MERZ SCHMERZ
... fact check an anecdote told by Moholy-Nagy of attending a banquet given by Marinetti which was attended by Goebbels, Göring, and other Germans at which event an intoxicated Marinetti caused a scene by reciting a Dada-type poem
Marinetti Banquet Incident
There is no verifiable evidence or credible historical record supporting the anecdote that László Moholy-Nagy attended a banquet hosted by Filippo Tommaso Marinetti, where Marinetti recited a Dada-inspired poem and caused a scene in the presence of prominent German figures like Joseph Goebbels and Hermann Göring.
The provided context does not mention any such event involving Moholy-Nagy, Goebbels, or Göring. While Marinetti was known for his provocative performances, including "Serata Futurista" (Futurist evenings) that combined poetry, lectures, and theatrical elements to provoke audiences, and while he did engage with international political figures during the Fascist era, there is no reference to a specific banquet with the described attendees and incident.
Furthermore, the context notes that Marinetti was appointed to Mussolini’s Academy of Italy in 1929 and remained loyal to the Fascist regime until his death in 1944, and that he traveled abroad promoting Futurism, but no details about a meeting with Goebbels or Göring are present. The claim appears to be apocryphal or conflated with other historical narratives, lacking corroboration in the available sources.
Okay, so I can't verify the anecdote related by Robert Motherwell in, “The Writings of Robert Motherwell” 2007, published by the University of California Press, as recounted to him by Moholy-Nagy's wife Sibyl, about a frightening scene of Dada-inspired shenanigans in the presence of high-ranking Nazi officials. I write 'frightening' not to bias the account, but as an advisory. This is the stuff of nightmares, an intimate look at a close encounter with genuine monsters, most of whom are regarded today as legends, apocryphal, scarcely believable...
The following night the German Press Association gave a banquet for the Italians, to which we had received a personal invitation from Marinetti. Moholy was unwilling to go. He had been shadowed by the SS; his refusal to submit his paintings to the censorship of the National Socialist Art Chamber to obtain a “working permit” had been followed by threats of arrest. His cleaning woman had stolen his mail and had delivered it to the Blockwart (political district warden), and some of his associates had disappeared mysteriously. He was done with Germany, and on his last night in Berlin he didn't feel like sitting down with the new rulers. But Kurt Schwitters, who was our house guest at the time, insisted on going, to honor the revolutionary in Marinetti, and he finally persuaded Moholy to join him.
Kurt was profoundly worried about the political tide. His rebellious days were over. At forty-six he wanted to be left unmolested, enjoying a secure income from his real estate and his typographical work, and puttering away on his gigantic MERZ plastic, a sculpture of compound forms which extended from a corner of his studio through two stories of his house, winding in and out of doors and windows, and curling around a chimney on the roof. There was nothing he dreaded more than emigration. He died a broken man in England in 1948. [sic]
The banquet offered a very different picture from the lecture the night before and confirmed all of Moholy's misgivings. Short of Hitler, all the Nazis were present: Goebbels and Göring, August Wilhelm of Hohenzollern, the president of the Berlin University, Gerhart Hauptmann, once the torchbearer of revolution but now a chipped plaster image of Goethe. Hess was there, and with him was fat Röhm, whose days were already numbered. These officials were sitting along a huge horseshoe table, while Nazi underlings and the artists whom Marinetti had insisted upon inviting sat at individual tables. Moholy, Schwitters, and I were sandwiched between the head of the National Socialist Organization for Folk Culture and the leader of the “Strength Through Joy” movement. The disharmony between the guests was accentuated by the absence of speeches and an unlimited consumption of excellent German Rhine wine. Moholy was silent. His face was shuttered, and when our eyes met I saw that he was full of resentment. The more Schwitters drank, the more fondly he regarded his neighbor.
"I love you, you Cultural Folk and Joy,” he said. “Honestly, I love you. You think I'm not worthy of sharing your chamber, your art chamber for strength and folk, ha? I'm an idiot too, and I can prove it.”
Moholy put his hand firmly on Schwitters' arm and for a few minutes he was silent, drinking rapidly and searching the blank face of his neighbor with wild blue eyes.
"You think I'm a Dadaist, don't you,” he suddenly started again. “That's where you're wrong, brother. I'm MERZ.” He thumped his wrinkled dress shirt near his heart. “I'm Aryan-the great Aryan MERZ. I can think Aryan, paint Aryan, spit Aryan.”
He held an unsteady fist before the man's nose. “With this Aryan fist I shall destroy the mistakes of my youth-If you want me to,” he added in a whisper after a long sip. There was no reaction at all from the “Strength Through Joy” man, while the official from the Folk Culture Organization nodded approvingly, his round cheeks puffed-up with wine and amazement. Schwitters took a sudden liking to him.
"Oh joyful babyface,” he muttered, tears running down his cheeks. “You will not prohibit me from MERZing my MERZ art!”
The word “prohibit” had finally penetrated the foggy brain of the “Strength Through Joy” man.
"Prohibited is prohibited [Verboten ist verboten],” he said with great firmness and a heavy tongue. "And when the Führer says 'Ja' he says 'Ja' and when the Führer says 'Nein' he says 'Nein.' Heil Hitler!”
Schwitters looked wildly at Moholy, at me, at Marinetti, but before he could incite anyone to action, Marinetti had risen from his chair. He swayed considerably and his face was purple.
"My friends,” he said in French. After the many excellent speeches tonight (the silent officials winced), I feel the urge to thank the great, courageous, high-spirited people of Berlin. I shall recite my poem 'The Raid on Adrianople.'”
There was polite applause. Some nice poetry would break the embarrassing dullness of the dinner.
"Adrianople est cerné de toutes parts SSSSrrrr zitzitzitzitzi PAAAAAAAAAAAgh
-roared Marinetti.
"Ouah ouah ouah, départ des trains suicides, ouah ouah ouah.
The audience gasped; a few hushed giggles were audible.
"Tchip tchip tchip-fééééééééééééééééééélez!
He grabbed a wineglass and smashed it to the floor.
"Tchip tchip tchip-des messages télégraphiques, couturières Americaines Piiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing, sssssssssrrrrrrrr, zitzitzit toum toum Patrouille tapie,
Marinetti threw himself over the table.
"Vanitéeeee, viande congeléeeeeeee-veilleuse de La Madone.
-exhaled almost in a whisper from his lips.
Slowly he slid to the floor, his clenched fingers pulling the tablecloth downward, wine, food, plates, and silverware pouring into the laps of the notables.
Schwitters had jumped up at the first sound of the poem. Like a horse at a familiar sound the Dadaist in him responded to the signal. His face flushed, his mouth open, he followed each of Marinetti's moves with his own body. In the momentary silence that followed the climax his eyes met Moholy's.
"Oh, Anna Blume,” he whispered, and suddenly breaking out into a roar that drowned the din of protesting voices and scraping chair legs, he thundered:
"Oh, Anna Blume
"Du bist von hinten wie von vorn
"A-n-n-a.