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Back The Hiding Game
Chapters (64)
  1. Cover
  2. Naomi Wood
  3. Dedication page
  4. Epigraph page
  5. 1
  6. WEIMAR, 1922
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. DESSAU, 1929
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. BERLIN, 1932
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. 45
  53. 46
  54. 47
  55. 48
  56. 49
  57. 50
  58. 51
  59. 52
  60. 53
  61. Thank you
  62. Praise
  63. The Hiding Game
  64. Also by Naomi Wood

Irmi has not called again. She knew not to bother. After the funeral, she would have gone back to Teddy and to her side of the Wall. Jenö would have flown home to England. Walter, now, is in the ground. That gives me a pang of something. Remorse; regret; I don’t know.

image

I have set up my self-portrait by Charlotte’s damaged weave, the last one she worked on before the raid. For a while I’ve painted nothing but the threads she wove, and it has helped me understand her work better: its ribbons of infinite sunlight. In the foreground my face is at a three-quarters profile. The stubble is there, the creased brow, the bald scalp that puts me in mind of Itten. (And Itten. Is he dead now, too?) The nose is smart. I’ve always thought I had a good nose.

I wonder, though, if figurative work is the right thing to be doing, given what I’m asking it to express. Maybe that’s why I’ve lost myself in abstraction all these years. My gallerist won’t like it: it interrupts the narrative of the exile: the abstractionist Bauhäusler. That’s the story that sells: not this portraiture with the heavy oil and tight brushwork.

But the exercise at least occupies me, and every day it gives me a little respite from my story. As I peep around the canvas corner, trying to find the right way to see myself, I think this too is the hiding game – what to show of myself, what not to show; what three words might describe the man in the mirror.

The eyes, most importantly, are waiting to be done.

31

Dessau

For Paul Klee’s fiftieth birthday, Charlotte, Anni and Otti made a life-sized papier-mâché angel. Marianne Brandt made a metal bowl; Kandinsky, a painting; and the three women made a weave. They packed all of this inside the angel’s abdomen. Jenö made brass shavings for the angel’s hair, and Walter painted her delicate features. To work all together again was wonderful: a reunion. This was before the holiday in Rügen.

Otti, Anni and Charlotte then convinced a Junkers pilot to take them up in his plane. They must have paid him from Anni’s private fortune; her family owned several Berlin newspapers. Charlotte had never been on a plane before and neither had Otti. The pilot’s twists and turns made the women laugh and scream, but Charlotte said she hadn’t been frightened. After the floodplains of Anhalt county, she said it was as if someone had dipped all that time and space into coloured dye.