Thursday, July 22, 2021

The History of Systemic Racism that CRT

 Opponents Prefer to Hide


Illustration of the importation of captive Africans at Jamestown in 1619, Howard Pyle, 1910. Library of Congress.

 

 

 

Critical Race Theory (CRT) has become a lightning rod for conservative ire at any discussion of racism, anti-racism, or the non-white history of America. Across the country, bills in Republican-controlled legislatures have attempted to prevent the teaching of CRT, even though most of those against CRT struggle to define the term. CRT actually began as a legal theory which held simply that systemic racism was consciously created, and therefore, must be consciously dismantled. History reveals that the foundation of America, and of systemic racism, happened at the same time and from the same set of consciously created laws.

Around the 20th of August, 1619, the White Lion, an English ship sailing under a Dutch flag, docked off Old Point Comfort (near present-day Hampton), in the British colony of Virginia, to barter approximately 20 Africans for much needed food and supplies. The facts of the White Lion’s arrival in Virginia, and her human cargo, are generally not in dispute. Whether those first Africans arriving in America were taken by colonists as slaves or as indentured servants is still debated. But by the end of the 17th century, a system of chattel slavery was in place in colonial America. How America got from uncertainly about the status of Africans, to certainty that they were slaves, is a transition that highlights the origins of systemic racism.

Three arguments have been put forth about whether the first Africans arriving in the colonies were treated as indentured servants or as slaves. One says that European racism predisposed American colonists to treat these Africans as slaves. Anthony and Isabella, for example, two Africans aboard the White Lion, were acquired by Captain William Tucker and listed at the bottom of his 1624/25 muster (census) entry, just above his real property, but below white indentured servants and native Americans.

A second argument counters that racism was not, at first, the decisive factor but that the availability of free labor was. “Before the invention of the Negro or the white man or the words and concepts to describe them,” historian Lerone Bennett wrote, “the Colonial population consisted largely of a great mass of white and black [and native] bondsmen, who occupied roughly the same economic category and were treated with equal contempt by the lords of the plantations and legislatures.”

In this view, slavery was not born of racism, but racism was born of slavery. Early colonial laws had no provisions distinguishing African from European servants, until those laws began to change toward the middle of the 17th century, when Africans became subject to more brutal treatment than any other group. Proponents of this second argument point to cases like Elizabeth Key in 1656, or Phillip Corven in 1675, Black servants who sued in different court cases against their white masters for keeping them past the end of their indentures. Both Key and Corven won. If slavery was the law, Key and Corven would have had no standing in court much less any hope of prevailing.

Still, a third group stakes out slightly different ground. Separate Africans into two groups: the first generation that arrived before the middle of the 17th century, and those that arrived after. For the first generations of Africans, English and Dutch colonists had the concept of indefinite, but not inheritable, bondage. For those who came after, colonists applied the concept of lifetime, inheritable bondage. Here, the 1640 case of John Punch, a Black man caught with two other white servants attempting to run away, is often cited. As punishment, all the men received thirty lashes but the white servants had only one-year added to their indentures, while John Punch was ordered to serve his master “for the time of his natural life.” For this reason, many consider John Punch the first real slave in America. Or was he the last Black indentured servant?

Clearly these cases show the ambiguity, or “loopholes,” of the system separating servitude from slavery in early America. What is also clear is that one by one these loopholes were closed through conscious intent of colonial legislatures. In this reduction of ambiguity over the status of Africans, the closure of loopholes between servitude and slavery, are the roots of systemic racism.

Maryland enacted a first-of-its-kind law in 1664, specifically tying being Black to being a slave. “[A]ll Negroes or other slaves already within the Province And all Negroes and other slaves to be hereafter imported into the Province shall serve Durante Vita.” Durante Vita is a Latin phrase meaning for the duration of one’s life.

Another loophole concerned the status of children. Colonial American law was initially derived from English common law, where the status of child (whether bound or free) followed the status of the father. But adherence to English common law posed problems in colonial America, such as revealed in the 1630 case of Hugh Davis, a white man sentencing to whipping “for abusing himself to the dishonor of God and shame of Christians, by defiling his body in lying with a negro...” Whipping proved no deterrent for such interracial unions between a free European and a bound African. If English common law was followed, then the child of such a liaison would be free. So, in the years following Davis’ whipping the legislatures in Maryland and Virginia enacted statutes that the status of the child, whether slave or free, followed that of the mother.

But closing this loophole assumes that only the sexual exploits of European men needed containing. The famous, and well-documented case of Irish milkmaid, Molly Welsh, who worked off her indentures in Maryland, shows the reverse actually happened as well. Welsh purchased a slaved named Banna Ka, whom she eventually freed, then married. They had a girl named Mary, who was free. Mary married a runaway slaved named Thomas, and they had a boy named Benjamin, who was also free. And Benjamin Banneker, a clockmaker, astronomer, mathematician, and surveyor, became an important figure in African American history, having authored a letter to Thomas Jefferson lamenting the lofty ideals of liberty and equality contained in the nation’s founding documents were not extended to all citizens regardless of color.

Closing the religious exemption was another way in which colonial legislatures sought to separate Blacks from whites, and force slavery only on people of African descent. One of the reasons Elizabeth Key prevailed in court was that she asserted she could not be held in slavery as a Christian. In fact, there was a widespread belief in early America that Christians holding other Christians in slavery went against core biblical teachings.

Most first generation Africans in colonial America came from the Angola-Congo region of West Africa, first taken there by the Portuguese. Christianity was well-known, and practiced by Africans in these regions as early as the 15th century. So, many Africans destined for slavery, or indentured servitude in America, were already baptized, or were christened by priests aboard Portuguese slave trading vessels.

Colonial legislatures got busy. Maryland updated the 1664 law, cited above, with a 1671 statute that specifically carved out a religious exception for people of African descent. Regardless of whether they had become Christian, or received the sacrament of baptism, they would “hereafter be adjudged, reputed, deemed, and taken to be and remain in servitude and bondage” forever. Acts like this led to a tortured, convoluted American Christianity, developed to support slavery, and this legacy of racism within American Christianity continues to this day.

Apprehension of runaway servants and slaves was still another area in which colonial legislatures targeted people of color for differential, oppressive treatment. While granting masters the right to send a posse after runaways, a 1672 Virginia statute called “An act for the apprehension and suppression of runawayes, negroes and slaves,” granted immunity to any white person who killed or wounded a runaway person of color while in pursuit of them. It read:

“Be it enacted by the governour, councell and burgesses of this grand assembly, and by the authority thereof, that if any negroe, molatto, Indian slave, or servant for life, runaway and shalbe persued by warrant or hue and crye, it shall and may be lawfull for any person who shall endeavour to take them, upon the resistance of such negroe, mollatto, Indian slave, or servant for life, to kill or wound him or them soe resisting.”

Acts like this became the basis for slave patrols, and for the police forces that arose from them. Today, we still deal with the consequences of “qualified immunity,” stemming from ideas like these enacted in 1672, which shield police from prosecution in cases of violence and brutality, especially against people of color.

Protection of southern rights even found its way into the Constitution. The Second Amendment protects the right of militias (a polite term for “slave patrols”) to organize and bear arms. The Fugitive Slave Clause (never repealed) guaranteed southern slaveholders that their slaves apprehended in the North would be returned. Even the Interstate Commerce Clause allowed Southerners traveling North with their slaves assurances those slaves would not automatically become free by setting foot in states that outlawed slavery.

Though enacted centuries ago, the laws cited above are representative of the many laws that came to define American jurisprudence, and have at their core, the repression and oppression of Black Americans, and other people of color. This is why Chief Justice Roger B. Taney, writing for the U.S. Supreme Court in 1857, handed down a 7-2 verdict in the Dred Scott case, with the words that Blacks had “no rights which the white man was bound to respect.” This is why critical race theory states that systemic racism was consciously created, as these laws and their enforcement show they were.

But this is also why Republican legislators and their supporters lump anything and everything having to do with diversity, equity, and inclusion into the box of critical race theory, then try to keep it out of schools and public institutions. They’re afraid of Americans being told the truth: that the foundation of America, and of systemic racism, happened at the same time and from the same consciously created laws. In this way, these individuals are actually living proof of the validity of critical race theory, because they seek to consciously enact laws today which perpetuate the racial inequality established by laws enacted hundreds of years ago.

A New Hilma af Klint Documentary Traces the Extraordinary True Story of the Mystical Artist Who Invented Abstract Painting—Watch the Trailer Here

The film debuts on April 17.

Sarah Cascone, April 13, 2020
A scene in Beyond the Visible, a film by Halina Dyrschka. Courtesy of Kino Lorber.

The visionary Swedish artist Hilma af Klint (1862–1944) was a pioneering abstract painter, but her place in the art history books is only now being assured. The first major step in cementing her legacy was the blockbuster 2019 exhibition at the Guggenheim in New York, and now, a new documentary film coming out this week, Beyond the Visible: Hilma af Klint, is the latest attempt to chronicle her contributions to abstract art.

Hilma af Klint began creating her colorful, spiritually guided canvases in 1906—five years before Wassily Kandinsky made his first abstract work—yet she was all but forgotten after her death. That was partly by her own design—her will prohibited the exhibition of her work for decades—but it is also symptomatic of larger tendency in art history to under-recognize the accomplishments of women artists.


In this case, neglecting to acknowledge the primacy of af Klint is a massive omission from perhaps the most important artistic development of the 20th century.

“If you compare her to the supposed genius men, their steps toward abstraction were very timid,” says artist Josiah McElheny in the film’s trailer. “In order to tell the history of abstraction, now you have to rewrite it, because basically all the people who said ‘it happened in this year,’ well no, it didn’t.” (In 2011, McElheny incorporated historical works by artists including Klint into his solo show at Stockholm’s Moderna Museet.)



Hilma af Klint, as seen in Beyond the Visible, a film by Halina Dyrschka.

The film’s director, Halina Dyrschka, first discovered af Klint in 2013, in a newspaper article about the exhibition “Hilma af Klint: A Pioneer of Abstraction,” which originated at the Museum of Modern Art in Stockholm. Dyrschka saw the show when it traveled to Berlin, and was blown away by the artist’s work.

“I almost felt personally insulted when I read that this was a new discovery and the paintings have been hidden for decades,” she said in a statement. “Who would be interested in marginalizing this artist’s accomplishments? And why?”

What Dyrschka found was that the art establishment has long been content with a male-dominated narrative that overlooked a pioneering woman artist. As recently as 2013, a show at New York’s Museum of Modern Art titled “Inventing Abstraction: 1910–1925” deigned even a mention of af Klint.


A scene in Beyond the Visible, a film by Halina Dyrschka.

“Hilma af Klint would cause such an upheaval in art history, that some would say ‘It’s better to leave her outside,'” says art critic and historian Julia Voss in the movie’s trailer.

And yet, the rediscovery of af Klint’s work has been hailed around the world, her practice resonating with audiences and breaking attendance records at the Guggenheim. Now, her journey of rediscovery can be followed in film form, accessed online via theaters across the country beginning April 17.

“It is more than time,” said Dyrschka, “to tell the untold heroine stories.”

See the film’s trailer below.




Here’s How the Hilma af Klint Show Played Perfectly Into the Current Zeitgeist to Become the Guggenheim’s Most-Visited Exhibition Ever

The show made history with more than 600,000 visitors.

Ben Davis, April 19, 2019
Installation view of Hilma af Klint's "The Ten Largest." Image courtesy of Ben Davis.


With four days to go until the closing of “Hilma af Klint: Paintings for the Future” at the Guggenheim, the New York museum has announced that the show has already become its most-attended exhibition of all time. More than 600,000 visitors have come to see the Tracey Bashkoff-curated survey of the Swedish mystic painter.

For comparison, last year’s Giacometti show at the Guggenheim drew half that number of visitors, according to the Art Newspaper, with a little over 314,000, a total that put it in the top 10 most-visited museum shows for the “Impressionist and Modern” category worldwide. To be fair, the Hilma af Klint blockbuster has had a much longer run (October to April, instead of Giacometti’s three-month June to September run). It has also benefited from the Guggenheim’s decision to throw its doors open seven days a week to celebrate its 60th anniversary at the beginning of 2019.


Still, the record-smashing attendance numbers are a remarkable feat for an artist who until very recently was an outsider to the mainstream canon of art. Just six years ago, af Klint’s prescient abstract art was not even mentioned in the Museum of Modern Art’s “Inventing Abstraction: 1910–1925.” So what accounts for the show’s popularity?

Af Klint’s lush, cryptic paintings have been almost universally praised by critics as a breath of fresh air. And, at a time when personal narrative is more important than ever in terms of how audiences engage with art, she also has a compelling biography (though the timeline of her life is, in truth, still filled with enigmas). Born in 1862, af Klint turned to spiritualism after the loss of her sister. Working with a group of women called the Five, she committed herself in near-secret to an epic cycle of mediumistically inspired abstract paintings—only to be nearly forgotten and then discovered by a new generation.


Installation view of Hilma af Klint’s “The Dove” paintings. Image courtesy Ben Davis.

The artist’s work is resonant with the long-celebrated styles of more famous male artists like Wassily Kandinsky and Piet Mondrian, but also stemmed from female-centered spiritualist spaces. The show thus reads as a satisfying feminist expansion of the art canon. In some ways, the unexpected drawing power of “Paintings for the Future” feels like the museum blockbuster equivalent of recent movie blockbusters like Wonder WomanBlack Panther, and Crazy Rich Asians. Like them, its commercial and critical success will almost certainly inspire new directions for future programming.

The af Klint show has also benefited from its connections beyond the typical art audience. Witchcraft has been trending in popular culture in recent years. The Swedish artist may not have been widely taught in art history courses, but her work has a large presence in contemporary occult communities (in the 2016 indie film Personal Shopper, Kristen Stewart’s character discovers af Klint’s paintings, inspiring her to attempt to communicate with her dead brother). During the Guggenheim show, devotees have even offered free “psychic tours” where visitors are taught to “practice receiving spirit messages through select paintings as a group.”

Attempts by the likes of Sephora and Urban Outfitters to cash in on the demand for witch-themed lifestyle products have provoked backlash. For its part, the Guggenheim eagerly took the opportunity to merchandise, with a very successful “Hilma af Klint Capsule Collection.” During the run of the show, af Klint-themed products have accounted for some 42 percent of sales at the Guggenheim store, according to the museum.


The “Buddha Pullover Sweatshirt, Grey with Black & White Circle,” on male model. Image courtesy Guggenheim Store.

Offerings range from a $42 Hilma af Klint Watch, featuring one of her circular, diagram-like black-and-white paintings; to a $310 hand-painted Eye Altarpiece; to the $360 cotton Hilma Radial Kimono.

The “Paintings for the Future” catalogue has also set a record, selling more than 30,000 copies. That total surpassed the previous record-holder, the 2009 catalogue for af Klint’s fellow spiritual-abstractionist, Kandinsky.

For the remainder of the show’s run, the Guggenheim has extended its hours until 8 p.m. to accommodate the crowds.

“Hilma af Klint: Paintings for the Future” is on view at the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, 1071 5th Avenue, New York, October 12, 2018–April 23, 2019.

Follow Artnet News 


Why Hilma af Klint’s Occult Spirituality Makes Her the Perfect Artist for Our Technologically Disrupted Time

At the Guggenheim, "Hilma af Klint: Paintings for the Future" makes you rethink what it means to be modern.


Ben Davis, October 23, 2018
Installation view of Hilma af Klint's "The Ten Largest." Image courtesy Ben Davis.

I can’t help but agree with all the praise being heaped on the Guggenheim’s big Hilma af Klint show. It’s great, great, beyond great.

Assembled in a chronological progression up the museum’s spiral, the show feels like both a transmission from an unmapped other world and a perfectly logical correction to the history of Modern art—an alternate mode of abstraction from the dawn of the 20th century that looks as fresh as if it were painted yesterday.

It’s hard to quibble with the sheer level of painterly pleasure of af Klint’s sui generis style. So instead I’ll take a moment to focus on why this show feels so right for right now.



Hilma af Klint, Altarpieces: Group X, No. 1, Altarpiece (1915). © Stiftelsen Hilma af Klints Verk.

A Style of Her Own

Part of that has to do with her status as a powerfully convincing and long-underappreciated voice. Now happens to be a very exciting moment in art history, with loads of new scholarship disrupting the old Paris-to-New York, Modern-to-contemporary throughline, reconsidering the stories of minorities and the colonized, “outsiders” of all kinds, and also of women.

Af Klint’s body of work really only began receiving attention in the 1980s and is only now getting the kind of widespread acclaim it really deserves—she doesn’t even feature as a footnote in the catalogue for MoMA’s “Inventing Abstraction” show, and that was just five years ago! She therefore fits comfortably within the rediscovery zeitgeist.

Born in Sweden in 1862 and descended from a distinguished clan of naval heroes and maritime cartographers, she trained formally as a painter at Stockholm’s official academy. The Guggenheim exhibition opens with a small sample of her landscapes and portraits, which show a deft, accomplished naturalism.


Hilma af Klint, Untitled Series: group IV, the Ten Largest, No. 7, Adulthood (1907). © Stiftelsen Hilma af Klints Verk.


But the works she turned to in her forties, like “The Ten Largest” (1907), are something else again. The suite of 10 wall-filling paintings represent an abstract symbolic depiction of the cycle of life: the first two represent childhood, followed by panels representing youth, adulthood, and old age. Full of wheeling abstract figures, they are nevertheless wonderfully balanced, both in their individual compositions and within the broader series.

They are also, to a contemporary eye at least, very feminine, in a way that stands as a pre-rebuttal of the machismo that later came to dominate abstract rhetoric as it rose to art historical preeminence. The works of “The Ten Largest” are not figurative, but the forms they channel—the blossoms, lacy garlands, and curlicues; the looping, cursive lines of cryptic text that surge across the surface; the palette of pinks and lavenders, peaches and baby blues—draw freshness, to a contemporary eye, from their symbolic associations with feminine iconography.


Installation view of “The Ten Biggest.” Image courtesy Ben Davis.

At the same time, all this is splashed at such a brazen scale that it also undoes period stereotypes of feminine modesty and decorum—though this unleashed expressive freedom was probably itself made possible by the fact that af Klint hardly ever showed these works publicly.


Channeling Abstraction

So there’s that: Hilma af Klint’s example shows the symbolic power that a woman artist could draw both in spite of and because of the constraints put on her by her time period and her culture, making her a convincing heroine for today. But there is another aspect of Hilma af Klint that makes her oeuvre enter into harmonic relation with the present.


That is her occultism.

Af Klint’s interior life, I gather, remains a bit of an enigma, glimpsed through hints and fragments in her journals. What is definitely known is that she had begun attending séances as a teenager, using them as a way to contact her younger sister, who had died young. Af Klint’s turn to abstraction grew from experiments with contacting the dead, particularly as part of a group of women who christened themselves the Five, going into trance states or channeling with a machine called a psychograph.


Example of automatic drawing created by The Five. Image courtesy Ben Davis.

The spirals, percolating patterns, and scrawled text fragments of the Five’s automatic pencil drawings appear like the primal chaos out of which the bold abstraction of “The Ten Largest” emerged.

The Five believed they had been contacted by the “High Masters,” spirits called Amaliel, Ananda, Clemens, Esther, Georg, and Gregor. One of these would give af Klint the mission that would become “The Paintings for the Temple,” the multi-part cycle that occupies most of the Guggenheim show. “Amaliel offered me a commission and I immediately replied: yes,” she wrote. “This became the great commission, which I carried out in my life.”


Occult Modernism

Though unique and all her own, af Klint’s spiritualist passions were fertilized in the larger developments in European fin de siècle culture. Early on, the Swedish artist found a home as a Theosophist, shortly after that movement opened a lodge in Stockholm.


Founded in 1875 by Helena Blavatsky (1831-1891), a Russian émigré to the United States, Theosophy was a New Age philosophy avant la lettre. It combined three pillars: advocacy of a universal brotherhood of man; interest in non-Western philosophy and religion as a source of renewing wisdom; and a belief in communing with ghosts. The last, according to Blavatsky, was the least important—but very clearly appealed to the spiritualistically inclined af Klint.


Hilma af Klint’s “Primordial Chaos” series. Image courtesy Ben Davis.

This improbable synthesis captured the hearts of Americans and Europeans disoriented by the 19th century’s concussive changes, in a time when science was crowding religion, and electric light, the telegraph, the phonograph, and other world-changing developments were altering the textures of life, making the once-miraculous seem abruptly possible.

In rapidly evolving Sweden, Lars Magnus Ericsson would found his telephone company in 1876; less than 10 years later the Scandanavian nation had the world’s most complex network and Stockholm had the most telephones in the world. In that febrile moment, no wonder people believed that it might also be possible to rig a system to listen to voices from beyond!



Hilma af Klint, The WU/Rose Series: Group I, Primordial Choas, No. 12 (1906-07). Image courtesy Ben Davis.


(Af Klint had good company in Theosophy among Europe’s Modernist big guns. Wassily Kandinsky, for one, also counted Theosophy as an inspiration, citing Blavatsky in Concerning the Spiritual in Art, the pamphlet he wrote that provided the basis for his “non-objective art.”)

Among other things, the Theosophist craze fed on interest in older secret societies that had shadowed the Enlightenment, especially the legend of the Rosicrucians, supposedly a secret order promising spiritual knowledge to reform mankind, involving both study of ancient mystic traditions and a belief in alchemy.

The esoteric philosopher Rudolf Steiner (1861-1925), who passed through Theosophy before founding his own doctrine of Anthroposophy, reclaimed the ideas of Rosicrucianism as a “spiritual science,” capable of returning a sense of the purpose of humanity to a world grown disenchantingly materialist. Steiner in particular was a huge influence on af Klint—in fact, he was the only person she sought out to show her paintings to (though when she finally convinced him to see them, in 1909, he was shatteringly underwhelmed).


Signs of All Times


All of these interests are key to understanding Hilma af Klint’s aesthetic. For instance, in 1920, she made a series of small works that begins with a single circle, half black and half white, called “Starting Picture”—the world as a balanced duality, physical and material, dark and light.

Subsequent entries in the series offer similar circles, differently divided up between black and white: one divided into four alternating slices; one with black crescents framing a white center; etc. The titles suggest they are supposed to represent different graphs of the great spiritual traditions: “The Current Standpoint of the Mahatmas,” “The Jewish Standpoint at the Birth of Jesus,” “Buddha’s Standpoint in Worldly Life,” and so on.



Hilma af Klint, Series II, Number 2a: The Current Standpoint of the Mahatmas (1920) © Stiftelsen Hilma af Klints Verk.

What specifically this means, I have difficulty grasping. But the idea quite clearly emerges out of the syncretic foment of the greater intellectual milieu—that all world religions are permutations of one spiritual background pattern that is revealing itself.


Theosophy was obsessed with esoteric symbols—its seal famously mashed together the swastika and the ankh as well as the ouroboros and a hexagram formed of interlinked white and black triangles. The latter recurs frequently in af Klint’s paintings.


Hilma af Klint, The Atom Series: No. 1 (Nr 1) (1917). Photo by Albin Dahlström, the Moderna Museet, Stockholm. Courtesy of the Hilma af Klint Foundation and the Guggenheim Museum. Note the black-white hexagrams at bottom right.

So do astrological symbols, another major interest thrown into the era’s great melting pot of occult interests. You see them arrayed around the borders of paintings in her “The Dove” series.


Hilma af Klint, The SUW/UW Series: Group IX/UW, The Dove, No. 14 (1915). Clockwise from top left, the symbols are for Aquarius, Pisces, Capricorn, and Sagittarius. Image courtesy Ben Davis.

Af Klint’s gorgeous series “The Swan” is among the least abstract of her great cycle of works, which generally have the feeling of diagrams being permutated. “The Swan” centers on the image of the titular bird, but mirrored and repeated, transforming it into a hieratic emblem. (In Blavatsky’s 1890 essay “The Last Song of the Swan,” she had described the symbol of the swan as being particularly important, representing “the tail-end of every important cycle in human history”; in alchemy, it stands for the union of opposites.)


Hilma af Klint, The SUW/UW Series: Group IX/SUW, The Swan, No. 7 (1915). Note the heart pieced by a cross at the center, a Rosicrucian symbol. Image courtesy Ben Davis.
Painterly Alchemy

While today af Klint’s paintings strike us as forcefully individual, they were certainly first appreciated as icons of mysticism. She had but one real public showing of her work, at a meeting of the 1928 World Conference of Spiritual Science and Its Practical Applications in London, where a program noted that the Swedish painter considered her works to be “studies of Rosicrucian symbolism.” (It is not known which of her paintings were shown.)

As a font for artistic inspiration, the spiritualist and esoteric domain was certainly fertile. Crack open the 1785 compendium Secret Symbols of the Rosicrucians, a classic of European occult literature, and its plates appear as a treasure trove of figures that predict af Klint’s graphic interests: hexagrams and sigils, sunbursts and spirals, mirrored animals and abstract figures diagramming the unfolding of the divine light.


Compare the graphics in Secret Symbols’s illustration of “The Tree of Good and Evil Knowledge” to a work from Hilma af Klint’s own “Tree of Knowledge” series, which offers gnomic variations on the same theme. You can definitely see both the inspiration, even as you see how much more rarified af Klint’s version is.


Left: Hilma af Klint, Serie W, Nr 5. Kunskapens träd (1915). © Stiftelsen Hilma af Klints Verk. Right: Plate from Secret Symbols of the Rosicrucianians of the 16th and 17th Centuries (1785).

Even Hilma af Klint’s mandate that her work be kept secret for decades after her death until the world was spiritually ready for it is a spin on the myths of Rosicrucianism, which introduced itself in its manifestos as a secret order that had stayed hidden until the world was ready for its spiritual reform.

Unless you are a believer in otherworldly visitation yourself, you would probably expect that the cosmic voice within would actually, when decoded, boil down to ideas imprinted from the ambient social environment. This demystifies, but in no way undoes, the magic of Hilma af Klint’s art.


Message to the Future


So: What to do with Hilma af Klint’s art? Can we separate out those aspects that make it prophetic of Modern art from those aspects linked to an actual mystical-prophetic belief system?

The impulse is understandable: The former puts this vibrant artist in the company of the most revered artistic figures of the century to come; the latter emphasizes elements that connect her more to “kitsch” spiritual aesthetics, fortune tellers and crystal healers and chart readings and all of that.


Installation view of Hilma af Klint at the Guggenheim. Image courtesy Ben Davis.

“Taking af Klint seriously as an artist, in my view, actually requires us to take some critical distance from the mysticism that might have enabled her to make such innovative work,” art historian Briony Fer argues in the catalogue. I think it undeniable that the sense that af Klint’s “Paintings for the Temple” are straining to connect the dots of an invisible order is part of their allure. Even so, I do get that a more formalist reading, focusing on her as an inventive individual, seems the most promising way to make the case for her in the present.


My argument, though, is that all that occult stuff is what makes her particularly interesting in the present—probably more interesting than modernists who were outwardly more individualistic and purely formal.

We live today in a time of almost universal domination by the mercenary values of profit, immersed in the cheerful ideology of high-tech disruption and economic creative destruction. We also happen to live in a time of unleashed irrationalism and improbable conspiracy theories of all kinds, welling up everywhere.

So it’s very instructive to be reminded that all that proto-New Age, occult symbolism that af Klint drew upon did not simply represent a lapse back into pre-Enlightenment superstition. In fact, for thousands upon thousands of people (including many artists), this was the specific form that modernity took.

And it was also not, by and large, the form it took for the poor or unlettered. Theosophy and its kindred philosophies, with their grandiose spiritual pseudo-science and their remixing of the world’s myths and religions into a master code, appealed, on a profound intuitive level, to people who believed in the authority of scientific knowledge, but still felt that the emergent modern world left a hole to be filled in terms of purpose or meaning.

This included relatively well-off and intelligent people like Hilma af Klint, who had time for study and travel, and resources to embark on a personal artistic-spiritual journey.



Installation view of Hilma af Klint’s “The Dove” paintings. Image courtesy Ben Davis.

Her beliefs are out there—but on the whole pretty benign and of course self-contained. I’m not trying to compare af Klint to the more disreputable type of present-day conspiracists or toxic myth-makers.

I’m more trying to say that the example of her work’s allusive magnetism can help us see one function that obsessions with secret signs and improbably all-connecting codes serve, one that makes them harder to dislodge than if you simply believe they are logic errors. And that is that they can be beautiful. They return a sense of mystery and order to a world that seems dispiriting and beyond control.


Hilma af Klint wanted her art hidden from the world until society was ready for it. What exactly that would have meant to her remains elusive. And nevertheless, she has surfaced right on time.

“Hilma af Klint: Paintings for the Future” is on view at the Guggenheim, through April 23, 2019.

Ben Davis
National Art Critic



Related Articles



Marie Curie, Scandal, and the Occult: Rosamund Pike on Her Daring New Role

"It shows her as a passionate woman, we can be quick to think of scientists as sexless," says the star of the new film Radioactive.



© 2019 STUDIOCANAL SAS AND AMAZON CONTENT SERVICES LLC

BY ADAM RATHE JUL 26, 2020

For many of us, Marie Curie—the Polish-born scientist who developed the theory of radioactivity and became the first woman to win the Nobel Prize and then the first person to win the prize twice—exists only in history books. Her work may impact our lives to this day, but her status as a kind of scientific superstar has remained widely unknown. That is, until now.

In the new movie Radioactive (streaming beginning July 24 on Amazon), Rosamund Pike plays Curie to near perfection. The film, directed by Marjane Satrapi, follows Curie from her childhood through the end of her life and allows for a complicated, layered portrayal of her not only as a scientist but a wife, a mother, a widow, an outcast, and eventually an icon.

An early review called Pike—who appeared on the cover of Town & Country in 2018 for her role in A Private War—“luminous” and noted that the Gone Girl star “fiercely and movingly plays Curie in all her glory and heartbreak.”


Rosamund Pike as the Nobel Prize–winning scientist Marie Curie in the new film Radioactive, out July 24 on Amazon.] 
LAURIE SPARHAM

While Pike took chemistry lessons to prepare to play Curie, there were parts of the character that proved a bit trickier, like her relationship with the early 1900s Parisian spiritualism craze or her affair with the scientist Paul Langevin, which caused a scandal in its time. Here, the actress describes what drew her to Curie and the lasting impact of the role on her own life.

Marie Curie’s known for her scientific work but watching Radioactive, it’s clear her life was fascinating in areas beyond just her profession.

The potency of her as a figure is so connected to the science, and the fact that it’s radioactivity that she’s linked with has led to a caution in the way we regard her. When she and Pierre Curie [her husband and partner] discovered radium, it glowed and seemed so enchanting and romantic; people wanted it in face creams and chocolate and cigarettes, and it felt like the spirit of a new age. She seemed like a magical figure, but as people realized the dangers—France was approaching war, her husband died, and she began this affair and was shunned—she was suddenly a foreigner again, having previously been one of their own. I’m sure it’s kind of linked to people’s ambivalence about what she discovered.


Curie, seen here in 1911, won two Nobel Prizes for her work in chemistry—including developing the theory of radioactivity. TIME LIFE PICTURESGETTY IMAGES

Curie also had this complicated partnership with her husband, an involvement with the occult, and also a relationship with Paul Langevin. It’s a much bigger picture than just her work.

So many scientists at the time were embracing spiritualism—and felt that science and spiritualism could go hand in hand. She was very suspicious of it, but her husband, who was a very open-minded person, was interested. They’re all working in the field of energy though, and thinking about those circles; what happens when someone dies and where does their energy go? Now people think spirituality in the traditional sense has eroded in the form of churchgoing and has been replaced with concepts like meditation. People are always looking for some form of spirituality, it just takes different forms.

I heard you took chemistry lessons to prepare for the role.

It’s logical isn’t it? You’d want to so you could know what she might be thinking and the context in which she was working. Her discovery didn’t come out of a vacuum, so I thought it was important to know what the ideas were, what people were working on.


Pike and Sam Reilly, who plays Pierre Curie, Marie’s husband and collaborator, in a still from Radioactive. LAURIE SPARHAM

Were there parts of the role that made preparation more difficult?

Her relationship with Paul, which I resisted for a long time… I was so convinced by the power of her connection with Pierre. She was a woman who was so resistant to collaboration, be it romantic or scientific, and the fact that Pierre Curie with all of his open-minded, generous humanism convinced her they could work together—the love she came to feel for him was so profound, and I felt it strongly. Studying pictures of her, I see the loss. I can tell if pictures of her are from after his death or before because her face to me looks different. I’ve had a hard time when documentaries have tried to place significance on her relationship with Paul; I didn’t buy it. I know it was sensationalized in the press, but I think actually she had the affair because Paul was the one person who fully understood what she lost. He was the other person who had worked as closely with Pierre as she had. Their relationship wasn’t a great love affair, and after they broke it off and the storm had blown over, they continued working together. I’m more interested that it shows her as a passionate woman. We can be quick to think of scientists as sexless.

What surprised you about Marie?

She had this eccentricity, which I found very appealing. It’s the directness and lack of filter that I find very charming. It puts you at risk of being rejected, not liked, or shut out, but she carried on and made her own place, not heeding what others thought. Also, her relationship with her daughter [Irène, who would later win a Nobel Prize in chemistry herself]; she was not a good mother, but a tremendous respect existed between them and they were both brilliant scientists in their own right. It’s hard to untangle her now. I think back on her life as something I’ve experienced rather than something I’ve acted in.

Rosamund Pike, shot for Town & Country in 2018, starred in films including Gone Girl and A Private War before appearing in the new Radioactive.
LIZ COLLINS


This film is coming out in a time when scientists are in the spotlight again. Is there something about her life that feels especially important to you in this moment?

We didn’t know this seismic event was coming and the whole world would be brought together thinking about science again. It’s a good moment for the film because we are thinking about the cost of science and the responsibilities we have when they put their work into the world—can we trust humanity to use it only for good? In recent weeks, everybody’s been reevaluating their relationship to race and started to try to educate themselves more on other people’s experiences. If that’s the climate this film is coming into, we’re all more open to receiving stories about people who are different from ourselves. Marie Curie fought hard against structures of the white, male brotherhood that were running science, but nonetheless she had an easier time of it than if she hadn’t been white or educated.

Have those chemistry lessons stuck with you?

There are things that have come up during the pandemic in the education of my children and running a home school. I had that curiosity before, but now it has new applications.
Spells in the Present Tense and the Transformative Power of the Occult

An event at Somerset House to launch Ignota Press’ first book, the anthology: Spells: 21st-Century Occult Poetry

PBY PHILOMENA EPPS IN OPINION | 08 NOV 18



On Halloween, the cavernous tunnels of the Deadhouse, a winding crypt-like space in the underground depths of Somerset House thronged with those gathered to celebrate the launch of Ignota Press. The rough brick walls illuminated purple, atmospheric music from DJs Lia Mouse and TTB, and an intoxicating heady aroma of incense filled the corridors. Founded by Sarah Shin and Ben Vickers, Ignota derives its name from the mystic Hildegard of Bingen’s lingua ignota (unknown language), with the aim of defining it as one ‘that makes possible the reimagining and re-enchantment of the world around us’ through books and events that traverse poetry, technology, and speculative mysticism. Their inaugural publication is the anthology: Spells: 21st-Century Occult Poetry, edited by Shin with Rebecca Tamás, which brings together 36 rising and established voices across 160 pages to explore themes of ‘justice, selfhood, and the transformative power of the occult.’  
Spells: 21st Century Occult Poetry, 2018, book cover. Courtesy: Ignota Press

The launch event included readings from Spells by poets Amy Key, Daisy Lafarge (who also noted that Hildegard – a medieval nun, mystic, and philosopher – was the first woman to pen a description of female pleasure and orgasm), Rebecca Perry, and ‘Bhanu Kapil’s spectre’. Kapil is a poet and practitioner who works with transcendent practices and healing magic, often translating historic rituals to contemporary spaces. ‘I think of Joanna Macy's “work that reconnects” and the way that ritual allows participants – readers? writers? – to locate themselves “at a point outside of time.” Beyond time,” she wrote to me, ‘And from that place, to remember – in communal ways, non-verbal ways – what it was like to live on the earth.’


The evening programme also centred around ‘NIGREDO’: a trance-like ceremony that involved moments of speech, singing, and the sound of the gong, devised and led by musician Nicole Bettencourt Coelho. In our exchange, she cited Greco-Egyptian traditions, ceremonial ritual, and astronomical movement as influences, expressing how magical thinking is the ‘point at which all things intersect’. Rituals operate as a celebration of liminal space – often a communion between the past and the future – and a blurring of spiritual and psychic boundaries, by deconstructing consciousness and an individual sense of self. ‘Ritual is not only about attaining something,’ she continued, ‘it is also a means of escaping existing narratives. Finding the pulse that exists in all living things. The raw vitality that every human being shares as a uniting principle.’ Or, as Francesca Lisette writes in ‘Ecstasy (Dispersal),’ ‘Each reading is a ritual. It is also a performance … the body is more than a frame. It is a vibration.’

Spells: 21st Century Occult Poetry launch party, 2018. Courtesy: Ralph Pritchard

This vibrating energy and raw vitality is a guiding force throughout the pages of Spells. The anthology seeks to encourage societal and spiritual transformation, focusing on how the occult (hidden or occluded knowledge) has offered survival within the oppressions of racist capitalist patriarchy over centuries. Survival is a radical act, with magical potential, as Jen Calleja’s ‘The Gift’ states: your intention must always be to save your own life.’ Talking about her editorial vision, Shin notes, ‘we consider occult poetics as providing a pluralistic magical language; one capable of producing metaphors and symbols that can hold the contradictions of trauma, identity, gender, sexuality and kinship.’ Poetry in the anthology is conceived as a magical discourse with talismanic properties, something to hold close in difficult times, and offering both healing and liberation. ‘Following #MeToo’s revelations of the enormity of rape culture,’ Shin continued, ‘the esoteric is becoming visible in the popular imagination as a sacred space away from everyday experience of sexualised violence and harassment.’

Lafarge agreed, ‘if there is a current ‘generational’ interest in the mystical, its motivations are ethical, existential, and tactical, during carnivalesque world politics, environmental collapse, and the rise of the Right. The identification with occult ways of being isn’t so much escapism or self-indulgence as an alternative to total despond, depression, and anomie.’

In their introduction to the anthology, ‘The Broken Open’, the writer and activist So Mayer expands further on Shin and Tamás’ notion of poetics as an enchanted discourse: ‘This isn’t about God making the world with the Word. It’s about the witches who’ve been remaking the world, unmaking the mess he made … To be a witch, then, is to know words … Make no mistake: when we encounter such voices – feminist, queer, decolonial, dis/abled – there is magic at play beyond the ordinary.’
Moongate. Courtesy: Lando and Optigram

These spell-poems work together to forge a space of collective care, vulnerability, and generous sense of feeling. In ‘Camisado’, CAConrad writes, ‘poetry is the opposite of escape / but makes this world endurable / how the smallest puddle / reflects the entire sky’. These words iterate Mayer’s invocation of poems that ‘reorder [history], reorganise it into new lines that reveal the obscured … slow us down, dance us to their rhythm, turn time from a line to a circle’. The domestic and the quotidian are often cast in new light: shrines are built in bathrooms, or attention is paid to quieter moments of self-care and preservation, through cooking, on buses, making lists, watching YouTube.

Spells opens with Kaveh Akbar’s prayer for self-love – ‘my gurgling internal devotion / to myself’ – and throughout the publication, this desire for selfhood runs throughout. As Kayo Chingonyi’s incantation later puts it: ‘Did no one tell you / naming is a magical act / words giving shape / to life, life revivified / by utterance, / so long as proper care / is taken to pronounce / the words correctly / thereby completing the spell?’ To read this collection, and to conjure these poetic spirits and listen to what they have to say, is another kind of ritual. The polyphony of these voices, images, and incantations offers an opportunity for the reader to leave the confines of their own narrative for a moment, and to see the world anew.

Spells: 21st Century Occult Poetry is out now from Ignota Books.

Main image: Spells: 21st Century Occult Poetry launch party, 2018. Courtesy: Ralph Pritchard

PHILOMENA EPPS
Philomena Epps is an editor and writer based in London.
An Occult Art History of the American West

A new book charts Theosophy’s influence on Western modernism
Emil Bisttram, Dualities,1938, oil on canvas. Courtesy: © The Estate of Emil Bisttram and Nora Eccles Harrison Museum of Art, Utah State University

During the 19th century, the American frontier moved ever-westward. The so-called new territories quickly became rich sites for innovative forms of Western spirituality, which operated outside of organized religion. One such practice, Theosophy – established in New York in 1875 by occultist Helena P. Blavatsky – proved influential in the development of abstract painting and Western modernism more broadly. A new book, titled Enchanted Modernities: Theosophy, the Arts and the American West (2019), charts the religious movement’s influence on art history.

Raymond Jonson, The Mystery, 1937, oil on board. Courtesy: © The Estate of Raymond Jonson and University of Arizona Museum of Art

Lauren Harris, Painting No. 48, 1938-1941, oil on masonite. Courtesy: © The Estate of Lawren Harris and Nora Eccles Harrison Museum of Art, Utah State University

In 1938, in the small town of Taos, New Mexico, a number of artists formed the Transcendental Painting Group. Inspired by occult teachings, including theosophical literature, they conducted experiments in abstraction. Writing in their 1938 manifesto, the group’s stated aim was to use this new style to ‘carry painting beyond the appearance of the physical world, through new concepts of space, colour, light and design, to imaginative realms that are idealistic and spiritual’.

Agnes Pelton, Nurture, 1940, oil on canvas. Courtesy: © The Estate of Agnes Pelton and Nora Eccles Harrison Museum of Art, Utah State University

Agnes Pelton, The Primal Wing, 1933. Courtesy: © The Estate of Agnes Pelton and San Diego Museum of Art

One member of the group, Agnes Pelton, moved to the California desert in 1932, where she began to create surreal, luminous paintings. Among Pelton’s influences was Blavatsky’s core text, The Key to Theosophy (1889), and her works are suffused with occult symbolism. Pelton never fully gave up figuration – a fact that made her an outlier to mainstream modernism. Speaking in 1934, she described her works as existing between these two poles: ‘My abstract pictures are just as real to me as nature, but they are not material, but mental images.’
Oskar Fischinger, Blue Cristal, 1951, oil on masonite. Courtesy: © The Estate of Oskar Fischinger and Nora Eccles Harrison Museum of Art, Utah State University

The German artist, animator and filmmaker Oskar Fischinger is perhaps best-known for his pioneering contributions to abstract cinema: he collaborated with Fritz Lang on his 1929 film Woman in the Moon and influenced Walt Disney’s Fantasia (1940). Although not a member of the Transcendental Painting Group, Fischinger was particularly influenced by Theosophical ideas after moving to Hollywood in 1936. His late paintings depict abstract illustrations of music, which can be read as attempts to resonate spiritually with viewers

.
Henrietta Shore, Two Worlds, c. 1921, oil on canvas. Courtesy: © The Estate of Henrietta Shore and Nora Eccles Harrison Museum of Art, Utah State University

Occult art from the American West did not just respond to the region in which it was made; it helped to create a mystical idea of the West that lives on in the popular imagination to this day.

Enchanted Modernities: Theosophy, the Arts and the American West is published by Fulgur Press

‘Agnes Pelton: Desert Transcendentalist’ opens at the Whitney Museum of American Art on 13 March 2020

FIGGY GUYVER
Figgy Guyver is editorial assistant of frieze, based in London, UK. She is co-founder and editor of CUMULUS journal. Follow her on Twitter: @FiggyGuyver.




Filmmaker seeks out esoteric texts for his vast collection on the occult

E. Elias Merhige boasts rare finds in his extensive personal library

E. Elias Merhige, a filmaker in Beverly Hills, boasts an extensive collection of rare texts related to the occult. (Photo by Jordan Riefe)

By JORDAN RIEFE | jordan.riefe@gmail.com | Orange County Register
PUBLISHED: January 25, 2021 

When filmmaker E. Elias Merhige made his first movie, “Begotten,” 1989’s black-and-white allegory about death and transformation, he hoped, like any recent film school grad, it would change his life.

It did in ways he could not imagine.

It launched his career, highlights of which include 2000’s “Shadow of the Vampire,” starring John Malkovich and Willem Dafoe, and the serial killer thriller, “Suspect Zero,” starring Ben Kingsley.

But beyond that, “Begotten” introduced him to the works of Hermes Trismegistus, the purported author of the pre-Christian volume “Corpus Hermeticum,” a series of texts that espouse an understanding of the universe based on principles of astrology, alchemy and magic.

E. Elias Merhige hold one of the rare volumes in his collection. (Photo by Jordan Riefe)

Merhige has a translation of that ancient text, four volumes published between 1926-1936, in his rare book collection tucked away at his home in Beverly Hills. Numbering 2,400 titles acquired at auction and through private dealers, the focus of his library is early mysticism and Freemasonry, including volumes by authors like W.B. Yeats and Ludwig Wittgenstein.

Central to the collection is a first edition set of the works of German philosopher Jakob Böhme whose first book, “Aurora,” appeared in 1612, reintroducing ideas derived from “Corpus Hermeticum” to a post-Enlightenment Europe open to novel concepts. The library also includes rare 17th century English translations of Böhme’s work, as well as former Church of England Priest William Law’s translations from the 18th century. That four-volume collection formerly belonged to the Earl of Cromer, who served as Consul General of Egypt from 1883-1907.

“It’s alive and you feel an authenticity when you read his (Böhme’s) texts, and a sense of urgency,” Merhige says of the author, whose works were foundational to the Romanticists, and could be found in the personal libraries of poets like Goethe and William Blake. “Böhme has a huge effect on Isaac Newton’s thinking and Friedrich Hölderlin, the great poet. Friedrich Schelling, the nature philosopher, was deeply moved by Böhme, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, even Wagner.”

The expansive collection contains not just books, but esoterica like an 1888 hand-painted tarot deck bearing the stamp of Madame Blavatsky, who co-founded the Theosophical Society of New York. In London, where the deck is from, she established the Blavatsky Lodge in 1887, which inspired a like-minded organization, The Golden Dawn, the following year.

Adherents included occultist Aleister Crowley, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Bram Stoker and W.B. Yeats. Also among them was actor Florence Farr who, along with playwright Olivia Shakespear, wrote two plays in the Hermetic tradition, “The Beloved of Hathor” and “The Shrine of the Golden Hawk,” both part of the library.

“What I’m after is what animates the human being, the kind of things the Romantics were after. Like when Mary Shelley wrote ‘Frankenstein,’ what is that spark that animates life?” Merhige wonders. “Maybe that’s my attraction to analog film, the physicality, the emulsion that reacts to light and to chemicals and then creates the image with which you tell your story. It’s a living organism like a human being. With certain films stocks and certain lenses, I can create color and images.”

For Merhige, the collection is not merely a compulsion, but a source of inspiration for works, like his recently completed cinematic cosmic opera, “Polia and Blastema,” an allegory told through the blending of two souls to achieve a transcendent new form

.
An 1888 hand-painted tarot deck bearing the stamp of Madame Blavatsky, co-founder of the Theosophical Society of New York, is among the items in E. Elias Merhige’s rare collection.

Nearing completion, his epic novel titled “Verilion” grapples with similar ideas grounded in the Hermetic tradition.

“I’m referencing through the last five or six thousand years of civilization, from Asia to Egypt to ancient Greece to Rome to the Renaissance to today. Everything you see here represents a small part of a larger atlas of the essential nature of the human soul, how it is constituted and how it manifests through images, feelings and words,” Merhige says of the collection, which remains a work in progress.

Still on his list are the first 14 tracts of the first Latin translation of “Corpus Hermeticum” by Marsilio Ficino in 1471, as well as various magical tracts from the first appearance of Giordano Bruno’s 16th-century works based on the same volume.

“This is really what I’m after with the library, which is to create this kind of working mind that I can walk through,” Merhige explains. “When I read their thoughts, they mingle with my thoughts, they become alive again. I think the library is the closest thing to immortality. It’s where the dead speak to us and become alive through us.”


Jordan Riefe | Reporter
With a background in filmmaking, Jordan Riefe worked in the industry in various capacities before becoming an entertainment reporter, covering for The Wrap and Reuters. Currently he serves as West Coast theatre critic for The Hollywood Reporter, and writes on culture, art and cinema for The Guardian and Truthdig.com.

Frank Zappa’s favourite books about the occult



(Credit: Gijsbert Hanekroot / Alamy)
5 days ago
Tom Taylor


In 1971, Frank Zappa was asked by journalist Howard Smith what he made of audiences becoming increasingly political, to which Zappa replied in trademark fashion: “It’s superficial, it’s as superficial as their music consciousness. It’s just another aspect of being involved in the actions of their peer group.”

When pressed for more details and whether he hadn’t noticed any changes coming from the political movements that began to entwine with his music, he replied, “Sure, I’ve noticed a lot of changes, but I think they’re temporary changes. Any change for the good is always subject to cancellation, upon the arrival of the next fad.”

That dialogue, in a nutshell, encapsulates large swathes of what Zappa’s persona was all about. He never seemed to be in the music business, merely playing with its participants whilst masquerading as a rock star. He was shrewd, erudite and often inscrutably ironic.

In that same interview where he dismisses political movements as a ‘fad’ he’s asked whether a woman could ever be part of his band, “I don’t think there’s a girl around,” he says, “That could fit in with what we do,” unbeknownst to the interviewer the multi-instrumentalist Ruth Underwood was pretty much a fully-fledged member at that stage.

This playful zest and fierce intelligence reflected on his music. It was very much his own thing, but he himself was like a giant arty sponge. The term genre-defying is perhaps overused, in part because some people get so pernickety about categorisation that avoiding it offers a safe way to navigate the genre-classified terrain, yet there’s scarcely any artists out there more befitting of the term than Zappa.

His music prides itself on non-conformity as did his character; for instance, contrary to how he may look, he was actually an ardent anti-drug advocate. But in all other areas, he was determined to meddle in the murk and retrieve whatever he could. In short, your music simply can’t sound like Zappa’s unless you have an electric mix of influences. This didn’t just apply to the percussion-heavy modern-classical music he loved, or the doo-wop that he adored, but also the literature that stirred him.

Back in 2016, large assets of his estate were put up for sale, including a collection of Crowleyana and occult books. The description for the lot up for auction reads as follows: “A collection of esoteric philosophy books previously owned by Frank and Gail Zappa, including Znuz is Znees: Memoirs of a Magician by C.F. Russell (self published, 1970); The Book of Wisdom or Folly, in the Form of an Epistle of 666 the Great and Wild Beast to His Son 777… by Aleister Crowley (West Point, CA: Thelema Publishing, 1962) with an inscription in blue ink to the prelim ‘To Frank, I would be a slave to the slave, of your genius, neither tempting, nor restricting. You are, by far, the brightest star. No shadows shall remain’.”

The rousing list of spooky reams continues, “Satanism in America by Shawn Carlson and Gerald Larue (El Cerrito, CA: Gaia Press, 1989) with a typed letter to Frank Zappa on Satanism in America letterhead, suggesting the book may be of use in Zappa’s fight against music censorship, signed by the author; and Laments of Mulciber the Isagoge by Benjamin A. Franklin (Detroit: Society of the Isagoge, 1973) inscribed in black ink to the front endpaper ‘To Frank, from Andrew Flame …the Lucifer.’”

Needless to say, the man had an interest in the occult. His fascination, however, is delineating as such in his remark, “The only difference between a cult and a religion is the amount of real estate they own.” But he nevertheless saw the need to explore, as he once said, “A mind is like a parachute, it doesn’t work unless it’s open.”

You can check out the full list of books in the Julien’s Auction lot below.

Frank Zappa’s spiritualist and occult book collection:

Be Here Now by Ram Dass
777 by Aleister Crowley
Aha by Aleister Crowley (Knowing me Alan Partridge, Knowing you Mr Crowley)
Book 4 by Aleister Crowley
The Book of Thoth by Aleister Crowley
The Holy Book by Aleister Crowley
Khing Kang King by Aleister Crowley
Liber Aleph Vel Cxi: The Book of Wisdom or Folly by Aleister Crowley
Znuz is Znees: Memoirs of a Magician by C.F. Russell
Satanism in America by Shawn Carlson and Gerald Larue
The Book of Black Magic and of Pacts by A.E. Waite
The Lancashire Witches by William Harrison Ainsworth
Dark side of wonderland: ahead of V&A show, book explores Alice’s occult link

As museum prepares to celebrate Lewis Carroll’s heroine, ties to mysticism and magical societies have come to light in a new work, Through a Looking Glass Darkly


A detail from one of the sketches in John Tenniel’s previously unpublished illustrations. Illustration: PR Company Handout

Vanessa Thorpe
Sun 28 Feb 2021

Great art spawns imitation. And great weird art, it seems, spawns still weirder flights of fancy. Lewis Carroll’s twin children’s fantasies, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and its sequel, Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There have both inspired a string of adaptations, artistic and musical responses down the generations.

Now, as the Victoria & Albert Museum prepares to celebrate Alice and her cultural influence in Curiouser & Curiouser, a landmark exhibition next month, a new book containing unseen original images is to expose the secrets behind the darker world of the second Alice story.

“Together these books are really the first psychedelic texts and I like them because there’s no moral lesson. They actually parody authority, like the judiciary and the monarchy, rather than supporting them,” said Jake Fior, an Alice expert and author of Through a Looking Glass Darkly.

“Carroll had a definite interest in the esoteric. I have a catalogue of his possessions, including his library, and he had lots of books on the supernatural,” he told the Observer.

A detail from one of the sketches in John Tenniel’s previously unpublished illustrations.

Fior’s fresh version of Alice’s journey attempts to elaborate and even improve upon Carroll’s difficult follow-up work, 150 years on from its publication.

“If you think about the structure of Through the Looking Glass, it’s very weird and I always felt it could be improved. The idea of going through a mirror into a reflected dimension is fine, but then suddenly there is this Jabberwocky epic poem and the Vorpal sword and these mythical beasts which are never mentioned again. It is framed as a chess game in which Alice goes from pawn to queen in eight chapters, but it doesn’t run in a fluid way like Wonderland. It is a more flawed book, yet some of the moments are better, so I kept those in my version.” During the author’s research for his new approach to the story he discovered images that will now go on public display for the first time in the V&A show.

Fior, who is the proprietor of the Alice through the Looking Glass shop in the West End of London, was already the owner of several original pieces of Carroll memorabilia when he came across a sketch book that had belonged to Carroll’s famous original illustrator, Sir John Tenniel.

“It shouldn’t have been there, but I was at a rare book fair three summers ago and there it was, nondescript, with just the word ‘costume’ written on the front,” remembered Fior. As a student Tenniel used to skip his classes at the Royal Academy of Art and take his sketch books to the British Museum instead. This book was full of studies of armour and knights, prototypes of the images he went on to use in the Alice books.

Another of the illustrations from John Tenniel’s previously unpublished sketchbook.

Fior uses these images in his book just as Carroll used Tenniel’s work: a dynamic mix of text and illustration, which he believes looks towards the arrival of the graphic novel. Fior’s story tells, in parallel with Alice’s journey, the true story of Samuel Liddell Mathers, a distant relative of the real girl Alice who had inspired Dodgson.

Fior discovered that he had formed the secret magical society known as The Golden Dawn, patronised by major literary figures such as Bram Stoker, E Nesbit and Arthur Conan Doyle, and also by the notorious occultist Aleister Crowley.

“There is no evidence that Carroll was practising magic, but he was interested in telepathy and was a member of the Society of Psychical Research. He also had a well known obsession with wordplay and especially acrostics, and these come from Hebrew mysticism, which he would probably have known,” said Fior.

While working on the book he found that although Carroll was not a Freemason, the Liddell family were very involved in the organisation.

The V&A exhibition, Fior suggests, will be a good opportunity for fans to go back to the darker side of the stories, something that the Disney cartoon version has almost obliterated.

“The Disney image has become so strong, it has almost effaced Tenniel. But I find the animated visuals a bit saccharine. I always think of the phrase from Anthony Burgess’s Clockwork Orange “weak tea, new brewed” as opposed to the Tenniel which is full strength, with no sugar.”