Journeys Into Madness: Mapping Mental Illness in the Austro-Hungarian Empire

INTRODUCTION

Gemma Blackshaw and Sabine Wieber

On 14 October 1909, the artist Oskar Kokoschka travelled in a southeasterly direction from Vienna to what is now the city’s fourteenth district of Penzing, a densely wooded area that climbs up towards the eastern reaches of the Austrian Alps. On the request of his patron, the architect Adolf Loos, Kokoschka was to undertake a portrait commission at Vienna’s newly opened psychiatric asylum, the Lower Austrian Provincial Institution for the Care and Cure of the Mentally Ill and for Nervous Disorders ‘am Steinhof’, which opened in 1907 (Figure 0.1). The circumstances of this journey were interesting enough for Kokoschka to record the date and location of the portrait-sitting on the back of the canvas. The subject of the portrait was Ludwig Ritter von Janikowski, a Vienna-based doctor of law and an inspector for the Imperial and Royal Ministry of Railways. Janikowski was connected through shared literary interests to the satirist Karl Kraus’s circle (which included Loos and Kokoschka), and although his patient records no longer exist, Kokoschka relayed in his autobiography that he was institutionalised at Steinhof for the advanced stages of syphilis. The sitting was memorable for Janikowski insisting that he teach Kokoschka how to smoke using his own, chewed pipe: ‘Now, I did not want to learn in the first place, and to take his pipe in my mouth took a major effort of will. But he insisted, and in the end, out of the kindness of my heart, I gave in; he never noticed how much it revolted me’.¹ Letters from Janikowski to Kraus indicate that he was first admitted to the state-financed asylum area of Steinhof in February 1909, some eight months before his visit from Kokoschka.² One year later, in February 1910, Janikowski was writing to Kraus from the privately-funded sanatorium area of Steinhof, although the exact date of his move from one part of the hospital to the other and the reason for this transfer is not known.³ The increasing severity of his syphilitic symptoms, perhaps combined with a desire to return to Poland, his country of birth, could explain a further relocation to another sanatorium near Warsaw, where he died in July 1911.⁴ As Kraus concluded in his obituary published in Die Fackel: ‘that great soul of his has returned home’.⁵

Figure 0.1 Oskar Kokoschka, Portrait of Ludwig Ritter von Janikowski, 1909, oil on canvas, 60.2 × 55.2 cm. Private Collection, Courtesy Neue Galerie, New York.

The journeys undertaken by Janikowski and Kokoschka to asylums and sanatoriums in the former Austro-Hungarian Empire, and in particular the crisscrossing of their paths both inside and outside such institutions, are material examples of the theme of this anthology – the mapping of mental illness – but they also operate metaphorically. The anxiety-inducing lesson in pipe-smoking offers us a rare glimpse into the interaction of a patient with a visitor who – in the process of conversation, saliva-mixing and portrait-painting – journey into each other’s state of being, thus momentarily dissolving the boundary that separates sanity from insanity. As George Revill and Richard Wrigley argued in the introduction of their anthology Pathologies of Travel:

The material and metaphorical practices of travel negotiate the boundaries between culture and nature, individual and society, wilderness and civilization, deviancy and conformity, health and sickness, producing moral geographies simultaneously in the mind, of the body and on the ground.⁶

The essays in this anthology are all concerned with the permeability of these boundaries between such territories as sanity and insanity, neurosis and psychosis, as they were traversed – often time and time again – by modern subjects; a permeability that Janikowski, for example, even insisted upon, briefly empowered in his role as portrait sitter (as opposed to psychiatric patient) to demand that Kokoschka smoke his pipe.

Janikowski’s portrait continues to undertake comparable material and metaphorical journeys of its own. From its first unveiling at the Galerie Paul Cassirer in Berlin in 1910 to its subsequent display in Hagen (1910), Karlsbad and Vienna (1911), Zürich (1913) and New York and San Francisco (1915), the portrait had an early history of travelling across Europe and the Atlantic. From the 1920s onwards it has moved from one private collection to another, by way of commercial galleries and auction houses in Vienna and New York (its current location), and has been displayed fairly regularly in temporary exhibitions in both Europe and the United States.⁷ Throughout this time, art historians, curators and critics have used it to exemplify the psychological fragility and creative brilliance of Vienna’s modernists (two qualities that are considered inextricably linked) and to bolster myths of Kokoschka as an artist-genius, able to both divine and pictorially represent subjects’ troubled states of mind. Early in this reception history, the art historian Hans Tietze signalled Janikowski’s illness and internment in Steinhof in his review of its first public display in Vienna at the Hagenbund in 1911.⁸ However, from this moment on – and in keeping with the persistent dominance of modernist approaches to fine art practice in Vienna circa 1900, described by Leo Lensing as ‘connoisseurship over context’ – Janikowski’s own, lived experience of mental illness and the highly particular circumstances of this portrait commission at Steinhof are rarely engaged with.⁹

It wasn’t until the opening of the exhibition Madness and Modernity: Kunst und Wahn in Wien um 1900 at the Wien Museum (Vienna, 2010), that the portrait journeyed back to Steinhof in the context of a room display that included film footage of the psychiatric institution as it stands today, a model of the complex and a series of watercolour drawings illustrating sanatorium interiors produced around 1907, and Janikowski’s letters written during his time as a patient there. The diplomatic negotiations necessary to secure the loan of the portrait for this display (which the private owner would not permit to be shown at the exhibition’s first venue, the Wellcome Collection, London, 2009), along with the considerable cost of travel and insurance, point to other journeys into the fraught political and economic territories of Viennese modern art collecting and display; journeys that neither Janikowski nor Kokoschka could have anticipated as they shared that bitten pipe. Leslie Topp reflects on these issues and the experience of curating the Madness and Modernity exhibition in her essay ‘The Mad Objects of Fin-de-Siècle Vienna: Journeys, Contexts and Dislocations’. Focusing on ‘the disorienting history of mobility of the objects themselves’ – a history that we have only touched upon in this abridged provenance of Janikowski’s portrait – Topp explores the difficulties in seeking to reunite objects of differing value that were once located in asylums, sanatoriums, apartments and galleries; objects displaced time and time again, momentarily ‘returned’ to an ‘original’ context that, ultimately, can only ever be evoked artificially and imperfectly.

Topp’s essay opens this anthology that rediscovers the lost context of works such as the portrait of Janikowski; a context specific to Austria-Hungary when radical and crucially related changes occurred in the fields of psychiatry, the visual arts and culture more broadly. A conference organised by the editors of this anthology entitled Journeys into Madness: Representing Mental Illness in the Arts and Sciences, 1850–1930 (Wellcome Trust, 2007) attempted to reach scholars outside Austro-Hungarian studies. The papers confirmed that though certain figures in other European countries were involved in rethinking madness as a collective, cultural construct and mental illness as an individual, medical condition (sometimes simultaneously, such as in the work of Jean-Martin Charcot at La Salpêtrière, Paris), this was not done with the same single-minded intensity that characterised those working within Austria-Hungary and across a variety of disciplines. In attempting to stretch beyond the boundaries of the empire, the conference paradoxically highlighted how utterly central madness and mental illness was to the articulation of Austro-Hungarian identity, touching the lives of so many. Moreover, in keeping with the mobile, migrant, multi-cultural diversity of the empire itself, the relationships of subjects to madness and mental illness were illuminatingly multifarious. From the embrace of a modernist hospital such as Otto Wagner’s Steinhof as a utopian world in architecture, to the protests of patients writing letters whilst confined behind its walls, subjects encountered madness and mental illness concurrently and in diametrically opposed ways.

Our differentiation of the terms ‘madness’ and ‘mental illness’ imposes an artificial order that is maintained in this introductory essay only. In keeping with the diverse ways in which subjects produced madness and experienced mental illness, the essays of this anthology do not adhere to a single notion of either, and in the case of some – such as Gemma Blackshaw’s essay on the writer/patient Peter Altenberg – deliberately blur the two, using them interchangeably to show how slippery such distinctions could be. As editors we have attempted to strike a balance between essays that deal with madness as a collective, culturally situated phenomenon and others that consider mental illness as an individual, embodied experience. Accordingly, some of the essays are concerned with how madness was discursively produced in the literature, portraiture, health tourism and psychoanalysis of the period, with authors drawing on fictional narratives, newspaper articles, musical scores, photographs and caricatures, architectural statements and medical treatises. Others attend to the details of the lives of subjects suffering from the wide range of conditions included within the category of mental illness at this time, from anorexia and alcoholism to syphilis and psychosis, drawing on diaries, memoirs and correspondence; patient case-history notes; patient artwork and annual reports on asylums and sanatoriums, which enable us to reconstruct the lived experience of architecture, therapy and patient society. Further essays, particularly those concerned with high-profile subjects such as Blackshaw on Altenberg, Jill Steward on Alma Mahler, and Sabine Wieber on the Austrian empress Elisabeth, knowingly oscillate between the cultural/collective and the medical/individual. Wieber, for example, considers the ways in which the diet and exercise obsessions of a celebrity figure like ‘Sisi’ could simultaneously impose and be subject to a disturbingly neurasthenic and utterly fashionable femininity.

This brief overview of the kaleidoscope of sources consulted in the essays indicates the anthology’s attempt to stretch beyond literature and fine art (the two fields that first attracted the attention of scholars interested in madness in Vienna circa 1900), to reach scholars from other fields, such as medical and architectural history, musicology and sociology. In doing so, the anthology is deeply indebted to Carl Schorske’s pioneering interdisciplinary study of Viennese modernism, which first opened up the field to the array of archives and interpretive frameworks embraced by the authors of this anthology.¹⁰ While acknowledging the importance of Schorske’s methodology, the essays in this anthology distance themselves from his central thesis of Austria’s failed liberalism engendering a withdrawal of Vienna’s artists and intellectuals from public life into the private sphere. In this way, the anthology participates in the larger re-articulation of the ‘Schorskean paradigm’,¹¹ first proposed by Steven Beller’s important 2001 collection Rethinking Vienna 1900. More specifically, however, Journeys into Madness asks us to rethink how Schorske, and even more so, scholars embracing Schorske’s idea, tends to reduce the complex and contested territory of psychiatry in Austria-Hungary to Vienna, to Sigmund Freud’s psychoanalysis and in particular to his notion of an Oedipal revolt of the sons against their liberal fathers. As borne out by this collection, Freud’s investigation of the mind through his treatment of predominantly female and middle-class patients suffering from various neuroses was one particular journey into madness, but it was certainly not the only one. The anthology takes the decisive step to embed Freud’s explorations within a broad spectrum of responses – from the medical to the juridical, and the architectural to the intellectual – to the perceived epidemic of nervous and mental illness in the empire at this time.

Beller’s contribution to the anthology thus puts into relief the furrowed theoretical and methodological terrain that must be traversed in any sustained engagement with this Vienna-centric historiography. Hinging his discussion on the evocative idea that Freud’s endeavours were driven by his attempt to solve two riddles – that of ‘Man’ and that of ‘the Man Moses’ – Beller convincingly argues that ‘it is only in the context, the domain if you will, in which Freud lived and worked, that we will find the clues to why and how Freud sought the answers to these riddles’. Beller takes the welcome step of moving away from the famous case-studies and paradigms to consider the importance of the Jewish social experience of Vienna circa 1900, and specifically the Jewish exegetical tradition of interpretation, on the development of psychoanalysis – a tradition that was alive and well in the intellectual and overwhelmingly Jewish circles of the Austrian capital at this time. Beller provocatively argues that ‘psychoanalysis was . . . seen by contemporaries and by Freud himself, as a liberation, an emancipation, from the very Austrian, Catholic, conservative – in a word Viennese – context in which they found themselves’. Freud’s specter may hover over the collection, yet – significantly – Gavin Plumley is the only other author in the anthology to directly engage with him in an essay on Gustav Mahler’s ‘symphonies and psychosis’, discussing the enigmatic meeting between Freud and Mahler in 1910 as a point of entry into ‘the dialogue between the ideas of an auditory space and the unconscious of Berggasse-born psychoanalysis’.

Since the collection’s theme is one of journeys, all contributions evoke the notion of travel – in its material and metaphorical instantiations. However, a number of essays deal more directly with concrete aspects of travel, health and mental illness. Steward’s essay, for example, shows how Austrian health tourism embodied upper-middle-class travel to fashionable health resorts and spas made by Central Europe’s expanding railway system. In search of respite from the stresses of modern urban life, Steward proposes that ‘newly prosperous individuals’ travelled across the empire to stay at ‘different kinds of health resorts and institutions that catered for the needs of health and leisure seekers c. 1900 in an increasingly competitive marketplace’. Nicola Imrie’s essay invites us to take a close look at these new destinations of health tourism by exploring parallels in architectural and cultural contexts of sanatoriums for nervous disorders and grand hotels. Through a series of fascinating case studies, Imrie unveils how

owners of private sanatoria for nervous disorders wishing to court the business of affluent patients took advantage of the spatial layout of grand hotels not only to foster a sense of exclusivity based on social class and the tradition among the wealthy to seek healthcare at spa resorts but also to underline the – illusion of – the exclusion of patients suffering from dreaded psychiatric conditions.

Blackshaw also considers the tensions and ambiguities of rest and recuperation packages and sanatorium/asylum hybrids for the middle classes through tracing Altenberg’s movements from hotels to sanatoriums of increasing levels of strictness; movements perceived by his contemporaries as a crossing of the terrain of mental illness itself, from the territory of neurosis to psychosis. Resisting the urge to retroactively diagnose a figure who strategically constructed an identity for himself as the mad writer, Blackshaw instead focuses on the ‘revealingly complex perspective Altenberg gives us on madness in Vienna circa 1900 as a lived reality and an authorial persona, a debilitating personal illness and a regenerative creative resource, a place of exile and a means of cultural belonging, an ‘authentic’ experience and an ‘inauthentic’ representation, and a condition to be remedied and a commodity to be protected’. Portrait-caricature played an important role in the production and dissemination of Altenberg’s identity, and this emphasis on the individual’s sophisticated use of visual culture relates directly to Wieber’s re-examination of the Empress Elisabeth’s cult of beauty. Through an engagement with Elisabeth’s obsessive preoccupation with self-presentation and self-representation, Wieber unveils the complicated and fraught constructions of late nineteenth-century femininity ‘that pushed Elisabeth to the brink of mental and physical disintegration’. By tracing the Empress’ journey from celebrated beauty to haunted eccentric, Wieber explores Elisabeth’s shifting activation of her body in negotiating a relationship between the self and the body social.

Altenberg’s identity as – to quote his Vienna-based doctor, Arthur Schnitzler, ‘a professional neurotic’,¹² calls up the arbitrary yet crucial demarcations of borderlines between sane and insane, insider and outsider, that patrolled much of the engagement with madness and mental illness in Austria-Hungary and that continues to shape our present conceptualisations of Viennese modernity circa 1900. As Geoff Howes notes in his re-reading of the madhouse chapter in Robert Musil’s The Man without Qualities, the material and metaphorical journey in and out of sanatoriums ‘is not just madhouse tourism; it is a journey to the bizarre limits of what is commonly regarded as normal’. Concepts of diversity, displacement and permeability are central to his appreciation of Musil who places ‘a multiplicity of perspectives – including those of the mad – in relation to each other, without a definitive arrangement, and without one perspective – whether psychiatric, anti-psychiatric, or otherwise – dominating the others’.

This anthology meets Musil’s concern to show multiplicity over singularity and with this in mind, it takes the important step of re-integrating discussions of modern art practice in Vienna with what has been termed ‘Outsider Art’ practice. Luke Heighton explores the common ground shared by ‘insider’ Gustav Klimt and ‘outsider’ L. Krakauer, plotting their shared ‘cultural, epistemological and formal similarities’, and the use of madness in Klimt’s work to evoke ‘states of hyper reflexivity and ontological indeterminacy, inter-subjectivity and plurality’. Anna Lehninger considers works by the enigmatically named Frau A. and Herr Sz. (who she has identified as the Hungarian count Carl Philipp Maria Széchényi): patients at the Obersteiner clinic in Oberdöbling, that were sent to Hans Prinzhorn for his collection of the ‘artistry of the mentally ill’. By re-activating a dialogue between the art works and the patient files held in the Obersteiner archive, Lehninger takes the reader on a ‘virtual journey’ through the clinic along the two different yet continually overlapping paths of patient and doctor. In their essay on the Württemberg Asylum of Schussenried in southern Germany, just across the Austrian border, Thomas Müller and Frank Kuhn consider the enterprising and surprising endeavour to engage patients in the production of a journal to educate audiences outside the mental hospital on matters related to art and culture. Their step outside the borders of Austria-Hungary to reflect upon the situation inside the Empire is historically driven. As Howes notes, Musil’s madhouse chapter has become synonymous with Steinhof and the complexities of Austrian identity construction, yet the chapter was based upon Musil’s visit to the manicomio S. Maria della Pietá in Rome. We know that the production of patient journals distributed beyond the walls of the mental hospital happened in Austria-Hungary, although research is yet to be done in this field; we hope this anthology will foster new archival work to bring these practices into meaning in the specifically Austrian context.

The notion of a journey into uncharted territory defines each of the essays in this collection. While the subjects of these different journeys vary, from patients to doctors, psychoanalysts to criminologists, artists to writers, architects to composers, royalty to tourists, they share a fascinating and revealingly diverse engagement with the material and metaphorical aspects of both madness and mental illness in Austria-Hungary. It is precisely this diversity of voices, experiences and representations that continues to appeal to us today. Almost thirty years after the publication of Schorske’s first inroad into interdisciplinary scholarship, this collection of essays offers new insights into this time and place by re-introducing the importance of madness in the production, dissemination and consumption of culture. Essentially, this collection shows that Austria-Hungary’s engagement with mental illness and psychiatry was much more dynamic and contested than a more traditional scholarly focus on Sigmund Freud allows us to see. But Journeys into Madness also brings to light a hitherto underestimated interaction between psychiatry and culture. By bringing a distinctly interdisciplinary approach to concepts of health, illness and disease, this anthology thus makes an exciting contribution to the field of medical humanities. But it also asks us to rethink the medical humanities as a way of enriching medical culture through perspectives from the arts and humanities, because each essay in this collection demonstrates that carefully historicised medical knowledge opens up equally exciting vistas in the humanities.

Notes

The editors gratefully acknowledge the support of the British Academy, the University of Plymouth and the Wellcome Trust towards the organisation of the Journeys into Madness conference (Wellcome Collection Conference Centre, 2007). For their responses and helpful suggestions, the editors would also like to thank Dr Edward J. Neather, Professor Leo Lensing, and the two anonymous readers of the anthology manuscript.

1. O. Kokoschka, My Life, trans. D. Britt (New York, 1974), 42.

2. Letter dated 19 February 1909. Wien Bibliothek im Rathaus, Handschriftensammlung, I.N. 169.152. Information on Janikowski’s period in Steinhof is thin on the ground, and what does exist is contradictory. According to a communication from Steinhof dated 29 August 1909, Janikowski voluntarily had himself committed to the sanatorium on 28 August 1909. A second entry says he was in Steinhof from 21 December 1909 to 10 October 1910 (it is unclear whether this was the sanatorium or the asylum), and then registered in Rekawinkel in Lower Austria. A third entry says he was registered as living at Reissnerstrasse in Vienna’s second district from 20 November 1908 until 8 May 1910, when he moved to Steinhof. This information was provided by the Wiener Stadt- und Landesarchiv; the documents themselves are the Meldeunterlagen (historical residents’ registration records).

3. Wien Bibliothek im Rathaus, Handschriftensammlung, I.N. 169.152; 169.159; 174.641.

4. Janikowski was born in Kraków, Poland, on 24 July 1868; Die Fackel, Heft 331–332 (30 September 1911): 64.

5. Ibid.

6. G. Revill and R. Wrigley, eds., Pathologies of Travel (Amsterdam, 2000), 3.

7. For provenance and exhibition history see J. Winkler and K. Erling, eds., Oskar Kokoschka: Die Gemälde 1906–29 (Salzburg, 1995), 14–15.

8. H. Tietze, ‘Ausstellung Jungwiener Künstler im Hagenbund’, Fremdenblatt (10 February 1911), 21–22.

9. L. Lensing, ‘A Portrait Gallery of Ghosts: The Bad Likenesses and Tortured Self-Portraits of Oskar Kokoschka’ (review of exhibition catalogue: T. Natter, ed., Oskar Kokoschka: Early Portraits from Vienna and Berlin 1909–1914, New Haven and London, 2002), Times Literary Supplement, 17 May 2002, 18.

10. C. Schorske, Fin-de-Siècle Vienna: Politics and Culture (New York, 1980).

11. S. Beller, ‘Introduction’, in Rethinking Vienna 1900, ed. S. Beller (New York, 2001), 11.

12. A. Schnitzler, My Youth in Vienna (London, 1971), 178.

Chapter 1

THE MAD OBJECTS

OF FIN-DE-SIÈCLE VIENNA

Journeys, Contexts and Dislocations

in the Exhibition ‘Madness and Modernity’

Leslie Topp

Between 2004 and 2008, the Arts and Humanities Research Council (AHRC) of Great Britain funded a collaborative research project on the links between mental illness, psychiatry and the visual arts in Vienna and the Habsburg Empire between 1890 and 1914, one of the results of which was the 2009–10 exhibition ‘Madness and Modernity’. There is an impulse towards completeness in sustained collaborative interdisciplinary research such as that undertaken for the AHRC project. By devoting the close, ongoing attention of several dedicated individuals to a particular topic (madness as a cultural artefact) in a defined location and time period (Vienna circa 1900), and by breaking down disciplinary barriers in order to shed light on that topic from as many angles as possible, we seek to fill in blanks, to overcome the fragmentation and losses caused by the operations of disciplinary specialisation and grand art historical narratives. A large-scale loan exhibition can be a way of pushing this research forward by focusing attention on the material objects that constitute the concrete basis of such a project. It can also be a dramatic way of confronting viewers with the physical results of such an interdisciplinary approach through surprising juxtapositions, especially between art and non-art in the context of a format (the loan exhibition) that is still associated with ‘high art’.

Such an exhibition, when seen as a finished product, and accompanied by a scholarly publication, involves the very public claiming and definition of a field of knowledge and interpretation. But at the same time, and possibly more than any other form of scholarly ‘output’, it is a construct beholden to and formed by numerous unpredictable contingencies. The journey towards the exhibition opening involves many dead ends and detours and requires the curators to grapple with the histories and discourses of institutions in and outside of the art world, of exhibition design, of media reception and more. My focus here, using ‘Madness and Modernity’ as a case study, is on how the act at the heart of the curating process, the assembling of objects into what Francis Haskell called an ‘ephemeral museum’, confronts us with the disorienting history of mobility of the objects themselves.¹ We started out seeking to re-establish the forgotten links between art, madness and psychiatry in Vienna circa 1900, to stage a kind of homecoming in the evoked and imagined spaces of asylums, sanatoria and Viennese galleries. The exhibition did embody that ambition, but at the same time it bore multiple traces of the dislocations, changes of status and disappearances of objects and groups of objects (not all of them actually in the exhibition) in the intervening hundred years. It also drew attention to a kind of original displacement that characterised many of the ‘mad’ objects of fin-de-siècle Vienna.

Reconnecting

The exhibition, the first version of which was curated by Gemma Blackshaw and myself, was called ‘Madness and Modernity: Mental Illness and the Visual Arts in Vienna 1900’. It took place at the Wellcome Collection in London from 1 April to 28 June 2009. From 20 January to 2 May 2010, a slightly altered version of the exhibition, curated by Blackshaw along with Sabine Wieber, was mounted at Vienna’s Wien Museum.² The premise of ‘Madness and Modernity’ was that the progressive visual arts in Vienna circa 1900 were linked in concrete ways to the practices and spaces of psychiatry and to mental illness as filtered through both psychiatry and popular culture. The range of ways in which modernists in the visual arts engaged with madness, from cure and control to celebration and imitation, was linked to Viennese society’s fascination with and deep ambivalence towards mental illness and its treatment.

Our art historical point was not simply that the art objects of the period need to be reinserted in the context of their time and place. At least since Carl Schorske’s Fin-de-Siècle Vienna: Politics and Culture was published in 1980, Vienna 1900 has been seen as quintessentially interdisciplinary, a place and time whose art can only be understood in its cultural context, or, more specifically, in the context of other high-culture phenomena. The impact of Schorske’s book has also meant that the modernism of the period has been seen as a markedly inward-looking one – the ‘politics and culture’ of Schorske’s title are connected in his argument only insofar as the latter, culture, is shaped by its withdrawal from the former, politics. A group of four large exhibitions in Venice, Vienna, Paris and New York between 1984 and 1986 constructed an image of Vienna 1900 as a hothouse of artistic and intellectual innovation.³ The Vienna version of the exhibition, produced by the predecessor to the Wien Museum, contained both ephemeral, low-status objects such as posters and cartoons and canonical works of art, architecture and design, albeit in separate ‘history’ and ‘art’ sections.⁴ In the three other versions of the exhibition, the ‘historical’ material was scaled back to various degrees