The Painter, Part II
A massive mass game like this required an unexpected amount of preparation. It was almost like a military parade.
First, we had to gather over a thousand people to hold the cards. Then, we had to select someone to lead them. The conductor would have to sweat bullets, commanding that massive crowd and controlling them without a single mistake. And that was just the beginning. Booking practice venues, procuring the necessary equipment, and finally, deciding how to structure the event's content. All of this had to be accomplished in barely over a month.
'This is a test of sorts. After all, twentieth-century politics is all about how many people you can mobilize and how skillfully you can utilize them.'
I didn't use the term "military parade" lightly. From logistics to tactics, planning and conducting a mass game was a form of warfare.
Tonight, I stayed up late in the headquarters again, stamping personnel plans for the mass games. Of course, my role was mostly just skimming through them and stamping, trusting that my subordinates had done a good job.
During this, one particular document caught my eye.
Since the card section was the highlight—indeed, the entirety—of our event, the images displayed were the core of the whole affair.
Initially, I had planned to hire a chief artist with the help of Chairman Wittgenstein, who was a generous patron of the arts. Who was Austria's most representative painter again...? Gustav Klimt?
However, twentieth-century art was dominated by surrealist styles that seemed somewhat bizarre to the average person. Just look at his contemporary, Picasso.
“Vibrant colors that anyone can appreciate! Bold deformation of reality! A composition where the message is clear at a single glance! Is there no one like that?”
On top of that, proud artists weren't keen on accepting this kind of work. The artist we finally tracked down after a relentless search was Koloman Moser. In the art world, he was a so-called "pragmatic" artist who mainly designed posters and postage stamps, and even dabbled in making bookshelves and furniture.
“The concept itself is fascinating. A massive crowd gathering to complete a single painting?”
“Exactly. The painting isn't the core; the 'massive crowd' is. Therefore, we need colors that pop as much as possible and a strong propaganda message.”
“I've never heard of such a performance. This will be an interesting experiment.”
Even with the chief artist drafting the designs, the preparations were far from over. This was a collective art. Once Koloman Moser drew the templates, we needed a multitude of "non-commissioned officer" type painters to transfer those designs onto individual cards and direct the completion of the images on-site.
“Mr. Moser, by any chance, is there an artist among the apprentices who has a somewhat... 'soldier-like' personality?”
“A soldier?”
“Ah, that was a poor choice of words. I mean an artist who prioritizes the field, like Michelangelo.”
“Hmm... If you're looking for someone like that, you'd be better off looking into architecture. Painting is, after all, a strictly individual art.”
I suppose so. Indeed, unlike collective arts like film, performance, music, and architecture, painting is as individualistic as literature. The working-level staff also looked into architecture to find a suitable candidate, but organizing a mass movement with eccentric artists who went off in all directions was no easy task.
'I wonder how it's going?'
The moment I flipped open the applications...
“Holy shit!”
Without realizing it, I spat out a Korean curse and threw the dreadful document aside.
Did I... see that right? Yes, if it's this guy, he might be the perfect fit for the "soldier-like" artist I've been searching for so desperately.
I checked that dreadful name once more.
Position Applied: Assistant Artist (Card Section Coordinator)
Right... Around this time, Hitler would definitely be staying in Vienna, busy submitting applications to the Academy of Fine Arts Vienna.
But...
“Is this really okay? Seriously?”
In the first place, the very concept of "Hitler the painter" is bizarre. Hitler is the villain of the century who threw Jewish communists like me into gas chambers. The fact that he applied for this job as a painter... feels... weird.
I immediately resolved to call the manager and fire him, but at that moment, another thought crossed my mind.
'What if I just kill Hitler right here? What happens to history?'
Even if Hitler dies, would far-right nationalist forces still emerge in the Weimar Republic? Or would the Communist Party, having lost its rival, dye the Weimar Republic crimson? Or perhaps the German military would establish a militaristic republic? A future where Karl Lueger and the far-right elements of the Christian Social Party attempt a reverse annexation of Germany also seems plausible.
“Sigh, I don't know.”
No one could possibly know. However, it was easy to guess what a man consumed by extreme narcissism and a victim complex like Hitler would think if he got rejected here.
When Hitler failed the academy entrance exam, he had gone to the director to protest vehemently. The director had dismissed and mocked him, saying, 'You should major in architecture instead.' Hitler never forgot that for the rest of his life and hated the director. Coincidentally, that director was Jewish, just like me.
“...Let's meet him first and have a talk.”
In 1905, I was the only person who knew the future of this sixteen-year-old Hitler—a future even he himself was unaware of. Right now, Hitler was probably dreaming of becoming a great artist like Wagner or Klimt.
The country boy Hitler had arrived in Vienna and was living in a constant state of wonder every single day. From the magnificent architecture to the young intellectuals conversing in cafes, to the traces of art scattered everywhere.
'...I failed the entrance exam this time, but I want to capture all of this in my paintings. I want to make people weep when they look at my art!'
Of course, thirty years later, Hitler would realize he couldn't make people weep with his paintings, and would instead make tears of blood stream from the eyes of millions in a very different way.
In any case, politicians and artists were ultimately identical in that they gained popularity by conveying inspiration and other emotions to the masses. The young Hitler was still a talent far closer to an artist than a politician.
As he walked by, Hitler spotted a recruitment poster for painters. A crowd of cheap commercial artists—who drew postcards for a living, a vulgar trade in Hitler's eyes—were gathered around it.
“Mass games? Card sections? What on earth is this? Is it something like an opera poster?”
“It's different from that. It seems Director Stahl is dipping his toes into art now. It's a completely new art form, unlike anything seen before.”
“Unlike anything seen before?”
“Yes. It combines performance and fine art. Countless people lift boards to display a painting.”
“Damn it, is that what makes a genius different? He's a scientist and a politician, so why can't he just stick to his own business? Why this?”
The young Hitler didn't have any distinct "political inclination" yet. Of course, he subtly sympathized with anti-Semitism and was enthusiastic about ancient Germanic myths, but that didn't necessarily prove he was a German nationalist.
Hitler had never dreamed of politics in the slightest. Yet, with his innate genius, he instantly grasped the sheer power of the new artistic genre proposed by Stahl: the "mass game."
'That's why you idiots will spend your whole lives as cheap painters selling postcards. Why would a politician do this? Because he's a politician, that's why!'
And with his overwhelming political imagination, Hitler envisioned the design on the recruitment poster being brought to life through that "card section mass game."
'For an event like this, even just a few simple paintings designed to make a couple of slogans pop would work perfectly.'
Countless designs flashed through Hitler's mind.
'No, wait. Even with just four paintings in total, it would be more than enough to convey a story. Is the story important? No, that's inappropriate. This event needs to pour out as many images as possible. The core is the fluid, skillful movement of the people mobilized for the event.'
Hitler lost track of time imagining all sorts of images. When he finally envisioned the climax of the event—the Austrian imperial eagle coat of arms intersecting with a crossed sickle and hammer—a shiver ran down his spine.
'Th-this is unbelievable... How can such an art form exist!'
Of course, Hitler himself had no idea why he was feeling such an intense thrill. After all, he was merely a sixteen-year-old boy painter who happened to possess an innate genius for mass mobilization.
But what did the reason matter? Overwhelmed by this immense thrill, Hitler completely forgot about things like the Academy of Fine Arts Vienna.
As if possessed, he filled out the application. During the interview, he gave a passionate speech about the new "mass games" and "card sections," showing the interviewers a few sketches suitable for the performance.
With the words, “...Finally, someone useful has shown up,” he passed the interview.
'Wait... Is this really happening?'
The boy artist Hitler was staring intently at me, his eyes flashing with a madness that proved he was indeed the Hitler of the future.
'Honestly... it's terrifying.'
But fortunately, at this point in time, Hitler was indeed just a boy artist. Hitler, who possessed a monstrous obsession capable of slaughtering tens of millions once he fixated on something, was currently displaying that colossal obsession toward the mass games and card sections I had designed.
“C-cough... Your drawings are highly impressive.”
“Yes, Director. What matters in this event is unity. Honestly, the paintings themselves aren't important. What matters is that countless people move as if they were a single person.”
“I-is that so?”
His instincts were so brilliant that I almost regretted ever suggesting we hire a famous artist. He grasped the essence of the mass game instantly, and devised slogans that would catch the eye even as the images flashed by at a rapid pace.
“...Let's give it a try.”
“If you trust me with this, I will serve you with absolute loyalty.”
“There's no need to go as far as absolute loyalty. You may head out now.”
In any case, my brief interview with Hitler was over. I hadn't kept him around because of his future deeds, nor was it because of his innate talent for propaganda.
'That guy... his eyes are half-crazed.'
If I rejected him here under the pretext of “You don't seem suited for our movement,” who knew what that crazed lunatic might do? I was terrified of his madness. Therefore, I decided it was best to keep him as close to me as possible.
“Ah, wait a moment. There are a few things I haven't asked you yet.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Well... as you know, I have my foot in politics. This event is also highly political.”
“I am well aware, sir. This kind of art form could only have been conceived by a politician.”
“Is that so? That's why I'm asking, just in case. What are your political leanings?”
I couldn't predict a future without Hitler. Frankly, wouldn't it be possible for an even larger war to break out than the one Hitler caused? This wasn't an entirely far-fetched scenario. Perhaps fewer people died in World War II because the distinction between good and evil was so clear-cut. Of course, that was also highly speculative.
Still. 'Just let a man who would put millions of innocent Jews into gas chambers go free? Absolutely not.'
Whatever the reason, the purpose of my reincarnation in Austria was certainly not to leave a wicked villain like Hitler to his own devices.
If he uttered even a single word about Jews or the German race, I would not hesitate. If shooting this madman dead was my historical mission, I would carry it out without fail.
And after a long silence, Hitler opened his mouth.