Art as sign in chaotic times

When Joseph Koerner initially commenced teaching about the Dutch artist Hieronymus Bosch at Harvard during the 1990s, he viewed him as the “quintessential medieval artist” consumed by sin, disorder, and peril. However, as Koerner delved deeper into how Bosch’s works have been perceived over the ages by anxious individuals amidst periods of political turmoil, the narrative began to transform.

“Now, one almost senses that one is seeking Bosch for insight into how we ought to behave in our own crisis,” he stated. “Rather than being relegated to the distant past, he appears to have emerged as a symbol for the contemporary and a portent for what lies ahead.”

Koerner’s newest publication, “Art in a State of Siege,” aims to encapsulate “that sensation of perceiving artworks as ‘omens’” by investigating three pieces: Bosch’s “The Garden of Earthly Delights” (circa 1490-1500), Max Beckmann’s “Self-Portrait in Tuxedo” (1927), and an animated sketch by William Kentridge portraying a deceased casualty of state violence vanishing into the South African landscape (1993). Koerner discusses the political contexts that inspired these creations, and how they captivated historical figures ranging from Spanish King Philip II to Nazi jurist Carl Schmitt.

The book draws some inspiration from a personal connection: Koerner’s father, the artist Henry Koerner, created works addressing the trauma of the Holocaust. In this edited dialogue with the Gazette, Koerner reflects on evolving perceptions of “the adversary” and various themes raised by the artworks.

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What is the origin of the term “art in a state of siege”?

This phrase was introduced by Kentridge in 1986 during a pivotal moment in South African history when the white apartheid government concluded that the unrest they perceived was of such scale that they needed to indefinitely suspend the rule of law. At its core, “siege” refers to a scenario where a city or fortress is encircled by opposing forces. However, in contemporary state dynamics, leaders during civil unrest can proclaim a state of siege where they treat their own populace as if they’re adversaries. Every modern constitution possesses some loophole through which laws, rights, and privileges can be momentarily halted. The sieges referenced in my book belong to this latter category. What I explore is less focused on the artists and their creations in response to siege, but rather how art manifests in such dire states. The book endeavors to grasp the connection between audiences and artworks where the piece oscillates between something perilous and a potential signal of action in dire situations.

What renders Bosch’s triptych “The Garden of Earthly Delights” so captivating?

Notoriously, no one is certain how the central panel connects to the outer panels. Is hell (depicted in the right panel) a retribution for the central scene, or does the central scene extend from the Adam and Eve narrative (left panel), a scenario where the Fall never occurred and joy prevails? No conclusive agreement has been reached on this, and the entire painting hinges on this question. The inquiry is: Is the imagery affirmative or negative? Are we perceiving a friend, or an adversary?

What types of adversaries does Bosch portray?

He consistently creates uncertainty regarding the identity of the enemy. Bosch aimed to amplify various conditions of siege: the perception that the self is under siege from sin; the feeling that Christian Europe is threatened by Islam; the belief in a conspiracy involving witches and heretics secretly inhabiting your town. Ultimately, Bosch’s primary foe seems to be the age-old adversary, Satan, who embodies all malevolence. Nevertheless, Bosch provides sufficient details that individuals could direct their ire towards more definitive enemies. In many of his artworks, there’s a small, often subtly hidden, flag of the Ottoman Empire in the distance, as if to convey, “This is the visage Europe will present once the siege concludes and the enemy has breached its defenses.” There are also racial insults and anti-Jewish sentiments, along with the implication that the impoverished in the city might themselves be perceived as foes.

You discuss how audiences project their own experiences onto “Garden.” Could you elaborate on that?

In periods of extreme adversity, Bosch suddenly gains popularity. One aspect that intrigued me is how a faction of right-leaning and Nazi intellectuals became consumed with Bosch—there’s documentation in their correspondences. They recognize they’re losing the war and fear the repercussions of their transgressions will resurface to haunt them. They already perceive themselves as victims. Individuals like Carl Schmitt, Ernst Jünger, and Mircea Eliade engage in discussions where they seek guidance from Bosch regarding their impending fate. I discovered a memoir by Schmitt, written while incarcerated in Nuremberg for potential war crimes, where he imagines Bosch’s “Garden of Earthly Delights” within his confinement. For him, the painting represents the enemy because it embodies liberalism, free love, and a lawless reality, a world where chaos reigns entirely. I learned that Schmitt was the first individual to encounter Wilhelm Fraenger’s outlandish theory that “The Garden of Earthly Delights” advocates for the very pleasures it depicts, painted for a clandestine audience.

group of free-love proponents known as Adamites, governed by a Jewish convert. Thus, the notion arose that it was a Jewish endeavor, and hedonistic in nature. This scholarly misconception appeared extremely, exceedingly fascinating to me.

What captivated you about Max Beckmann and his self-portrait featured at the Harvard Art Museums?

There are almost no self-portraits throughout art history that are as strikingly frontal as this monumental self-portrait located in the Busch-Reisinger Museum. Due to its relative simplicity, the minor details truly spark dialogue — such as the cigarette in his grasp and the fact that he gazes directly forward. The longer you observe it, the more elements are revealed.

The artwork was produced at a time when there was a pause from the persistent failures of parliamentary democracy in post-WWI Germany — a respite from descending into political turmoil due to the conflict between leftist and rightist paramilitary factions. In 1927, Beckmann chose, in a moment of fervent artistic optimism, to declare, through the painting and an accompanying manifesto, that the artist is the one who brings balance and halts chaos by being the arbiter of society, and the determination the artist makes is embodied in the artwork itself.

It was not an uncommon notion during that period that art represents a force or power that can be weaponized. The Nazis, of course, notoriously weaponized art. It was no coincidence that Adolf Hitler aspired to be an artist, that Nazi leadership conceptualized Hitler and the Nazi movement as a “sculptor” employing humanity as their artwork. In 1937, the Nazi leadership organized this rather unusual art exhibition to disparage, reject, and belittle displayed artworks by labeling them as “degenerate.” The intention was to showcase the adversary. Following this “degenerate art” exhibition, Beckmann’s painting was auctioned off and subsequently went to Harvard Art Museums through a Swiss dealer.

What significance does studying art from periods of political turmoil hold?

Art possesses the trait of becoming pertinent regardless of personal preferences. Generally, people perceive art in terms of triumphs: The artist overcomes the challenges they face and ascends to the status of “the great artist.” Even the art historian, the individual who illustrates how the artist triumphed: By doing so, they validate their own argument in their book or article. My perspective on art history diverges from that. My focus is on art that emerges in times of strife, where there is not triumph but the potential for significant defeat. “Art in a State of Siege” serves as a method to illustrate, on a wider canvas, what art appears as, not under conditions of victory, but during tumultuous times.