a local art store and decided to pick up a little Fokker Dr 1 Triplane model. A couple days later we sat and put to together. Now it is hanging above my desk in my studio, cruising above the ephemera. We watched some videos about World War 1, looked at pictures of Manfred von Richthofen, and watched the classic Peanuts cartoon about Snoopy dogfighting in his Sopwith Camel/Doghouse. It was a good day.

I might have to get another one for my son as he is a little incensed that I would mount the bright red plane out of his reach…

June 28, 1914 – Sarajevo

20140627-090903-32943303.jpgAbove: My modification of the historic newspaper illustration depicting the assassination of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, the event which precipitated World War One. iPhone image, Afterlight, Glitché, and Instagram modifications, variable dimensions. June 27, 2014.

Here’s the original:

Murder of Archduke Franz Ferdinand

~

History is a strange and chaotic dancer. It chooses odd dance partners. Each pas de deux influences, inflects, and infects us all. How weird it is to think that from such a small flash on one street corner were launched the boots and bombs of a thousand beachheads. How horrific to consider the vast interconnections of sociology, politics, aristocracy, nationalistic fervor, punditry, demagoguery, and despair that weave the blood of the Archduke with the blood of Sgt. Thomas Z Spitzer (the most recent American killed in Afghanistan, June 25, 2014). How frustrating to consider the wasted lives and resources of one hundred thousand hills and fields. How high the cost. How distracting the efforts. How pathetic the justifications.

World War One formalized the concept of  – and effects of  – total war.

We will never live it down.

~

PS: If you’re interested in more background on World War One I suggest this course from The Great Courses. I took this class in 2007 to supplement my knowledge of the subject and found it highly illuminating and a springboard for further reading and study.

Remembering the Fallacy

A long time ago, while studying at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, I became pretty obsessed with a few World War 1 era artists and poets, specifically Siegfried Sassoon (bio here) and Paul Nash. Nash was a great artist (see examples of his work here and here) who worked from a deeply-felt conscience regarding his painting. This is what he thought about the work he did during World War 1:

“I am no longer an artist. I am a messenger who will bring back word from the men who are fighting to those who want the war to go on forever. Feeble, inarticulate will be my message, but it will have a bitter truth and may it burn their lousy souls.”¹

I encourage everyone to seek out the poetry of Sassoon as well (here and here). Here’s an example:

A Mystic as Soldier

I lived my days apart,

Dreaming fair songs for God;

By the glory in my heart

Covered and crowned and shod.

 ~

Now God is in the strife,

And I must seek Him there,

Where death outnumbers life,

And fury smites the air.

 ~

I walk the secret way

With anger in my brain.

O music through my clay,

When will you sound again?

Every year on memorial day I think about these two men and the legions they represented. And then I think about Second Lieutenant Arthur Conway Young of the Royal Irish Fusiliers. He died August 16, 1917. Below is his grave marker. Read the inscription at its base.