ADOLF BORN
Dear friends,
Adolf Born, who is celebrating a jubilee in these days, belongs - just like Raphael – to exceptional personalities that shined in their very youth. Already in 1961, when he together with Vladimír Tesař and Josef Paleček arrived in Paris for the first time, he attracted attention. As Jaime Sabartés noted in his diary, a nervous Picasso called Braque a day after Born‘s arrival, saying ‚ ‘Georges, we surely have been waiting for this one!‘
Adolf Born did not come to Paris to exhibit. He just was there. He stirred the level of the local social life merely by his appearance. We see that although he is not a landscape artist, the exterior plays a very important role for him. Let us ponder on this for a while.
In the Master's popular book, "Born’s Life of Animals" we can find this incisive observation: exotic animals only look exotic here. They seem quite ordinary in far away countries.
If we take a look at Adolf Born (look at him, please), we can see that looks exotic. But there is more to that! He looks exotic both in distant corners and here. Even in his own bathroom. I saw him once in front of a mirror and I had an uplifting feeling that I was witnessing a conversation between Albert Schweitzer and Wilhelm II.
While Adolf Born may look exotic, his hobbies feel almost eccentric. The common man loves thrillers, beer and pretty girls. Adolf Born loves Turks. He likes Turkish detective stories, Turkish beer and Turkish girls. He devotedly and unconditionally loves Turkish coffee and Turkish economy and of all Prague statues, he loves that of a Turk standing on Charles Bridge best.
Simple people like us collect stamps, old coins or graphic art. Not Adolf Born. He collects hats. Cloakroom attendants across Europe keep an eye him. Born also collects chefs‘ caps, fire-fighter helmets and bishops‘ mitres. He owns the nightcap of Franz Joseph, the hood of the executioner Jan Mydlář and the bowler hat of the Kriminalrat Vacátko. In Sicily, he stole fifteen black hats in the headquarters of Cosa Nostra. He has been on the run since then, wearing a moustache.
Having been asked by a Dutch journalist when his collection would be complete, Adolf Born pondered and then said: "When all hats are mine." But then, he should not be surprised that one town refuses to let him through its gates – Valašské Klobouky.
When a person in the know hears about someone who loves the Turks, collects hats, and on top of that paints Saint Bernards smoking pipes and elephants who instead of long trunks have legs as long as those of the President of the Wallachian Republic, it will naturally raise their curiosity. And indeed - the public interest in Adolf Born is huge. The audience look at his works in exhibitions; watch the Master on television, and wish to have one of his works in their homes. Enthusiasts overwhelmingly recruit from the ranks of respectable citizens, who gather strength from Born’s art and let themselves be elevated above the clouds of everyday reality.
Unfortunately, there are also individuals on whom Born’s art has negative impact. Such was the well-known case of an official of the Prague City Council, who chewed Vltava River gingerbread and claimed that after seeing one of Born‘s lithographies, he lost his orientation in life. This case, which was also well-publicized abroad, traumatized a world-class celebrity. It was Salvador Dali, who a week later withdrew from public life. His paranoia that he never achieved anything like it with his own works, was even deepened by a letter from his wife Gala, ending with (quote) "No matter how you try, Salvatore, Adolf Born will overwhelm you whenever he feels like it."
I know people who will draw a parallel between Adolf Born and Salvador Dali, claiming that they are both great artists, but also big fools. But it is interesting that they are exactly the same people who exhibit an almost hysterical interest in the works of both masters. This paradox reminds me of an anecdote from a Woody Allen film which you are probably familiar with. Let me just remind you: a man comes to a psychiatrist and says: ‚Doctor, my brother has gone mad. He claims he is a hen and lays eggs.‘ ‚Why don’t you put him into an asylum?‘ advises the psychiatrist. ‘Well, why not? I could do that,‘ says the guy, ‚but I find those eggs very useful‘.
And that is exactly the case. People will agree that Bosch, Arcimboldo, Niki de St. Phalle, Topor or Mikulka may not be quite normal, but they need their works in one way or another. And they will buy them.
This is particularly evident in the case of Adolf Born. His lithograph titled An Antiquated Magician’s Trip is hopelessly sold out. It was bought mostly by fans of Valtr Komárek. The Security and Information Service purchased three hundred copies of his lithography The Secrets of Paris. Also his lithograph titled The Courtship of a Harrachov Gamekeeper also sold very well. It was mostly bought it hares.
When we say that Born’s works go like hot cakes, we touch upon another paradox. How to explain the fact that people living in a world that is becoming more and more realistic enthusiastically buy Born‘s works, which are over time becoming increasingly less realistic?
And a third paradox: How to explain the fact that Born's complicated and often mysterious works, populated with unicorns in slipper slippers, walking fish and skating mice, are easily understood by schoolchildren?
There are simply too many questions. It was therefore commendable that the Vienna-based Freud Institute decided to tackle these problems last spring, subjecting the Master’s work to a complicated, but successful analysis. The result is a series of articles published in the journal "Psychiatrische Blätter".
And so, for instance, the paper by MUDr. Max Winter clarified a number of themes appearing in the Master's work, for example, the often-appearing figure of the Pied Piper. Winter succeeded to identify him as the writer František Nepil, who takes his listeners wherever he wants with his stories.
A paper by associate professor Helmut Hübel collects surprising evidence of the fact that Born‘s works are not based on wilfulness and arbitrariness of a mad dreamer, but it is firmly rooted in reality and mainly reflects experiences from the Master‘s childhood.
For example, he found that Born‘s seemingly inexplicable love for anything Turkish stems from the trauma suffered by the good and diligent boy who was consistently denied Turkish delight.
The associate professor‘s research has revealed that the Master collector's passion came to life when he was a schoolboy. Someone in the class had stolen his beret from a rack, leaving an old top hat instead, which was far too big for the boy. The poor schoolboy, who was forced to wear the top hat until Christmas, became more careful about his belongings and was overwhelmed by a huge wave of indignation against the unjust world.
It was then that he started stealing caps and hats from people, and soon he had boxcars full of them. This also explains the fact that South Bohemians went bareheaded before the war. Born‘s punitive obsession was then reflected in his work of art, which can be evidenced by all those Saint Bernards in bowler hats, crows in straw hats, cats in turbans and owls in bizarre ladies‘ hats, muskrat in caps and mouse in tricorn hats, parrots at night caps and bats in top hats.
And so, as associate professor Hübel concludes, a remarkable transformation was concluded when an ancient wrong was turned into a magnificent gift. Yes, my dear readers. On one hand, Adolf Born steals hats from us, but on the other hand he returns them to us multiple times, transformed into miraculous works of art.
The extensive research of the Freud Institute has finally shown that Born's work has many layers and that it extends even into the realm of parapsychology, i. e. an area dealing with barely understandable phenomena.
Professor Franz Hrdicka investigated this facet of Born’s work. He presents us with an inexplicable case of the spiritualist Inge Kraus, a widow who hosted séances in Vienna's 4th district. After those present joined hands and the light went out, Mrs. Kraus made an attempt to connect with her husband. Instead, a deer on skis appeared in the room, a motive known from one of Born‘s lithographies. A hefty Doberman wearing a bowler hat was sitting on its back. When asked by Mrs. Kraus about his wishes, he instructed those present not to trust the I. V. Palex investment fund. The phantom then disappeared.
The most important event for us, however, is the one that took place in Salzburg last year. Mrs. Helga Schlegel suffocated while trying to swallow a far too huge McDonald’s sandwich and fell into a state of clinical death. After flying through the well-known tunnel, she found herself in a landscape featuring half a dozen centaurs in top hats running around and cats dancing the cancan. She was welcomed by a big snail with a beard, who presented her with a bouquet made up of chattering swallows. She was then picked up by two birds in bathing suits, who took her over a clearing on which a Saint Bernard was playing the harmonica. When the doctors brought Mrs. Schlegel back to life, she said she had not experienced anything more beautiful before. Being familiar with Born’s work, she knew exactly where she had spent those twelve minutes.
This last case, with which I will finish my treatise, illustrates the brilliant intuition of Miroslav Horníček, who wrote: "If I knew that paradise would be created by the design of Adolf Born, I would do my best to be a good man in order to get there. The conclusions of the Viennese professor and especially the case of Mrs. Schlegel suggest that Miroslav Horníček was not far from the truth in his hyperbole and that we all, as we are standing and sitting here, may meet in Born’s paradise one day.
Miloš Macourek,
June 5, 1995
Adolf Born, who is celebrating a jubilee in these days, belongs - just like Raphael – to exceptional personalities that shined in their very youth. Already in 1961, when he together with Vladimír Tesař and Josef Paleček arrived in Paris for the first time, he attracted attention. As Jaime Sabartés noted in his diary, a nervous Picasso called Braque a day after Born‘s arrival, saying ‚ ‘Georges, we surely have been waiting for this one!‘
Adolf Born did not come to Paris to exhibit. He just was there. He stirred the level of the local social life merely by his appearance. We see that although he is not a landscape artist, the exterior plays a very important role for him. Let us ponder on this for a while.
In the Master's popular book, "Born’s Life of Animals" we can find this incisive observation: exotic animals only look exotic here. They seem quite ordinary in far away countries.
If we take a look at Adolf Born (look at him, please), we can see that looks exotic. But there is more to that! He looks exotic both in distant corners and here. Even in his own bathroom. I saw him once in front of a mirror and I had an uplifting feeling that I was witnessing a conversation between Albert Schweitzer and Wilhelm II.
While Adolf Born may look exotic, his hobbies feel almost eccentric. The common man loves thrillers, beer and pretty girls. Adolf Born loves Turks. He likes Turkish detective stories, Turkish beer and Turkish girls. He devotedly and unconditionally loves Turkish coffee and Turkish economy and of all Prague statues, he loves that of a Turk standing on Charles Bridge best.
Simple people like us collect stamps, old coins or graphic art. Not Adolf Born. He collects hats. Cloakroom attendants across Europe keep an eye him. Born also collects chefs‘ caps, fire-fighter helmets and bishops‘ mitres. He owns the nightcap of Franz Joseph, the hood of the executioner Jan Mydlář and the bowler hat of the Kriminalrat Vacátko. In Sicily, he stole fifteen black hats in the headquarters of Cosa Nostra. He has been on the run since then, wearing a moustache.
Having been asked by a Dutch journalist when his collection would be complete, Adolf Born pondered and then said: "When all hats are mine." But then, he should not be surprised that one town refuses to let him through its gates – Valašské Klobouky.
When a person in the know hears about someone who loves the Turks, collects hats, and on top of that paints Saint Bernards smoking pipes and elephants who instead of long trunks have legs as long as those of the President of the Wallachian Republic, it will naturally raise their curiosity. And indeed - the public interest in Adolf Born is huge. The audience look at his works in exhibitions; watch the Master on television, and wish to have one of his works in their homes. Enthusiasts overwhelmingly recruit from the ranks of respectable citizens, who gather strength from Born’s art and let themselves be elevated above the clouds of everyday reality.
Unfortunately, there are also individuals on whom Born’s art has negative impact. Such was the well-known case of an official of the Prague City Council, who chewed Vltava River gingerbread and claimed that after seeing one of Born‘s lithographies, he lost his orientation in life. This case, which was also well-publicized abroad, traumatized a world-class celebrity. It was Salvador Dali, who a week later withdrew from public life. His paranoia that he never achieved anything like it with his own works, was even deepened by a letter from his wife Gala, ending with (quote) "No matter how you try, Salvatore, Adolf Born will overwhelm you whenever he feels like it."
I know people who will draw a parallel between Adolf Born and Salvador Dali, claiming that they are both great artists, but also big fools. But it is interesting that they are exactly the same people who exhibit an almost hysterical interest in the works of both masters. This paradox reminds me of an anecdote from a Woody Allen film which you are probably familiar with. Let me just remind you: a man comes to a psychiatrist and says: ‚Doctor, my brother has gone mad. He claims he is a hen and lays eggs.‘ ‚Why don’t you put him into an asylum?‘ advises the psychiatrist. ‘Well, why not? I could do that,‘ says the guy, ‚but I find those eggs very useful‘.
And that is exactly the case. People will agree that Bosch, Arcimboldo, Niki de St. Phalle, Topor or Mikulka may not be quite normal, but they need their works in one way or another. And they will buy them.
This is particularly evident in the case of Adolf Born. His lithograph titled An Antiquated Magician’s Trip is hopelessly sold out. It was bought mostly by fans of Valtr Komárek. The Security and Information Service purchased three hundred copies of his lithography The Secrets of Paris. Also his lithograph titled The Courtship of a Harrachov Gamekeeper also sold very well. It was mostly bought it hares.
When we say that Born’s works go like hot cakes, we touch upon another paradox. How to explain the fact that people living in a world that is becoming more and more realistic enthusiastically buy Born‘s works, which are over time becoming increasingly less realistic?
And a third paradox: How to explain the fact that Born's complicated and often mysterious works, populated with unicorns in slipper slippers, walking fish and skating mice, are easily understood by schoolchildren?
There are simply too many questions. It was therefore commendable that the Vienna-based Freud Institute decided to tackle these problems last spring, subjecting the Master’s work to a complicated, but successful analysis. The result is a series of articles published in the journal "Psychiatrische Blätter".
And so, for instance, the paper by MUDr. Max Winter clarified a number of themes appearing in the Master's work, for example, the often-appearing figure of the Pied Piper. Winter succeeded to identify him as the writer František Nepil, who takes his listeners wherever he wants with his stories.
A paper by associate professor Helmut Hübel collects surprising evidence of the fact that Born‘s works are not based on wilfulness and arbitrariness of a mad dreamer, but it is firmly rooted in reality and mainly reflects experiences from the Master‘s childhood.
For example, he found that Born‘s seemingly inexplicable love for anything Turkish stems from the trauma suffered by the good and diligent boy who was consistently denied Turkish delight.
The associate professor‘s research has revealed that the Master collector's passion came to life when he was a schoolboy. Someone in the class had stolen his beret from a rack, leaving an old top hat instead, which was far too big for the boy. The poor schoolboy, who was forced to wear the top hat until Christmas, became more careful about his belongings and was overwhelmed by a huge wave of indignation against the unjust world.
It was then that he started stealing caps and hats from people, and soon he had boxcars full of them. This also explains the fact that South Bohemians went bareheaded before the war. Born‘s punitive obsession was then reflected in his work of art, which can be evidenced by all those Saint Bernards in bowler hats, crows in straw hats, cats in turbans and owls in bizarre ladies‘ hats, muskrat in caps and mouse in tricorn hats, parrots at night caps and bats in top hats.
And so, as associate professor Hübel concludes, a remarkable transformation was concluded when an ancient wrong was turned into a magnificent gift. Yes, my dear readers. On one hand, Adolf Born steals hats from us, but on the other hand he returns them to us multiple times, transformed into miraculous works of art.
The extensive research of the Freud Institute has finally shown that Born's work has many layers and that it extends even into the realm of parapsychology, i. e. an area dealing with barely understandable phenomena.
Professor Franz Hrdicka investigated this facet of Born’s work. He presents us with an inexplicable case of the spiritualist Inge Kraus, a widow who hosted séances in Vienna's 4th district. After those present joined hands and the light went out, Mrs. Kraus made an attempt to connect with her husband. Instead, a deer on skis appeared in the room, a motive known from one of Born‘s lithographies. A hefty Doberman wearing a bowler hat was sitting on its back. When asked by Mrs. Kraus about his wishes, he instructed those present not to trust the I. V. Palex investment fund. The phantom then disappeared.
The most important event for us, however, is the one that took place in Salzburg last year. Mrs. Helga Schlegel suffocated while trying to swallow a far too huge McDonald’s sandwich and fell into a state of clinical death. After flying through the well-known tunnel, she found herself in a landscape featuring half a dozen centaurs in top hats running around and cats dancing the cancan. She was welcomed by a big snail with a beard, who presented her with a bouquet made up of chattering swallows. She was then picked up by two birds in bathing suits, who took her over a clearing on which a Saint Bernard was playing the harmonica. When the doctors brought Mrs. Schlegel back to life, she said she had not experienced anything more beautiful before. Being familiar with Born’s work, she knew exactly where she had spent those twelve minutes.
This last case, with which I will finish my treatise, illustrates the brilliant intuition of Miroslav Horníček, who wrote: "If I knew that paradise would be created by the design of Adolf Born, I would do my best to be a good man in order to get there. The conclusions of the Viennese professor and especially the case of Mrs. Schlegel suggest that Miroslav Horníček was not far from the truth in his hyperbole and that we all, as we are standing and sitting here, may meet in Born’s paradise one day.
Miloš Macourek,
June 5, 1995
