In Berlin, an exhibition examines the post-war career of the Nazis’ favourite artists – letter from Scotland, September 11

IN BERLIN last week, I got an email from my uncle with a link to a Guardian article about an exhibition at the German History Museum on Nazi-era artists “Divinely Gifted: National Socialism’s faourite artists in the Federal Republic”. It was interesting enough to make me walk over to Museum Island in the few free hours I had.

We live in an era of woke and anti-woke, of “cancel culture” and culture wars. Is the underlying sense that – good art must be produced by people we think morally good, and that art linked to bad people should not be seen? Those ideas have strong echoes in 20th century Germany.

This exhibition and its companion ‘Documenta: Politics and Art” on the floor below, about the rise of modernism in West Germany, shine a light on the relationship between art and politics. They feature newspaper articles, documents, artworks and small TV screens showing archive footage, all with German and English subtitles.

One shows a Nazi parade  – goose-stepping soldiers march in front of the slight figure of Hitler,  followed by trucks carrying massive sculptures. A giant eagle with a faintly anthropomorphised torso is reminiscent of Egyptian god Horus. It could be a ‘Day of Art” march from 1937 or 1938 and the guy seated next to him might be one of his most favourite artists Hermann Kaspar . (Not sure as I didn’t check at the time)

The Nazi era didn’t so much cancel as annihilate a lot of culture. Many artists including all Jewish artists whatever their style were denounced as “degenerate” – their work was destroyed, many were murdered. Art criticism was denounced as “Jewish’ – the Nazis preferred uncritical art reports about ‘their’ artists.

A few hundred artists were pronounced  ‘divinely gifted’ by the Nazi regime. Their post-war work is the subject of the exhibition. These guys – all men –  saw some thin times after the war but most managed to carry on to have careers and their work can still be seen in public places across the former West Germany today.

The Guardian writer Stuart Jeffries is bemused by this, writing: “What should be the fate of these sculptures, tapestries and murals made by Nazis and fellow travellers? Should they be destroyed, retired from public view or just contextualised with helpful labels? The first option, I suggest…should not be ruled out. After all, there is a rich history of destruction of public art.”

But would boycotting these artists in the post-war period have helped in the work of building democracy out of the ashes of dictatorship?  Should the artists who had accepted the patronage of Nazis have been cancelled at the time? And now, all these years hence, should their work be destroyed? What would that say about our own culture? Would that risk giving too much power to inanimate objects? Is a statue of a naked hunting goddess, or an ornate tapestry of a sheaf of wheat in itself a dangerous artefact?

There is a linked exhibition on the floor below (the historical museum is being renovated so both are in a large and airy building next door). ‘Documenta’ looks at a famous long-running art show which showcased modernist art in post-war West Germany. Here we encounter more former Nazi artists – but these mainly hid their past. They wrote a new narrative as the world divided into East and West. In this era, only the modernist art of the West could be ‘good’ art, created by artists who possessed individual freedom. It was not until the more liberal times of the 1970s that any artists from East Germany were exhibited at Documenta.

One of the main forces behind this elevation of modernism as the supreme art form of the West was Werner Haftmann. Haftmannn hid his Nazi past – he was a member of the Nazi Party’s paramilitary wing and had tortured and executed members of the Italian resistance.

The Nazi’s favourite artists such as Arno Breker and Herman Kaspar did not engage militarily during the war  – they were excused conscription and spent the Reich years creating huge Romanesque sculptures and gigantic office furniture emblazoned with martial symbols. After the war, Kaspar retired to his atelier and made tapestries featuring neutral designs for private commissions and competition.

Breker made a lot of massive sculptures for Nazi buildings – 90% of them were destroyed at the end of the war.  In a video, he talks about how the lean years of the 30s were followed, for him, by six years of plentiful commissions.

After the war, Breker’s work seemed to get more modernist – probably the most significant actual piece on show is an elongated, almost faceless statue of Pallas Athene, spear held threateningly aloft, which stood outside a school – it must have given the kids nightmares. On a TV screen, I saw images of some disintegrated grieving figures hiding their faces which apparently appear in relief on Cologne cathedral which looked interesting. Another shows a huge, nubile Diana.

Other screens show the artists talking.  In one documentary from the 1970s, the interviewer is trying to edge obliquely towards asking Breker if he bears any guilt for his complicity with the Nazi regime. Breker is accompanied by a minder who intervenes to stop “political” questions. Breker denies any guilt. He talks about his philosophy of art as being something the common man can enjoy without effort. That was what the Nazis liked – it reminded me of the ridiculous British comedy “Allo Allo” and its running plotline about the “Madonna with the big boobies” which the Nazis are desperate to find.

Taking a dive into the art and politics of late 20th century Germany in these exhibitions is eye-opening. Once you start destroying artefacts created by previous eras however objectionable, where would you stop? The danger lies not in the things themselves but in ignorance. A lack of understanding leads to a partial view of the world. Exhibitions like these two, which demonstrate such impressive scholarship and thoughtful curation, are the best counter to that.