#tausendkünstler

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Red Line - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Jinx narrates Ekko's life story.

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

tw: death, police brutality, violence, sickness.

Snippet:

To make a short story long:

One night, many moons ago (twenty years to be precise), the Fissures were hit by what is known as Die Pest—not a mass extermination of rodents, but a deadly contagion known as the Ash Plague. It turned thousands of residents into hacking, howling, hole-riddled wraiths who had little choice but to be quarantined at great expense inside the Skylight Commercia's glass dome, under the Council's decree.

All access to the Bridge was restricted: Fissurefolk were barricaded from crossing over to Topside's salubrious climes, where well-heeled, well-met folks went about their business on the immaculately paved streets while a slow poison whittled down their sunless neighbors, leaving nothing behind but bones.

Two of the soon-to-be-damned were a couple with a young boy, barely a year old. They weren't wedded, this being the Fissures and nobody giving a rat's flea-bitten behind; the only ones in town who kept up the tradition were undertakers and tax collectors, both being in the business of last rites, though one was more lucrative than the other (and a damn sight more sanitary).

Point being: the couple were spared the penance but not the plague. Within weeks of its landfall in the Fissures, it spread through the community like wildfire. The woman died first; her man and baby boy both watched her heave her insides out until all she had left were tears and teeth, and not even a mouthful of either by the time she'd kicked the bucket.

It broke the man hard, her passing. She took everything but his breath.

Then the baby came down with the same fever, and threatened to leave him with nothing.

They say that when a person loses their heart, they have a bottomless hole in its stead. One that can be filled by whatever a heart can hold. This man didn't lose his heart; instead what died in him was cowardice, or maybe common sense.

So he fortified himself on zinfandel, swaddled the baby inside a cloth, and decided to do the impossible.

He slipped out of his family's hovel at sundown. Then he crept into the ginnel—that's a backalley, for the uninitiated—just beyond their stoop to check whether there was any blackshirts lurking. No one save for the Night Watch making their rounds, and he had two blocks on those blokes.

The man snatched up some ash, which was scattered across the streets in the remnants of that frosty Fissure evening. He rubbed it into his skin until his dark flesh held the same pallor as the ill.

Then down he went: as quietly as a rat stalking a scrap. He and his late lady-love were Tausendkünstlers. That's the local nickname for a jack-of-all-trades. In more esoteric circles, it has another meaning. The closest translation is "conjurer," but the wordplay is often lost on folks who don't have an ear for language.

Or a taste for magic.

This man and his partner had spent much of their lives defrauding people blind to the truth that, well, there ain't no such thing as magic. Only the odd miracle, and only if you've got enough coinage to make it happen. The rest's a matter of timing. Luck.

And for the truly savvy: trickery.

Which bought us to this fellow slinking through the shadows: dodging street lamps and dripping lines of laundry alike. To get out of quarantine, he'd need to conjure a few miracles.

And use up the rest of his luck.

So this man sprinted through the streets with his squalling babe against his chest, until he hit the jackpot. In a courtyard by the Black Lanes, there stood a vehicle.  It was a rudimentary motorcar, just the wheels and chassis really. The man had been fixing up the innards before his lady-love got sick.

Still, it was good enough to pass a cursory inspection at the Bridgeside, given the sheer volume of vehicles carting supplies upriver each day.

Our fellow had neither papers, nor permits. Not to mention a suspicious lack of supply boxes loaded into his trunk. He just had his hands on the wheel and something foreign banging around in his ribcage.

Maybe that was bravery? Or, as mentioned, magic?

Maybe it was love?

Whatever you call it, the man was in full grip of this feeling. He gunned the engine, and began a laborious ascent up the roughshod streets toward the Bridge. In the passenger seat, the baby wept in fitful bursts, while the man dabbed at his feverish little face with a cloth which, coincidentally, was all that remained of his lady-love's favourite dress.

That dress tells the story of how they met in three distinct panels:

The first panel: Him and a group of ruffians, headed by two epically hard-headed rascals known as Vander and Silco, taking a joyride in his motorcar—cobbled together from a hijacked Enforcer's paddywagon—when they knocked a woman off the sidewalk and ass-backwards into the muck.

They rush out in a panic—him the first to reach her—to find a charming pair of stockinged legs sticking out of a well-stitched woolen skirt, and an even longer seam of swear words flying out of a prettily-plump mouth.

The second panel: A slightly less raucous encounter, and the man apologizing profusely over a pint of ale to this fetching, foul-mouthed lady for his recklessness. Her face is a frigid moue; she's plainly not interested. At least, until they go outside and she sees him fiddling with the motorcar engine. A spark comes alive in her eyes: she's a tinkerer herself. But her passion lies in mechanized textiles—fashionable clothing made from "sensible cloth," a cotton-steel blend that's both stylish and stab-resistant.

She smiles. He chuckles.

Their eyes meet, and on this newfound common ground, a sweeter bargain is struck.

The last panel: they sit, side-by-side, in the musty dimness of Benzo's shop—in the backroom, where the real business is done without a single signature crossing the dotted line—working on a dress. It's got a special pattern of steel-meshed weave.  Stab-resistant, as mentioned prior. Also great at keeping shrapnel shards at bay. Better safe than sorry, especially now that she's running with Vander, Silco and his crazy lot, too.

Running with this man in particular, who wants only the best for her, even if that's not always possible to deliver. His love language isn't words; it's the hard work and honest sweat as he works with her on the dress, stitch after loving stitch, even though it leaves his fingertips sore.

It's worth it to see the way her tongue curls prettily between her teeth as she concentrates on aligning the seams. At the warmth of her arm, a smooth line against his own, and how he imagines the fabric unfurling between them, so he can see their shared future, sewn right in the steel flux: a chance encounter woven into courting danger and courting bliss in equal parts.

When the dress is finished, she throws her arms around him and laughs. His fingers ache, but his heart's fit to bursting.

Then she kisses him, and he thinks: 

 Boom.

Because a boom's always the best start to a love story.

That dress would take all kinds of hits during their days together—burns, bloodstains, the occasional stray bullet from fleeing the Enforcers storming Vander and Silco's underground rallies. Not the ideal lifestyle—nor a choice the man would've made.

But choice was slim pickings in the Undercity. And the past months had brought a lot less carousing, a lot more casing. Not too proud of it, but what else were they to do? There was no money in gadgetry. Not without a rich patron. The only means of true survival was smuggling, safe-cracking, and grand larceny on the wrong side of town.

Not to mention all the legups that came with having Vander and Silco's back, and knowing they had yours. 

The couple needed a legup. They needed someone in their corner.

See, they had a whelp on the way. A babe on a hip, soon enough. That'd keep any man's eye on the horizon.

In the passenger seat, the babe squalled. The man was catapulted back to the moment. Ash streaking his forehead, and his dead love's dress a crumpled heap in his fist.

The motorcar's creaky wheels rolled doggedly up the streets.

The man hoped to cross the Bridge before the curfew bell clanged. Hoped to trade the boy a worse fate for a better—the golden cage over the black pit. His plan—if it can be called that—was such: he'd get pulled over at the checkpoint. The guards would demand documentation. When they shone their lanterns at him, they'd see the grey grime smearing his cheeks. Instantly, they'd recoil, as Topsiders did at anything less than spotless.

In that moment, with them rearing away, he'd scoop the boy into his arms, snugly enfolded in his love's dress, and make a mad dash across the Bridge. 

All he had to do was cross the red line at the border. Once he did, he'd be under the jurisdiction of Piltover proper, rather than the Wardens. They could gun him down in broad daylight. But the child would be pronounced a ward of the state, which meant they'd place the little thing in an orphanage, where medicks would treat his sickness.

Where he might grow up healthy, happy and bright.

Where he might become someone, like his mother always wished.

The motorcar crept up the crumbling streets, skirting past piles of dead dogs, rats, cats—they'd all perished too. Flies swarmed in clouds over the mangled heaps of fur and flesh.

In the distance, the harbor glowed: a golden hand beckoning.

As the motorcar neared the Bridge's ramparts, the man spotted a squadron of Enforcers posted between two caravels across the road. The line to get past was long and winding. Each carriage took half an hour to inspect.

A long time. Too long!

By the time the man reached the front, the curfew bell would have rung.

Gods, all he needed was to cross that red line. To be given leave to enter the promised land. A small mercy, just a tiny scrap. Please. Why couldn't they give him that?

The man's eyes fixed on the checkpoint, jaw clenched so tight he felt his back teeth chip. The line crept forward one laborious inch at a time. Every bump in the road jostled his bones.

Halfway there, the curfew bell started clanging; the Enforcers lined up on the rampart, barring further entrance. All the vehicles waiting to cross were summarily turned away.

The man's stomach dropped to the car's floor, and then dropped through the floor, and straight down into the Pilt.

In the passenger seat, the baby wailed.

In a world of slim choices and shrinking odds, the man knew he had none left.

When you get only one chance in hell, what've you got to lose? Nothing—which is exactly what he had. He might be waylaid before he got halfway across, sure. A broadside could snaffle him at the wheel; his windows could shatter from a rifle stock bashing the glass in; a hail of lead could leave his guts spilled across the cobblestones.

His body, floating in the Pilt in the aftermath, a knife-edge moon in its reflection...

...but, if there was a chance his son might make it Topside?

He risked it.

Bracing a palm across the baby's chest, the man floored the gas pedal, screeching his way through the barricade like a hot blade through butter. He ploughed right through the middle of the blockade. Crates toppled. Enforcers scattered like loose coins. Shouts rang out, then a chorus of gunshots.

In the passenger seat, the baby let out a hiccupping cry.

 We're going to make it, the man thought. Just across the line.

Boom.

An explosion shook the Bridge, knocking the car sideways. Something massive, maybe a gatling gun—had blown out the car's tires. The wheels ruptured, sending the vehicle skidding off the pavement. It plunged, nose-down, into the vertiginous canyon below. Moments later, the gas line ruptured, sending an impressive fireball sky-high over the River.

Sparks rained down. Soot followed.

In the backdraft, the boy's scream rang out—clear, shrill, angry.

Alive.

By some miracle—or maybe old-fashioned Tausendküstler trickery—the man had snatched up the wee lad—snugly enfolded within his mother's dress—into his arms, and leapt from the careening car. They'd hit the cobblestones, rolling and rolling, as the car tipped off the Bridge.

They stopped—a hair shy of the demarcation. Right near the painted line separating the Undercity from Piltover.

The man ran.

One boot missing, his shirtsleeves shredded, his elbows and knees streaked with blood. And still, he held his son to his breast, and ran like hell.

 He kept running, even as the Enforcers greeted him with the traditional Topside salutation. Bullets ricocheting at his heels, ripping up stone, metal, meat, as he sprinted across the Bridge. As shouts rose, and sirens skirled, and a storm of brass buttons and spit-shined badges lunged in hot pursuit.

One bullet winged him across the temple. Blood sprayed.

Teeth gritted, he pushed hard. Twenty-five yards from home plate.

Twenty.

Fifteen.

Ten—!

Boom.

A third bullet went clean through his skull.

The man staggered, with less than half a yard to go. The baby squalling in his arms, his big brown eyes raised skyward to the golden city as the night and his father's life seeped away.

Finally, the man fell, tripping over blood-slick cobblestones.

He dropped to the ground inches from the red line, curling around the child in a final embrace, as the Enforcers advanced in jagged silhouettes, with rifles drawn and torches held high.

Which is where Benzo and Vander, in the vicinity after a supply run, found Ekko squalling in his dead father's arms.

Ekko would never cross the red line. Instead, he'd spend much of his early toddlerhood curled around the fraying dress, its bloodstains gone coppery-dark. The last relic of his parents, two Tausendküstler fools, taken in by the illusion of a golden elsewhere beyond the river, and the lie that is Topside's creed:

Progress.

As he grew up, Ekko's whole life would be spent in pursuit of something better. Something real. Something that he'd build right in the Fissures.

Because if a city could change, on the level, it must change together. Honesty, grit and guts would get you halfway there. But cleverness, greased gears and a fistful of audacity was what'd see you past the threshold.

Ekko was a Tausendküstler, too. But no fool. Even on the nights when his fingers ached, like his old man's once had, as he stitched together the threads for a brighter tomorrow.

 He just didn't know that a blue-haired girl, who'd lost her own family on the Bridge, would be the match to set the spark in motion. Two ends of a lit fuse. Different sides, same story. Same old fight: getting to the Promised Land, however many yesterdays it took.

Even if the Promised Land was their own doorstep.

But that story is still in progress. For now, there's only the boom.

And a pinch of magic called love to make up for the rest.

[wortgeschichten]

Wortgeschichte Nr. 128: «Galangger», «Venediger» und andere «Zigüüner»

Am 9. Februar 2020 wird im Kanton Bern über einen Transitplatz für ausländische Fahrende abgestimmt, und die Emotionen gehen hoch: Hier die rechtliche Verpflichtung, genügend Stellplätze zur Verfügung zu stellen, auch mit der Absicht, «wildes Campieren» von Fahrenden zu verhindern. Dort Vorbehalte in weiten Teilen der Bevölkerung, die auf Erfahrungen mit zurückgelassenem Abfall beruhen und auch auf antiziganistischen Vorurteilen. Solche Vorurteile gibt es wohl, seit Fahrende durch die Schweiz und Europa ziehen. Zu den tief verwurzelten Klischees gehört etwa die Vorstellung, wer bald weiterziehe, stehle auch Kinder. Zwangseinbürgerungen im 19. Jahrhundert und die Kindeswegnahme als administrative Zwangsmassnahme im 20. Jahrhundert sind bekannte und schlimme Auswüchse dieser Vorurteile. Bei aller Abneigung der sesshaften Bevölkerung gegen Fremde und Fahrende unterhielten diese Gruppen immer Geschäftsbeziehungen; die einen profitierten und profitieren vom Handwerk und den Dienstleistungen der andern. Entsprechend zahlreich sind die Einträge für fremde Händler im Schweizerischen Idiotikon. Diese waren teils nur saisonal unterwegs und kehrten immer wieder an ihren Herkunftsort zurück: Der Augsttaler «Krämer, Hausierer» war zuerst ein «Bewohner des Aostatals», das deutsch Augsttal heisst, die Galangger «herumziehende Leute, die sich mit allerlei Gewerbe oder auch mit Bettel ernährten», kamen zumindest ursprünglich aus dem Calancatal, und die Bezeichnung Grischeneier für «Krämer mit Südfrüchten und Spezereien» geht auf Gressoney im Aostatal zurück. Schon beim Galangger zeigt sich die Ablehnung dieser Lebensweise und die Verknüpfung von «(handelnd) herumziehen» mit «(ziel- und sittenlos) vagabundieren»: Er ist eben nicht nur ein «Gewerbetreibender (aus dem Calancatal)», sondern auch ein «Schlendrian (egal woher)». Aus dem südfranzösischen Cahors, einem Bankenzentrum des 13. Jahrhunderts, stammt der im Dialekt längst ausgestorbene Gawertschi «Geldwechsler, Bankier», aus der Lombardei, dem Ursprungsgebiet des modernen Bankwesens, der Lamparter «Geldwechsler», auch «Steinarbeiter» und «Metzger, der in der Deutschschweiz Vieh aufkauft». Der Gawertschi ist aber nicht nur ein «Geldwechsler», sondern auch ein «Wucherer». Hier berühren sich Vorurteile gegen aus der Fremde Zugezogene mit Vorurteilen gegen Juden, die ebenfalls im Geldverleihgeschäft tätig und als Wucherer verschrien waren. Weniger auf konkreten Personen als auf dem norditalienischen Reichtum am Ende des Mittelalters beruht wohl die Sagenfigur des Venedigers «Schatzgräber; Metallarbeiter, der in geheimnisvoller Weise das Gebirge nach Gold durchsucht und dann wieder verschwindet, nachdem er Einheimische als Führer benutzt und reichlich belohnt hat». Der Venediger ist aber in Amden auch ein «Tausendkünstler, fahrender Quacksalber, Kräuterhändler, Kleinkrämer aus Italien» – vielleicht spielt hier auch der Neid auf dessen (mehr geschäftliche als fachliche) Fähigkeiten hinein? Ein Walch ist ein Romane und spricht je nach Herkunftsregion französisch (oder frankoprovenzalisches Patois), italienisch (oder lombardischen Dialekt) oder rätoromanisch. So heisst aber auch eine «Arbeitskraft in Handwerk und Landwirtschaft» (so in Nufenen und Issime) oder ein «fahrender Händler». Wie es um sein Prestige steht, zeigt sich am Spruch bist an grobbe Walch, mit dem man in Issime jemanden beschimpfen kann. Keine genauere Angabe zur Herkunft gibt es beim Granitzler «mit Kleinwaren, Nippsachen hausierender Krämer; Schmuggler». Die Bezeichnung ist verwandt mit dem Wort Grenze, das einer slawischen Sprache entstammt. Schliesslich ist eine generelle und undifferenzierte (Fremd-)Bezeichnung für «Angehörige fremder, meist nicht sesshafter Volksgruppen» Zigüüner. Vorurteilsbehaftet wird das Wort auch für einen «unsteten, unordentlichen Menschen; Herumtreiber» verwendet. Wie sehr man Fahrenden unangemessenes Verhalten unterstellt, zeigen Aussprüche wie Chunst derthär wie-n-e Zigüüneri! (Rüdlingen) und Suuberi Gwandig und kei Zigüünerzüglete wil i ha, verstande? als Befehl eines Truppenkommandanten (Flums). In einem Text aus dem 17.Jahrhundert heisst es gar: Es siga a Schar wiesti uflätigi, rotzigi garstigi Jüdli uß Befelch deß stoltza Junchern Königs Herodis daher cho mit Knebelbärta as wie Türgga, schwartzruossige Angsichter wie d Kemifäger, langi Hor wie Ziginer und Heida, asa grosse Diebs-Händ wie d Schwartzwälder, Nägel wie d Rotgerber, Auga wie Pfluogrädli, mit eim Wort a böß verfluocht beltzibuobisch Gschlächt – hier werden von Angehörigen bestimmter Berufe über Andersgläubige bis zu Fremden diverse Bevölkerungsgruppen in einem einzigen grossen Vorurteil vereint. Vorurteile gegen «Fremdes» treten in jeder Gesellschaft und Sprache auf. Gut, sich zwischendurch ein paar Gedanken dazu zu machen! (TF)

[suzylwade]

Koloman Moser Koloman (Kolo) Moser was born in March 1868 in Vienna to Josef and Theresia Moser. His father was a school caretaker. After completing primary school, Moser studied drawing at the trade school in Wieden. Moser was accepted at Vienna’s ‘Akademie der bildenden Künste' (‘Academy of Fine Arts’) in 1885. His parents supported his desire to study art. After the unexpected death of his father in 1888, Moser earned money by illustrating books and magazines, including fashion and humour publications. He remained at the ‘Akademie’ until 1892 and then continued his studies at the ‘Kunstgewerbeschule’ (‘School of Applied Arts’). Moser was a member along with Josef Hoffmann, Joseph Maria Olbrich, Max Kurzweil and others of the ‘Siebener-Club’ (‘Club of Seven’) a group that was the forerunner of the ‘Vienna Secession’. In 1897, Moser was a founding member of the ‘Vereinigung bildender Künstler Österreichs’ (‘Vienna Secession’). He was actively involved with the group’s journal ‘Ver Sacrum’ (‘Sacred Spring’) which remained in publication until 1903. In 1900, Moser was named a full professor at the ‘Kunstgewerbeschule’ where he taught decorative drawing and painting until his death. #neonurchin #neonurchinblog #dedicatedtothethingswelove #suzyurchin #ollyurchin #art #music #photography #fashion #film #words #pictures #neon #urchin #kolomanmoser #viennese #painter #diequelle #thesteinhofchurch #textiles #furniture #glass #porcelain #siebenerclub #interiordesign #tausendkünstler https://www.instagram.com/p/BvjDtPKAknx/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=m2fyj6dy5irl

[danielpiktori-blog]

Der Tausendkünstler - Warum Koloman Moser der wichtigste Protagonist für die Wiener Sezession ist

Der Tausendkünstler – Warum Koloman Moser der wichtigste Protagonist für die Wiener Sezession ist

Wenn die Wiener Sezession Thema in der kunsthistorischen Fachliteratur und in den Postillen ist, tauchen immer wieder Namen wie Gustav Klimt, Josef Hoffmann, Joseph Maria Olbrich und Adolf Hölzl auf. Koloman Moser – von seinen Zeitgenossen als Tausendkünstler bewundert – spielt heute eine eher untergeordnete Rolle. Langsam wird das Phänomen „Kolo Moser“, wie er sich selbst nannte, wieder stärker…

[suzylwade]

Koloman Moser Koloman Moser, Josef Hoffmann and Fritz Waerndorfer founded the ‘Wiener Werkstätte’ (‘Vienna Workshops’) in May 1903. Moser not only designed objects but also collaborated with Hoffmann on domestic and commercial interior design projects. In addition to his work for the ‘Wiener Werkstätte’ Moser was a prolific designer and created work for various firms including: ‘Johann Backhausen & Söhne’ (textiles) ‘Prag-Rudniker (furniture), Jacob & Josef Kohn (furniture), E. Bakalowits Söhne’ (glass) and ‘Josef Böck’ (porcelain). His inventiveness as a designer earned him the nickname “Tausendkünstler” (thousand-artist). In 1905 he was one of the members of the so-called ‘Klimt Group’ that left the ‘Secession’. This same year he married Editha Mautner-Markhof. Mautner-Markhof came from a wealthy industrial family. In 1906, the ‘Wiener Werkstätte’ suffered financial hardship and his wife was approached for a loan. Moser resigned from the firm in 1907 due to a difference of opinion over how it should be managed. He began to devote his energies to painting and theatre design. Moser also created a series of stamps and banknotes. In 1911, the first exhibition of his painting was held at the ‘Galerie Miethke’ in Vienna. He was diagnosed with incurable cancer of the larynx in 1916 and died in October 1918. #neonurchin #neonurchinblog #dedicatedtothethingswelove #suzyurchin #ollyurchin #art #music #photography #fashion #film #words #pictures #neon #urchin #kolomanmoser #viennese #painter #diequelle #thesteinhofchurch #textiles #furniture #glass #porcelain #siebenerclub #interiordesign #tausendkünstler https://www.instagram.com/p/BvjDoVrgTJB/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1ui2ts4dphp3w

[suzylwade]

Koloman Moser Koloman Moser, Josef Hoffmann and Fritz Waerndorfer founded the ‘Wiener Werkstätte’ (‘Vienna Workshops’) in May 1903. Moser not only designed objects but also collaborated with Hoffmann on domestic and commercial interior design projects. In addition to his work for the ‘Wiener Werkstätte’ Moser was a prolific designer and created work for various firms including: ‘Johann Backhausen & Söhne’ (textiles) ‘Prag-Rudniker (furniture), Jacob & Josef Kohn (furniture), E. Bakalowits Söhne’ (glass) and ‘Josef Böck’ (porcelain). His inventiveness as a designer earned him the nickname “Tausendkünstler” (thousand-artist). In 1905 he was one of the members of the so-called ‘Klimt Group’ that left the ‘Secession’. This same year he married Editha Mautner-Markhof. Mautner-Markhof came from a wealthy industrial family. In 1906, the ‘Wiener Werkstätte’ suffered financial hardship and his wife was approached for a loan. Moser resigned from the firm in 1907 due to a difference of opinion over how it should be managed. He began to devote his energies to painting and theatre design. Moser also created a series of stamps and banknotes. In 1911, the first exhibition of his painting was held at the ‘Galerie Miethke’ in Vienna. He was diagnosed with incurable cancer of the larynx in 1916 and died in October 1918. #neonurchin #neonurchinblog #dedicatedtothethingswelove #suzyurchin #ollyurchin #art #music #photography #fashion #film #words #pictures #neon #urchin #kolomanmoser #viennese #painter #diequelle #thesteinhofchurch #textiles #furniture #glass #porcelain #siebenerclub #interiordesign #tausendkünstler https://www.instagram.com/p/BvjDoVrgTJB/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1ui2ts4dphp3w

[suzylwade]

Koloman Moser Koloman Moser, Josef Hoffmann and Fritz Waerndorfer founded the ‘Wiener Werkstätte’ (‘Vienna Workshops’) in May 1903. Moser not only designed objects but also collaborated with Hoffmann on domestic and commercial interior design projects. In addition to his work for the ‘Wiener Werkstätte’ Moser was a prolific designer and created work for various firms including: ‘Johann Backhausen & Söhne’ (textiles) ‘Prag-Rudniker (furniture), Jacob & Josef Kohn (furniture), E. Bakalowits Söhne’ (glass) and ‘Josef Böck’ (porcelain). His inventiveness as a designer earned him the nickname “Tausendkünstler” (thousand-artist). In 1905 he was one of the members of the so-called ‘Klimt Group’ that left the ‘Secession’. This same year he married Editha Mautner-Markhof. Mautner-Markhof came from a wealthy industrial family. In 1906, the ‘Wiener Werkstätte’ suffered financial hardship and his wife was approached for a loan. Moser resigned from the firm in 1907 due to a difference of opinion over how it should be managed. He began to devote his energies to painting and theatre design. Moser also created a series of stamps and banknotes. In 1911, the first exhibition of his painting was held at the ‘Galerie Miethke’ in Vienna. He was diagnosed with incurable cancer of the larynx in 1916 and died in October 1918. #neonurchin #neonurchinblog #dedicatedtothethingswelove #suzyurchin #ollyurchin #art #music #photography #fashion #film #words #pictures #neon #urchin #kolomanmoser #viennese #painter #diequelle #thesteinhofchurch #textiles #furniture #glass #porcelain #siebenerclub #interiordesign #tausendkünstler https://www.instagram.com/p/BvjDoVrgTJB/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1ui2ts4dphp3w

[suzylwade]

Koloman Moser Koloman Moser (German: March 30, 1868 – October 18, 1918) was an Austrian artist who exerted considerable influence on twentieth-century graphic art and one of the foremost artists of the 'Vienna Secession' movement and a co-founder of 'Wiener Werkstätte'. Moser designed a wide array of art works, including books and graphic works from postage stamps to magazine vignettes, fashion, stained glass windows, porcelains and ceramics, blown glass, tableware, silver, jewellery and furniture. Moser’s nickname was “Tausendkünstler” (thousand-artist) a fitting moniker if ever there was one. Born in Vienna he studied at the ‘Akademie der bildenden Künste' (‘Academy of Fine Arts’) and the 'Kunstgewerbeschule' (‘School of Applied Arts’) where he also taught from 1899. His designs in architecture, furniture, jewellery, graphics and tapestries helped characterise the work of this era. Moser drew upon the clean lines and repetitive motifs of classical Greek and Roman art and architecture in reaction to the Baroque decadence of his turn-of-the-century Viennese surroundings. In 1901/1902, he published a portfolio titled 'Die Quelle' (‘The Source’) of elegant graphic designs for such things as tapestries, fabrics and wallpaper. One of Moser's most prominent designs used in a building (The Steinhof Church) was selected as a main motif of one of the most famous euro collectors coins: the Austrian 100 euro ‘Steinhof Church’ commemorative coin, minted on 9 November 2005. On the reverse of the coin the Koloman Moser stained glass window over the main entrance can be seen. In the centre of the window is God the Father seated on a throne. The window is flanked with a pair of bronze angels in Jugendstil style, originally designed by Othmar Schimkowitz. #neonurchin #neonurchinblog #dedicatedtothethingswelove #suzyurchin #ollyurchin #art #music #photography #fashion #film #words #pictures #neon #urchin #kolomanmoser #viennese #painter #diequelle #thesteinhofchurch #textiles #furniture #glass #porcelain #siebenerclub #interiordesign #tausendkünstler https://www.instagram.com/p/BvjDjjcgV7r/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=3oa69nwwgjhc