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Time of India
15-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Time of India
Melodies of dissent: The enduring power of anti-war songs
In the summer of 1969, as the Vietnam War raged, Jimi Hendrix stepped onto the Woodstock stage and bent the US national anthem into a wail of anguish. His electric guitar screeched bombs and machine guns; 'The Star-Spangled Banner' became a wordless anti-war anthem heard around the world. An iconic moment at Woodstock 1969: Jimi Hendrix's distor8on-laden rendition of 'The Star Spangled Banner' evoked the sounds of war, turning a patriotic tune into a haun8ng protest. That visceral performance captured a generation's disillusionment. It was a generation that would make music its messenger – a chorus of dissent against the drumbeat of war. From the 1960s to today, artists have raised their voices in song to protest conflict and plead for peace. These anti-war songs, across decades and genres, carry a lyrical resonance that transcends their eras. Whether strummed in a folk coffeehouse or blasted through arena amplifiers, the songs share common refrains: War's human cost is unbearable; peace is the only answer. They blend cultural commentary with poetry, turning personal pain and political outrage into melodies we remember. Each era's struggles – Vietnam, the Cold War, Iraq, and beyond – have inspired musicians to respond in harmony, from gentle folk ballads to furious punk and heavy metal protests. Together, these songs form an enduring soundtrack of resistance and healing in times of conflict. The 1960s and the birth of the anti-war anthem The modern anti-war song movement took shape during the 1960s, when the Vietnam War and social unrest spurred a new generation of musical protest. Folk singers like Pete Seeger set the template early in the decade. Seeger's wisOul 'Where Have All the Flowers Gone?' posed a mournful question – 'When will they ever learn?' – as it traced a cycle from flowers to young soldiers to graveyards. By 1965, as troop deployments climbed, folk troubadour Phil Ochs was singing 'I Ain't Marching Anymore,' a blunt refusal in which he declared it's always 'the old [who] lead us to the war, [and] the young to fall,' vowing he would fight no more. In the same year, Tom Paxton released the sharply sa5rical 'Lyndon Johnson Told the Na8on,' mocking the US President's assurances about Vietnam: 'And Lyndon Johnson told the na8on, 'Have no fear of escala8on… Though it isn't really war, we're sending 50,000 more to help save Vietnam from Vietnamese'.' Paxton's biting chorus laid bare the government's euphemisms as tens of thousands more young men were shipped off to Southeast Asia. If folk music gave the anti-war movement its voice, popular rock and soul soon amplified it. In 1969, John Lennon and Yoko Ono staged their famous 'Bed-In for Peace,' turning their honeymoon into performance art for pacifism. Amid flowers and hand-drawn signs reading 'Hair Peace' and 'Bed Peace,' Lennon led a roomful of friends and reporters in the simple, mantra-like chorus 'All we are saying is give peace a chance.' John Lennon and Yoko Ono during their 1969 'Bed-In for Peace' in Montreal, where the anthem 'Give Peace a Chance' was recorded with a chorus of friends and journalists. Released as 'Give Peace a Chance' that year, the song became an anthem of the an5-war movement – a chant heard at countless rallies as ordinary people literally took up its call. A year later, Lennon offered a more utopian plea with 'Imagine' (1971), inviting listeners to dream of a world with 'nothing to kill or die for' and 'all the people living life in peace.' Its gentle piano melody and hopeful lyrics turned it into a universal hymn for peace that has outlasted the conflict that inspired it. Other artists of the era also found poetic ways to voice war-weariness. In 1970, Motown singer Edwin Starr let loose a furious question – 'War, what is it good for?' – and answered with a shout: 'Absolutely nothin'!' Backed by a hard-driving soul groove, 'War' was a Billboard #1 hit that proved an an5-war song could resonate with the broad public. Around the same time, The Rolling Stones released 'Gimme Shelter' (1969) with its ominous refrain: 'War, children, it's just a shot away.' In Marvin Gaye's silky soul single 'What's Going On' (1971), a returning Vietnam veteran asks why we fight, pleading, 'Father, father… we don't need to escalate. War is not the answer, for only love can conquer hate.' Even the normally apolitical Motown machine couldn't ignore the na5onal mood – The Supremes released 'Stoned Love' in late 1970 as a subtle an5- war song 'urging unity and peace amid the Vietnam War'. The 5tle's 'stone' referred not to drugs but to an unbreakable love, and the song's soaring vocals pleaded for understanding in a 5me of division. By the early 1970s, as the Vietnam War ground on, songs increasingly reflected the toll on soldiers and families. Freda Payne's 1971 hit 'Bring the Boys Home' is a poignant R&B protest that nearly brought tears to its listeners. 'Can't you see them marchin' up the sky / All the soldiers that have died, tryin' to get home,' Payne sings, focusing on the human longing behind the poli5cal debates. It was so direct a cri5que of the war's waste of life that some radio sta5ons banned it; nonetheless, it climbed the charts as an emo5ve anthem for anxious families. Folk and pop groups likewise con5nued to offer comfort and resistance. The trio Peter, Paul and Mary, known for lilting harmonies, recorded 'If I Were Free' – imagining if they could speak their minds to 'tell a tale to all mankind of how we fought and how we paid.' And in 1967, Pete Seeger himself wrote 'Bring 'Em Home,' a rousing folk tune urging the government to bring the soldiers home. Decades later, during another war, Bruce Springsteen would revive this very song on stage, underscoring its 5meless message that someone's child is always at risk far from home. As one scholar noted of the Vietnam era, 'music was the primary form of expression' for the young and disenchanted. Protesters who lacked power in Congress or the press could find it in a song. The abundant anti-war playlist of the late '60s and early '70s – from plaintive folk ballads to fist-pumping rock – both fueled the peace movement's passion and offered solace to those grieving and weary. Music, in short, became both protest and a form of healing. From Vietnam to the Cold War: New conflicts, new voices When the Vietnam War ended in 1975, the protest music didn't fall silent. The scars of that war, and the specter of new conflicts, con5nued to inspire songs – even if the tone and targets evolved. In the late 1970s, some ar5sts turned to history for lessons. Canadian songwriter Gordon Lightoot wrote 'Protocol' (1976), reflec5ng on the 'harsh realities' of Vietnam and the rigid mindset of the military machine. In evocative lyrics, LighOoot highlights 'the tragic consequences of blind obedience,' giving voice to soldiers who were treated as protocol numbers rather than individuals. His song's mournful narrative speaks to the 'universal longing for peace' felt by veterans and civilians alike. By the 1980s, the arena of protest music had expanded beyond Vietnam's shadow. The Cold War introduced a pervasive fear of nuclear annihila5on – a fear musicians would translate into powerful imagery. British rock giants Queen, for instance, injected anti-war commentary into a hard-rock anthem. Their 1984 song 'Hammer to Fall' thunders with guitar riffs while referencing living 'in the shadow of the mushroom cloud,' a vivid nod to nuclear weapons. The very 5tle – 'waiting for the hammer to fall' – conveyed the public's anxious sense that a nuclear doomsday could drop from the sky at any moment. In concert, Queen's charismatic frontman Freddie Mercury belted out lines about bodies burning and prayers, channeling the 1980s' dread that the Cold War might turn hot. Even at packed stadium shows, fans found themselves singing along to a protest of ul5mate war, perhaps without even realizing it. No band delved into war's psychic wounds quite like Pink Floyd. In 1982, Pink Floyd released 'When the Tigers Broke Free,' an achingly personal song in which Roger Waters describes the morning his father died in World War II. 'It was just before dawn one miserable morning in black '44,' Waters intones, recoun5ng how a German Tiger tank bapalion overran Bri5sh lines at Anzio, Italy – 'and that's how the High Command took my daddy from me,' goes the devasta5ng final line. The song (featured in Pink Floyd's film The Wall) is less a protest than a lament, zooming in on one life shapered by war. A few years later, aqer Waters' departure, Pink Floyd's 1987 track 'The Dogs of War' took a broader, angrier stance. Over ominous drums and wailing saxophone, the lyrics snarl about 'dogs of war and men of hate' for whom 'you must die so that they may live.' It's a portrait of war's puppet-masters: corrupt poli5cians and profiteers pulling invisible strings. As one analysis notes, the song was inspired by 'the covert wars of the '80s where millions of dollars went to Afghanistan… to fight off the Soviet threat,' highligh5ng that behind every conflict lies money and power. Though some cri5cs felt 'The Dogs of War' was heavy-handed, its fury captured the late-Cold War cynicism about endless militarism. Amid these rock epics, more intimate anti-war statements also emerged. In 1988, alternative rock band REM scored a hit with 'Orange Crush,' a song that on the surface seemed cryptic and upbeat, but in fact referenced the Agent Orange chemical used in Vietnam. Singer Michael Stipe adopted the persona of a young American soldier, and the song's title itself is a dark pun (Agent Orange + Orange Crush soda). 'We are agents of the free,' Stipe sings ambiguously, evoking both patriotic duty and biper irony. Around the same time, thrash metal band Metallica shocked MTV audiences with 'One' (1989), a blistering track inspired by the World War I novel Johnny Got His Gun. In 'One,' Metallica stripped war of any glory: its protagonist is a soldier horrifically wounded – blind, deaf, limbless – trapped in his own mind pleading for death. 'Nothing is real but pain now,' growls singer James HeOield, distilling the horror with gut-punch clarity. The song's music video intercuts the band's performance with black-and-white film scenes of a hospitalized amputee, making it impossible for young listeners to ignore war's human toll. Heavy metal, folk-rock, symphonic art-rock – the genres differed, but the message in the '70s and '80s remained consistent: war leaves permanent scars, and artists will continue to expose those wounds in song. Even after the Cold War, as the 1990s brought a brief lull in superpower conflict, musicians kept the flame of protest burning. Conflicts in far-flung places – the Persian Gulf, the Balkans, Rwanda – and memories of earlier wars all found their way into music. Elton John's somber 1982 ballad 'All Quiet on the Western Front' harked back to World War I, borrowing the 5tle of a famous WWI novel to meditate on the universal sorrow of soldiers' sacrifice. (Elton's frequent lyricist, Bernie Taupin, craqed imagery of trench warfare and fu5le loss that felt eerily relevant in any era.) And though the 1991 Gulf War was brief, it did inspire subtle rebukes – for example, American songwriter John Fogerty (of Creedence Clearwater Revival fame) noted that radio sta5ons started playing his Vietnam-era protest anthem 'Fortunate Son' during the Gulf War, as if an old song from 1969 suddenly spoke to a new genera5on of soldiers in the desert. The con5nuity was clear: the faces and places changed, but war was s5ll war, and music was s5ll there to challenge it. Déjà vu all over again: Protest songs in the 21st century The dawn of the 21st century, unfortunately, brought a déjà vu of conflict – and with it, a fresh wave of an5-war music that oqen echoed the spirit of the 1960s. Aqer the September 11, 2001 apacks, the US embarked on wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. Many in the music world responded by dus5ng off the old protest-song playbook, sometimes quite literally. Veteran folkie Tom Paxton, who had skewered President Johnson in 1965, now sharpened his pen for President George W Bush. Paxton's 'George W Told the Na8on' (2007) is essen5ally his '60s song rewripen for a new war, down to its structure and sardonic tone. 'Hey! George W. told the na8on, 'This is not an escala8on; this is just a surge toward victory. Just to win my lidle war, I'm sending 20,000 more, to help save Iraq from Iraqis,'' he sings, pointedly referencing the Iraq troop 'surge' and Halliburton contracts in one wipy verse. The dark humor cannot mask Paxton's disgust that decades later, a new genera5on was being sent into harm's way under dubious pretenses – the same folk melody now carrying an even wearier message. Likewise, songwriter John Fogerty, who as a young man wrote the Vietnam-era hit 'Fortunate Son,' released 'Déjà Vu (All Over Again)' in 2004 to express his alarm at history seemingly repea5ng. In a plain5ve voice over a melancholy guitar, Fogerty sings of watching events unfold that felt all too familiar: 'Day by day, we count the dead and dying, ship the bodies home while the networks all keep score…' The song explicitly draws parallels between Vietnam and the Iraq War, with Fogerty lamen5ng that 'the war is here again' and wondering how leaders could be making 'the same mistakes again.' He described 'Déjà Vu' not as a par5san statement but as a requiem for the 'sadness [of] human losses' in war– a sen5ment that listeners in 2004, viewing nightly images of soldiers' funerals on TV, could deeply appreciate. The 2000s saw protest music not only from aging '60s veterans but also from younger, angrier voices. Los Angeles-based rock band System of a Down released 'Boom!' in 2003, an outright condemna5on of the Iraq invasion 5med with global an5-war protests. Over thundering drums, singer Serj Tankian raples off damning sta5s5cs: '4,000 hungry children leave us per hour from starva8on, while billions are spent on bombs, crea8ng death showers!'. The blistering track (with a video directed by ac5vist filmmaker Michael Moore) juxtaposed images of massive peace demonstra5ons with images of war, capturing the outrage of millions who marched in early 2003 chan5ng 'No war!' In the hip-hop and reggae-infused realm, Michael Fran7 & Spearhead offered a groovy but pointed cri5que. Fran5's song 'Light Up Ya Lighter' (2006) directly addressed the Iraq conflict from a soldier's and family's perspec5ve, with a chorus pleading to 'bring 'em home.' 'The war for oil is a war for the beast,' Fran5 seethes, 'we can't bomb the world to peace.' In a sly nod to past protests, he even sings the line 'light up your lighter, bring 'em home,' evoking the old slogan and song 5tle from Vietnam days. Similarly, Neil Young – never one to shy away from topical songwri5ng – released an en5re album 5tled 'Living With War' in 2006. Its 5tle track bristles with frustra5on at having to endure a war that felt unnecessary and endless; elsewhere on the album Young gathered a 100-voice choir to sing 'America the Beau8ful' in biper irony, and even penned a scathing anthem calling for the impeachment of the president. The fact that a '60s icon like Young was back on the front lines of musical protest spoke volumes: the spirit of Woodstock was alive and well in the 2000s. Rock music con5nued to channel soldiers' stories, oqen in gut-wrenching ways. Chicago punk band Rise Against released 'Hero of War' in 2008, a ballad-like narra5ve following a young man who enlists out of idealism. The song's acous5c guitar strumming and almost gentle melody contrast with its graphic lyrics: the 'hero' recounts how he was taught to shoot, how he humiliated prisoners, and how he came home decorated but haunted by what he'd done. 'They brought out the flags… and told me I was a hero,' sings Rise Against's Tim McIlrath, 'but I feel alone and sick at heart.' The refrain 'that's what I'll be, and when I come home they'll be damn proud of me' drips with irony as the soldier's disillusionment becomes clear. Much like Ochs's 'I Ain't Marching Anymore' decades prior, 'Hero of War' is a refusal – not before the fight, but aqer it, a rejec5on of the lies that en5ced a genera5on into conflict. On the other end of the stylis5c spectrum, legendary soul-rocker Jackson Browne lent his voice to protest the Iraq War as well. His 2008 song 'The Drums of War' is, as one ar5cle described, a 'poignant reminder of the human cost of war' and a cri5que of leaders' 'lack of accountability. Browne ques5ons the eagerness of poli5cians to send young men and women into baple, highligh5ng the dissonance between loqy poli5cal rhetoric and the harsh reality faced by those on the ground. In concerts, Browne would introduce the song by urging audiences to remain vigilant about why wars are fought and who profits – a call that resonated with those who remembered the unanswered ques5ons of Vietnam. While American and Bri5sh musicians led much of this renewed protest, voices from other corners of the world also joined in. In 2002, the Dixie Chicks (an American country trio) released 'Travelin' Soldier,' a tender ballad set during the Vietnam War about a teenage girl and the young soldier she loves who never returns from overseas. Its release coincided with the ramp up to the Iraq invasion, and in a twist of fate, the Dixie Chicks themselves became part of the war story: aqer they cri5cized President Bush and the war, they faced a furious backlash, and 'Travelin' Soldier' – then a #1 country hit – was pulled from many radio sta5ons. The incident underscored that singing about war's human toll, as the Dixie Chicks did so movingly, can itself be an act of courage in a polarized 5me. It was a reminder that protest music s5ll had the power to provoke, even in the 21st century, and that the baple over war and peace was not only fought with guns and policy but with culture and art. In the 2020s, with new crises unfolding, the legacy of an5-war songs con5nues to evolve. In an extraordinary convergence of past and present, members of Pink Floyd reunited in 2022 to release 'Hey, Hey, Rise Up!' – their first new song in nearly 30 years – in support of Ukraine. The track is built around a 1914 Ukrainian patrio5c anthem ('Oh, the Red Viburnum in the Meadow') sung by Ukrainian vocalist Andriy Khlyvnyuk, whom Pink Floyd sampled from a viral social media video. David Gilmour's guitar soars alongside Khlyvnyuk's impassioned Ukrainian lyrics, which urge the na5on to rise up. Coming full circle from their earlier war-themed works, Pink Floyd dedicated all proceeds to humanitarian relief for Ukrainians, proving that veteran ar5sts s5ll feel compelled to use their music in the cause of peace and freedom. As Gilmour explained, seeing Ukraine's suffering compelled him to act; the resul5ng song introduced a century-old an5-war refrain to a global rock audience, bridging genera5ons and conflicts. Modern musicians also find new ways to reframe the old messages. Some incorporate hip-hop, electronica, or other contemporary styles to reach young listeners. Others revive classics: at protests today you might s5ll hear voices singing 'Give Peace a Chance' or Bob Marley's 'One Love' – the 1977 reggae classic that pleads 'Let's get together and feel all right.' Marley's song, though recorded in a 5me of poli5cal turmoil in Jamaica, has become a universal peace anthem, reminding us that the longing for unity transcends borders. And when tensions rise, John Lennon's 'Imagine' oqen reappears, sung by hopeful crowds or played over solemn gatherings, its vision of a world without war eternally appealing. Each new conflict seems to breathe new life into these old songs even as new anthems are wripen. From folk singers in the 60s to punk rockers and pop stars in the 2020s, ar5sts have served as the conscience of war5me. Their music not only protests policies but also humanizes the abstract headlines. We hear mothers, fathers, and soldiers in their lyrics; we feel anger but also empathy. Protest songs have a unique way of burrowing into the cultural memory – a three minute track can outlast a lengthy speech or report. They become, as one professor observed, part of 'the las5ng narra5ve of who we are and how we see ourselves' during war. When words from poli5cians fail or deceive, a song's truth can cut through. 'What they sing resonates on such a different level… more genuine, intense, meaningful than the words spoken in the poli7cal realm,' notes cultural scholar George Plasketes. Indeed, a simple lyric like 'War is not the answer' may lodge in the heart more firmly than any white paper or news brief. In the end, the enduring power of an5-war songs lies in their ability to mix protest with poetry, to turn outrage into art. They provide not only a rallying cry but also a refuge – a place to channel grief and hope. A Vietnam veteran once described how hearing 'Where Have All the Flowers Gone?' made him break down in tears, the song helping him mourn fallen friends. Decades later, a new recruit might blast Rise Against or Metallica in headphones and feel a similar catharsis or kinship. The styles change, but the longing is the same: to make sense of war's chaos, to find humanity amid violence, to declare that life mapers more than geopoli5cs. As long as bombs fall and guns fire, there will be singers and songwriters responding with strums, beats, and rhymes, insis5ng that we not forget the human cost. 'When will we ever learn?' Pete Seeger's refrain echoes on, unanswered – but the very asking of it in song keeps the dream of peace alive. From Hendrix's feedback at Woodstock to a viral Ukrainian chorus today, the music of protest persists, pressing us to imagine, and strive for, a world finally living in harmony. Facebook Twitter Linkedin Email Disclaimer Views expressed above are the author's own.
New European
22-04-2025
- Entertainment
- New European
The flowering of Anselm Kiefer
Now, more than 60 years on, two exhibitions in Amsterdam and one in Oxford are showing the work of Anselm Kiefer, covering his early, mature and most recent output. Arguably the most significant living artist, Kiefer's work is constantly arresting and alarming, while often consoling and unashamedly beautiful. Kiefer calls history an artist's material, 'just as clay is to a sculptor and paint is to a painter'. At 18, a serious-minded young German from Donaueschingen, a town in the Black Forest near the Swiss border, set out across France, Belgium and the Netherlands. He had been born in 1945, the year those lands were beginning to emerge from the nightmare of Nazi occupation. The first recipient of a new travel scholarship for young artists, the young Anselm Kiefer may have travelled light, but he carried with him what he would often refer to in later life as the weight of history. The Amsterdam exhibitions take their title from the 1956 song by Pete Seeger, Where Have All the Flowers Gone? The written text – 'Where have all the soldiers gone?'; 'Where have all the graves gone?' – sprawls across the works that surround the top of the great staircase in the Stedelijk Museum. The five floor-to-ceiling pieces that tower over the visitor are on a monumental scale, typical of Kiefer's latest and greatest works. Images from Sag mir wo die Blumen sind at the Stedelijk Museum and Van Gogh Museum Images from Sag mir wo die Blumen sind at the Stedelijk Museum and Van Gogh Museum Images from Sag mir wo die Blumen sind at the Stedelijk Museum and Van Gogh Museum Technically these are canvases, thick with verdigris paint and made sculptural with applied objects, stuck to the canvases like giant collages. Ranks of spattered, degraded uniforms hang from rusting hangers, and some of them would only fit a child. Rein Wolfs, director of the Stedelijk, introduced the artist and his work, with its 'weight of the past and uncertainties of the future', two days before Kiefer's 80th birthday. 'When the world order seems to be unstable it's important to think about other unstable world orders,' said Wolfs. 'It's important to use history to explain what's happening today.' What's happening today wasn't happening when the exhibitions were in the making – not all of it, anyway. But Kiefer's practice is rooted in the trauma of a childhood in postwar Germany. The burden of his father, in particular – an officer in the Wehrmacht – was always present in his art. Threat, decay and destruction burn from the vast canvases, but glowing in the embers is always the promise of regeneration. The young Kiefer's European journey followed in the footsteps of Vincent van Gogh. There are obvious synergies between the two artists, notably in the paradox of the sunflower: at its most glorious and spectacular the sun-seeking flower head is on the point of corruption and collapse. Kiefer depicts the sunflowers in paint and has also stuck withered flowers to the canvases. Dull, dark seeds will fall to the ground from bowed and blackened heads – but each enfolds a drop of precious oil, and carries the promise of a new crop of breathtaking beauty, mobile, radiant and strong. The flowers of the joint exhibitions' title, however, are interpreted by the artist as roses. Pink and crimson petals are scattered on the floor around the Stedelijk installation, some with just the ghost of a fragrance, but all drained of their former voluptuousness, as they crackle under the feet of heedless gallery-goers. Curators are realistic about human nature. Petals will disappear in pockets and bags, to be replaced by patient gallery staff. Everyone wants a piece of Anselm Kiefer. 'Only these are not Anselm Kiefer,' says Wolfs. After his youthful Van Gogh pilgrimage, Kiefer confronted his country's – and his own family's – past by posing in his father's old uniform, giving the same stiff-armed salute that has become newly and distastefully fashionable among certain ultra right wing Americans. Some of the resulting images can be seen in a third Kiefer exhibition, at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford. These acts of contrition – atoning for the sins of the fathers – seem to liberate Kiefer, not from his share of Germany's collective memory, but from its negative force. From now on, his images will defer to nature's positive energy. 'My personal history did not start in the Third Reich,' he says, 'it stretches back much further… I don't view history in a linear way: it repeats itself and we find the same structures and patterns in other cultures, too, such as the Incas. History seems to me instead to be something that widens the further back we go.' Like his sunflowers, in Kiefer's early work lie the seeds of what is to come over the ensuing six decades. Certain leitmotifs will recur over and over. Meanwhile the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam juxtaposes Kiefer's works with those of their own man, and this emphasises the fact that Kiefer seldom strays far from landscape in its broadest sense. Drawings of rural scenes that date from the 18-year-old's expedition demonstrate that, notwithstanding the sheer scale and abundance of his later works, in some ways he is a landscape artist at heart. For decades, in works that are loaded with meaning and symbolism, the sky is always up there, the land down there, and the natural order goes undisturbed and unimproved upon. In 1992, having worked for 20 years in Odenwald, latterly in a former brickworks, Kiefer left Germany and set up a colossal new studio in a disused silk factory in Barjac, Provence. Here he creates installations on an industrial scale, but also cultivates sunflowers using seed brought back from Japan during two years of extensive travels across Asia – during which, he says, he did no painting. The experience also led to a rethink: 'I needed a change for my work, and it is easier to change if you go away,' he told Das Kunstmagazin in 2001. 'The horizon has disappeared and the materials are clearer.' Kiefer has no time for abstract art, he writes in the catalogue for the Amsterdam shows. 'I find completely abstract art, for example by Wassily Kandinsky, boring and vacuous. I prefer abstract art that retains a hint of representation, like those paintings by Kandinsky in which the transition to abstraction is still discernible, where the struggle is still visible.' There is no doubt that the later artist appreciates a good struggle, especially if it is natural forces that are at work. In Hemlock Cup (2019), the life has been bleached out of fertile land by the toxic plant that gives German its own version of 'poisoned chalice' – Schierlingsbecher or beaker of hemlock. Farmland under attack is a common motif. The birds that wheel over Die Krähen (The Crows, 2024) resemble a squadron of fighter jets, their outstretched talons like landing gear. You settle into the luxurious gold leaf in the skyline of Under the Lime Tree on the Heath (2019) before noticing a sticky red patch, like a telltale bloodstain at a crime scene. Sometimes the land gets its own back. Also in 2019, the greedy farmer in The Last Load, based, says Kiefer, on a folk tale, collapses under the weight of the grain, having wrested too much from the earth. Kiefer's connection to Van Gogh stretches from the soil to the sky. His O Stalks of the Night, with its reference to a Paul Celan poem and its satellites of gold and indigo, echoes Van Gogh's starry nights. Kiefer's own Starry Night is another undisguised tribute, with constellations of gilded straw and moons of chaff in a sky of aquamarine. But rarely in this natural world is there a recognisable being. A rare exception is the snake that winds through the fuselage of a small jet plane, a creature that can shed one skin and start a new life, while man is represented solely by the memoir of an adventurer. Lead has become a powerfully suggestive material for Kiefer. Having already discovered its potential and alchemic symbolism, he bought lead sheets discarded during the restoration of Cologne Cathedral. Journey to the End of the Night was first shown in 1990 and continues to make a stomach-turning impact, occupying an entire room. Its title is that of a controversial novel by Louis-Ferdinand Céline, who held antisemitic and fascist views. The sense of a crash landing and the absence of humanity make this a chilling object. Unlike the natural world, it has no built-in regeneration. For that, the viewer looks to the fields and skies recreated on the walls. When Kiefer asks the question, 'Where have all the flowers gone?', he answers it himself, in his art. The flowers are destroyed, like so much life, by warfare. And although we have learned that, we have not learned to keep the peace. Anselm Kiefer – Sag mir wo die Blumen sind is at the Van Gogh Museum and Stedelijk Museum, Amsterdam, until June 9. Versions of the exhibitions are at the Royal Academy of Arts, London, June 28 to October 26 and at White Cube, Mason's Yard, London, June 25 to August 16. Anselm Kiefer – Early Works is at the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford until June 15
South China Morning Post
11-03-2025
- Entertainment
- South China Morning Post
Unique takes on Van Gogh's Starry Night, Sunflowers by German artist on show in Amsterdam
When he was just 17 years old, German artist Anselm Kiefer retraced the footsteps of Vincent van Gogh from the Netherlands through Belgium and into France. Advertisement Now, more than half a century later, the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam is joining forces for the first time with the neighbouring Stedelijk modern and contemporary art museum to stage a blockbuster exhibition of Kiefer's work, titled 'Sag mir wo die Blumen sind', a reference to folk singer Pete Seeger's iconic pacifist anthem 'Where Have All the Flowers Gone?' Kiefer said he did not set out to make an exclusively anti-war exhibition, even though he closely follows world events, including the conflict triggered by Russia's invasion of Ukraine. 'I don't say, 'I do now an exhibition against the war.' This I don't do because this is a programme; I'm not a programmatic artist,' he said. 'I do what is in me, what has to come out. And that is about all kinds of things, about the dead, about the war.' Anselm Kiefer talks during a press preview of an exhibition of his works at the Van Gogh Museum and Stedelijk Museum in Amsterdam, Netherlands on March 5, 2025. Photo: AP Kiefer's sometimes bleak work, which is rooted in his growing up in post-World War II Germany, might not immediately feel related to Van Gogh's vibrant and richly coloured landscapes and vases of sunflowers.
New York Times
07-03-2025
- Entertainment
- New York Times
Anselm Kiefer Wonders if We'll Ever Learn
Anselm Kiefer's new installation seems to envelop the grand staircase of the Stedelijk Museum Amsterdam. Paintings reach from floor to ceiling in colors of oxidized copper and gold leaf. Army uniforms stiffened with splattered paint hang at eye level. Dried flower petals tumble down the canvases onto the floor. A self-portrait of Kiefer as a young man lies at the base of one panel, with a tree growing out of his chest. This installation is the title work of Kiefer's monumental solo exhibition, which comprises about 25 paintings, 13 drawings and three films by Kiefer, from 1973 to the present, in addition to eight van Gogh works. 'Sag mir wo die Blumen sind,' or 'Where Have All the Flowers Gone?,' sprawls across two of Amsterdam's largest modern art museums, the Van Gogh Museum and the Stedelijk. The show, which opens on Friday — the day after Kiefer's 80th birthday — and runs through June 9, is the result of ambitious collaboration between the adjacent institutions in the heart of the city. Mounting the exhibit at two museums made sense on a sheer physical level, too, because of the size of Kiefer's vision: Nearly every work takes up a wall or a room. What links the two parts of this 'diptych,' as the curator Edwin Becker calls the dual exhibition, is Kiefer's antiwar sentiment, which is expressed in subtle and overt ways. The title and the new piece at the center of the Stedelijk refer to the 1955 protest anthem 'Where Have All the Flowers Gone?,' a folk song by Pete Seeger (although Kiefer uses the lyrics from the German version popularized by Marlene Dietrich in the early 1960s). 'The most important sentence in this song is 'When will we ever learn,'' Kiefer said in an interview. 'The rest of the song is a little bit kitschy, but this is a deeper thing. We don't know why things repeat all the time. We have a situation now like in 1933 in Germany, it's horrible.' Kiefer, born in Donaueschingen, Germany at the tail end of World War II, has long grappled with the legacy of fascism, political violence and cultural memory. 'War has been a running theme throughout his whole body of work,' said Leontine Coelewij, a curator of the exhibition and a curator of contemporary art at the Stedelijk. 'Already his first works had to deal with the Second World War, but since then it has taken many different forms.' In 1969, when Kiefer was a 24-year-old art student, he traveled across Europe to make a performance piece, 'Occupations,' posing at historic sites. He dressed in hippie gowns and business suits and held his arm out in a Nazi salute. 'Heroic Symbols,' his resulting photo series, 'was really a provocation to the people in Germany who did not want to talk about the war,' Coelewij said. As a young artist, when such subjects were still taboo in Germany, Kiefer felt exiled from his home country, in terms of his artwork. He found an audience at the Stedelijk, which also acquired his work from the 1980s. The first work in the current show is his 1981 painting 'Innerraum' (Interior), a view of the skylit chamber of the Reich Chancellery in Berlin, the decaying empty room where Adolf Hitler once met with his members of his military to map out his destruction and seizure of Europe. Kiefer's works 'are very much about politics, but maybe not specific politics,' Coelewij said. She added, 'We can all think of situations in the world where we can see the absurdity of war, and ask: Why does it still happen?' The current exhibition didn't originate as an antiwar show; it was conceived by Emilie Gordenker shortly after she became director of the Van Gogh Museum in 2020. The previous year, Kiefer had given a lecture at Tate Britain museum in London about his relationship with van Gogh, and then made a series of huge landscape paintings inspired by van Gogh's work. Kiefer said that van Gogh has been an influence since he was about 13 years old. In 1963, at age 18, he received a travel fellowship to follow in the footsteps of van Gogh throughout Europe. He began in van Gogh's birthplace, Zundert, in the Netherlands, traveled through Belgium and Paris, and finally hitchhiked to the South of France. He stayed for a few months in Fourques, near Arles, where van Gogh painted his most renowned works, like his 'Sunflowers' series. 'He worked very hard, because he had no talent, you know,' Kiefer said. 'The last two years he did all for what he's now famous. That's because he didn't stop. He kept painting and painting.' The Van Gogh Museum's part of the Kiefer exhibition juxtaposes Kiefer's huge landscape paintings, some almost 30 feet across, including 'Die Krähen (The Crows),' from 2019, and 'De sterrennacht' (The Starry Night), from 2024 — lashed through with stalks of hay — with van Gogh paintings. Van Gogh's 'Wheat Field With Crows,' (1890) and his 'Sunflowers Gone to Seed' (1890) hang across the room, showing the undeniable influence, though they appear minuscule by comparison. Kiefer's landscapes, too, 'are burdened by history,' said Becker, the head of exhibitions at the Van Gogh Museum. His layers of paint, a mudlike impasto, oil and acrylic paints mixed with raw materials like soil, iron, straw and dead leaves, form deep furrows on the canvas. These landscapes, with van Gogh's high horizon lines, all seem to be ruins, shot through with blood and shrapnel. Kiefer said that his work isn't meant to depict politics or any specific world event. But he stays abreast of current events, and said that recently he has felt a physical sense of threat by the rise of right-wing authoritarian leadership, both in Germany and in the United States. 'What happens now there is for me a kind of parallel,' he said. As he turns 80, Kiefer doesn't seem to be slowing down or holding back. 'When I paint, I don't paint with my head, it's with my body,' he said. He added that he knows so much about war 'that it's logical that it comes through. It's me, my body, that brings it onto the canvas. It's not intended to warn people, but I do hope it's a warning.'
