My favorite art movement was that of Art Nouveau. Not only do I find the look beautifully organic and romantic in all of the best senses of the word, but I admired the ethic which supposedly motivated it, to elevate "low art" - common art found in people's everyday lives, such as advertisements, furniture, jewelry, street signs, and so on - to the quality of "high art", and thereby increase the quality of life for the average person.

But not everyone found Art Nouveau to be to their tastes. While Googling for something Alphonse Mucha-related, I found the following criticism of Art Nouveau, contemporaneous to the period...



William A. Wellner - "Der neue Stil", published in Lustige Blaetter (Berlin), 1899, vol. 14, no. 17, 8-9ff. Parody of Rupert Carabin's sculpture; poem by Kory Towska, one of the editors of Lustige Blaetter; English translation by Jeffery Howe:

The New Style; Diary Entry of a Dalldorfer Inmate

I am insane. Not yet permanently.
I still have many lucid moments.
In one such moment I felt compelled
To write down my fate here.

The case had its beginning
When I entered into the Art Exhibition.
To buy furniture -- that was my goal --
In the newest- newest style.
There were chairs made out of human bodies
And even out of naked women,
There were books that were tables,
In the place of music stands there were octopuses,
Instead of lamps there were fire tongs,
Instead of footstools there were boa-constrictors,
Over the bookcases scrambled young scamps
And the glasses perched on iron poles.

And that was just exactly what I wanted.
It cost, of course, an ingot of gold,
But then as a reward
My entire apartment glittered in the newst style.

It was a [Franz von] Stuck -like fairytale room,
A Maeterlinck - like theater dream,
An Arno Holz - like poem --
Only one could not live there.
The chairs were impossible for women,
If one sat thereon, it was unspeakable!
The fellows in the bookcase were not in the least timid,
I mistook them constantly for my children
And thrashed them for their eternal gymnastics.

While eating, the urns disgusted me
With their lumps and knees and claws.
My Ami waged war with the cats
Out of which the firescreen was comprised.
My wife was horrified by the grimaces
Of the terrifying sofa back.
In no instance could I tell the mirror from the music stands,
The water pipe from the wall calendar,
The coffee-pot from the lamps,
The clothes hamper from the window seat,
The bed from the table, the table from the piano,
The door from the clock, or the wardrobe from the door.
They all had the same florid ornament.

And so it happened. From the constant confusion
My spirit finally began to be bewildered.
Logic disappeared in the scrolls and tendrils,
And I came to the most extraordinary thoughts.
That is, I wanted to read the dining table,
Cook the music stand with onions and dill,
Dress the chairs like human beings,
Shoot the footstool, the lamps --

but enough!


In the end they had to bring me here forcibly.
Though the doctor said that I would be curable,
I alone do not believe it, I am dying,
I am dying from our decorative arts.


K.T. [Kory Towska]