In keeping with British public schooling traditions, my nickname in junior school was "Knickers". I had other names of course, but that was the most notable one. How this came about had nothing to do with my actual undergarments, and more to do with a comeback from a fellow pupil based on certain phonetics drawn from my actual name. I have regaled this tale many a time for others amusement as 1.) It's funny and 2.) Life is too short to take yourself too seriously all the time. Being overly serious will only get you ridiculed and equally, being uptight will probably cause you inflexibility, ulcers and other gastric issues.
When William Congreve notoriously penned the line: "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned", he overlooked another, equally lethal rage, that earth hath no fury like an artist scorned. It remains the eternal question that must be asked; could such appaulling death, destruction and chaos have been averted, had the dean of Vienna's art academy turned a blind-eye to the mediocre sketching of a young, awkward man called Adolf, allowing him to fulfil his artistic dreams? Unfortunately we shall never know, but perhaps Hitler would have expressed his repressed, mono-testicled angst with oils and brushes rather than bullets and blood.
That is not say that all wannabes and artists who are rejected turn into despotic, murderous dictators. Far from it, truly creative individuals always invent some new way to achieve their visions, whereas those less gifted might keep it as a hobby and stick with a nice, society friendly day job. Had awkward Adolf merely recalled some of art's greatest masters, he would have seen that many of them had also been rejected almost constantly.
It goes without saying that Hitler was an unrealistic dreamer, one who could not bear to take criticism from anyone, thus the most dangerous kind of dreamer. He had some success flogging his drawings and watercolours of Austrian landmarks as postcards and frame-fillers. He felt frustrated, ostracised and probably hormonal. It did not help his street-cred that he obsessively stalked a girl called Stephanie. Convinced they had a telepathic connection he wrote poetry he never sent her and never actually met her. Perhaps he should have borrowed a leaf out of Van Gogh's courting manual and sent her his ear or lone testicle, at least she would have remembered him then. Years later, when he was famous for all the wrong reasons, she was reminded, by someone else, of the fanatical fuhrer's admirations for her and recalled receiving one strange, unsigned letter. Unsurprisingly for this reason Hitler only had one friend growing up, who must have been criminally sycophantic for reasons unknown, as Adolf at that stage had neither power nor means, just psychotic sociopathy.
His other paintings were the worst kind of kitschy decorative art, which given time, ends up collecting dust and mould in forgotten attics or doing the rounds at car-boot sales. Occasionally bought because the buyer imagines using the period frame for another, superior work. Actually, the director of a Norwegian museum discovered four aquarelles of Disney characters by Hitler, hidden inside the frame of one of his paintings. Adolf was a big Disney fan, not someone you want to queue-barge in Disneyland. Ironically, the only thing his work has in common with other successful artists, is in his posthumous success. His work now commands thousands at auction, hunted down by avid collectors the world over for his signature mainly. Sickly sweet pictures attracting morbid curiosity for a glimpse into one of the most deformed minds in modern history. However, the real masterpieces of art he stole and hoarded during WWII still overshadow his in quality and asking price. The real reason for their superiority is not solely down to their technical adeptness, but in their fidelity to the true artists' mission, to enlighten others. In this respect alone, Hitler was not and could never have been an artist.
Sociopathic megalomania, testicular insecurities and neurotic facial hair grooming aside, in the end, woe becomes those who remain perpetually tight-lipped, stoney faced and buttock-clenched. Focus is one thing, keep your eye on the prize by all means, just don't forget that you are more likely to get there if there is company and laughter on the way, and the prize is, of course, legal.
"Jetset Violet"
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