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World War I Centennial: The Titanic and an Ambivalent Alliance

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The First World War was an unprecedented catastrophe that killed millions and set the continent of Europe on the path to further calamity two decades later. But it didn’t come out of nowhere.

With the centennial of the outbreak of hostilities coming up in 2014, Erik Sass will be looking back at the lead-up to the war, when seemingly minor moments of friction accumulated until the situation was ready to explode. He'll be covering those events 100 years after they occurred. This is the 12th installment in the series. (See all entries here.)

April 15, 1912: The Titanic and an Ambivalent Alliance

© Hulton-Deutsch Collection/CORBIS

The Titanic

On April 14, 1912, at 11:40 p.m., the ocean liner RMS Titanic, en route from Queenstown, Ireland, to New York City, accidentally rammed an iceberg, tearing a series of holes in the side of the massive ship. The world’s largest ship was traveling at 22.5 knots – 26 miles per hour, near its maximum speed – and five of its sixteen supposedly “watertight” compartments were breached by the force of the impact. The compartments weren’t actually watertight – they were connected at the top – and water quickly spread from compartment to compartment. Five minutes after midnight on the morning of April 15, with the ship listing heavily to starboard, captain Edward J. Smith gave the order to evacuate the Titanic.

Tragically there weren’t enough lifeboats to carry all 1,320 passengers and 892 crewmembers; the 20 lifeboats provided could accommodate half that number at most. With the lifeboats going to “women and children first,” numerous crew members and male passengers were left to go down with the ship or plunge into the icy waters of the North Atlantic. As the band played on, the ship took on more water, broke in half, and finally sank at 2:20 a.m. on April 15, 1912.

The Titanic wasn’t carrying enough lifeboats in part because the relevant regulations hadn’t been revised in almost a decade. It had been eight years since the last major sinking of a passenger liner – the loss of the Danish SS Norge, with 635 people aboard, in 1904 – and while the size of passenger ships had increased dramatically in the intervening years, the complement of lifeboats had not. In fact, the Titanic was carrying more than the sixteen boat minimum required by the Board of Trade.

If other ships in the area had been closer to the Titanic (and received the message in time), their combined lifeboats might have been able to shuttle back and forth, ferrying passengers from the sinking ship to safety. However several ships weren’t paying attention to wireless messages: on board the SMS Carpathia, the wireless operator missed the first call for help because he was on the bridge. When the distress call finally got through, the Carpathia reversed course and covered the 50+ miles to the Titanic’s position in about two hours, arriving around 4 a.m., nearly two hours after the ship sank, to rescue 705 survivors from aboard the lifeboats. The rest of the passengers and crew, some 1,500 people, perished in the icy North Atlantic, victims of hypothermia and drowning.

The sinking of the Titanic foreshadowed the maritime disasters resulting from German U-boat attacks in the coming Great War – most prominently RMS Lusitania, torpedoed by the German submarine U-20 on May 7, 1915, resulting in the deaths of 1,198 out of 1,959 aboard. The captain of U-20, Walter Schwieger, attacked the Lusitania without issuing a warning or allowing its passenger and crew to evacuate to lifeboats – a breach of international conventions, resulting from the German admiralty’s policy of “unrestricted” submarine warfare. This “barbarism” elicited a wave of outrage in the United States, prompting the Germans to temporarily suspend unrestricted warfare. Their return to unrestricted attacks in February 1917 helped precipitate the entry of the U.S. into the war two months later.

On the positive side, public scrutiny of the Titanic disaster ensured that most ships were equipped with sufficient lifeboats, and also led to round-the-clock wireless monitoring, reducing the loss of life when other big ships were torpedoed during the First World War. Thus no passengers or crew were lost to drowning when the Titanic’s rescuer, Carpathia, was sunk by a torpedo fired by the German submarine U-55 on July 17, 1918.

An Ambivalent Alliance

While the world reeled from the loss of the Titanic, the wheels of European diplomacy continued turning. On April 15, 1912, the French ambassador to Britain, Paul Cambon, proposed an alliance to the British foreign minister, Edward Grey, based on terms first discussed seven years before during the First Moroccan Crisis. In 1905 the British had proposed the alliance to the French; in 1912 it was the other way around.

France and Britain were longtime foes who had opposed each other from the medieval period into the age of colonialism. But in the face of growing German power, they set these tensions aside (at least temporarily) in favor of an “entente cordiale,” or friendly understanding, first agreed in April 1904. In effect, the British and French decided to resolve their colonial differences in places like Morocco so they could cooperate in Europe, stoking German paranoia about a conspiracy to encircle the Fatherland.

In May 1905, German fear of encirclement resulting from the entente cordiale drove Kaiser Wilhelm II to precipitate the First Moroccan Crisis with his infamous visit to Tangiers. As a signatory to earlier international agreements about Morocco, the German Empire could not be left out of decisions regarding the future of the country, he blustered – exactly what France and Britain set out to do in their diplomatic understanding. German opposition threatened to drive Britain and France apart, due in part to their different security situations: while France faced an existential threat from the formidable German army, Britain remained safely uncommitted behind the English Channel, protected by the Royal Navy.

Indeed, although the entente cordiale did much to bring France and Britain together, the British were typically leery of committing to an explicit military alliance, namely a defensive pact that would require Britain and France to assist each other if either were attacked by a third party – i.e., Germany. The most important reason was the longstanding British aversion to any foreign entanglements, especially treaties which might draw it into a European war.

The British were also skeptical about France’s formal military commitment to Russia, another longtime British foe. Nonetheless some British diplomats were pushing for the country to abandon its traditional isolation in favor of more formal alliances, leading for example to a formal alliance with Japan, directed against Russia, signed around this time.

It was in April-May 1905, during the First Moroccan Crisis, with international tensions running high, that the British foreign secretary, Lord Lansdowne, and other key figures in the British government made a vague offer of something resembling a military alliance to the French – or at least, that’s how the French ambassador to Britain, Paul Cambon, interpreted it. Precisely what Lansdowne offered the French is unclear: while the British foreign secretary said the French and British military leaders should consult each other about plans for cooperation in a war against Germany, his proposal probably fell short of an offer of alliance, which traditional British isolationists wouldn’t have accepted.

In any event, the offer came to nothing, as the French foreign minister, Théophile Delcassé, was forced to resign under German pressure in 1906 – the price of German acquiescence in the First Moroccan Crisis (later viewed as a diplomatic defeat for Germany, as the entente cordiale survived the German diplomatic assault). Meanwhile in December 1905 the Tory government dissolved and Lansdowne left office as foreign secretary; at this stage, both of the principals involved in the negotiations were out of power. Nevertheless other French officials didn’t forget the idea: Lansdowne’s offer was more than Britain had ever ventured before, and the French rightly viewed it as another step towards ending Britain’s policy of “splendid isolation” from Europe.

Fast forward to April 15, 1912: as Britain and France scrambled to contain German power following the Second Moroccan Crisis, Cambon (still the ambassador to Britain) suggested to the British permanent undersecretary for foreign affairs, Sir Arthur Nicolson, that France and Britain revisit negotiations for a possible alliance along the lines first laid out by Lansdowne in 1905.

In addition to being nervous about Germany itself, the French were concerned about British attempts – so far unsuccessful – to reach a naval arms limitation agreement with Germany. Such an agreement would remove Britain’s main reason for participating in the entente cordiale aligning it with France against Germany – something France was counting on for its own security.

The failure of the Haldane mission left Britain receptive to closer cooperation with France, but the British were as slippery as ever when it came to actually committing to an alliance. After receiving Cambon’s proposal on April 15, 1912, Nicolson passed the proposal along to the British foreign secretary, Edward Grey, who expressed interest but said the idea would have to be debated by the full cabinet – where it was certain to face opposition from old school isolationists, as always. And with that, the alliance proposal ran into the political sands yet again.

But there was no denying the general drift of events: the simple fact was that the two countries were increasingly dependent on each other for security in the face of growing German power. While Britain remained reluctant to make a formal alliance, the British were eager to reach some kind of arrangement with France about the distribution of their naval forces. Winston Churchill, the First Lord of the Royal Navy, was planning a major redeployment of the Royal navy which would bring key forces back to home waters from the Mediterranean, bolstering home defenses against the threat posed by the expanding German navy. This would leave the shipping lanes through the Mediterranean and Suez Canal, the lifeline to Britain’s colonial empire, exposed to threats from the Italian, Austrian, Turkish, and Russian navies – unless France stepped in to protect them.

Although the April 15 offer fell flat, in coming months Churchill and other British officials would enter into active negotiations with the French government aimed at coordinating their naval strategies – another step towards a de facto treaty of alliance which would involve Britain in a war between France and Germany.

See previous installment, next installment, or all entries.

WWI Centennial: Germans Capture Riga, Kornilov Revolt

Erik Sass is covering the events of the war exactly 100 years after they happened. This is the 287th installment in the series.

September 5-9, 1917: Germans Capture Riga, Kornilov Revolt

September 1917 saw the chaos in revolutionary Russia reach a fever pitch, as a major new German offensive on the Baltic coast triggered yet another unsuccessful coup attempt against the beleaguered Provisional Government, which had just fended off a far-left uprising instigated by the Bolsheviks in July. This time it was a rightwing military revolt led by the recently appointed commander-in-chief General Lavr Kornilov (although Kornilov claimed it was actually intended to strengthen the Provisional Government against the rival Petrograd Soviet). The end result was to further discredit and destabilize the Provisional Government, now facing open opposition on both the left and right, setting the stage for the Bolsheviks’ final successful coup attempt in November 1917.

Fall of Riga

Kornilov was spurred to action in part by the German capture of Riga (now the capital of Latvia) on the Baltic coast – a major blow that brought the Germans closer to the Russian capital of Petrograd and threatened the breakup of the northern sector of the Eastern Front. An advance here would also shorten the frontline, freeing up German forces needed to fend off the British assault at Passchendaele on the Western Front.

The German Riga offensive wasn’t a walkover: while indiscipline and rock-bottom morale prevailed throughout the Russian Army, ordinary Russian soldiers were still willing to stand and fight in defense of their homeland, at least for now. However German superiority in morale – not to mention heavy artillery, aerial reconnaissance, and logistics – left little doubt about the final outcome.

Europe and the Near East, September 1917: Germans capture Riga, Kornilov Revolt
Erik Sass

The attack began on September 1, 1917 with a sudden, punishing bombardment by the artillery of the German Eighth Army, targeting the defensive positions of the Russian Twelfth Army behind the River (Daugava). As the shelling reached its climax German pioneers moved up with pontoon bridges and boats to ferry the assault force across the broad, fast-flowing river, in another testament to German engineering and tactical skill.

One German soldier, Dominik Richert, described the preliminary bombardment as well as the Russian response:

As it became brighter I was able to see the water of the Düna, which was flowing quite quickly here. The Russian position on the opposite bank was not yet visible as white fog prevented us from seeing further. We were all tense about what was about to happen. All at once, the German artillery, which had been concentrated here, started to fire. The shells whizzed over us and exploded on the other side of the river with a booming din. A number of mortars, mainly heavy ones that shoot two hundred-weight shells, joined the dance. There was such a crashing, whizzing and roaring that my ears started to hurt. As the sun rose, the fog gradually disappeared and I was able to see the Russian position on the opposite bank. It was completely shrouded in black smoke, constantly and everywhere there were abrupt flashes and enormous clouds of smoke shot into the sky… Then the Russian artillery started to fire, so that we were forced to duck down in the trench.

Like many of his peers, Richert knew little of the battle plan, and seemed to be just as surprised as the enemy by the sudden arrival of boats to ford the river:

In the middle of this din came the order: ‘Get ready!’ We looked at each other. ‘We can’t possibly swim the river!’ said some of my neighbours. Then behind us we heard a yelling as if horses were being driven forward. I looked back and saw that the bridge train was arriving. They rapidly drove the waggons, which were laden with metal boats… down to the river. A large number of sappers came up at the double behind them and in no time at all the boats were unloaded and in the water.

Then came the daunting task of crossing the river under fire:

It was very frightening on the water. We all ducked down into the boats. The shells whoosed overhead while under and around us the water gurgled. Wherever I looked the whole river was seething with boats which were heading as quickly as possible to the opposite bank. Russian shells landed between the boats in the river throwing huge columns of water into the air. Another boat upstream from our suffered a direct hit and sank in a few seconds. The occupants who had not been wounded fought with the waves for a short time and then all disappeared. It sent shivers up my spine.

Finally, after a seeming eternity spent crossing the water the attackers arrived at the opposite shore, where they were happy to discover the remaining defenders had already withdrawn:

Now we had to storm the Russian trenches. That was an easy task. We did not encounter any resistance at all. The trench had largely been flattened. Mutilated corpses of the Russian infantrymen were lying around. Every so often you would encounter an unscathed Russian sitting in the corner of a trench and he would raise his arms in the air when we appeared, in order to surrender.

Over the next few days the German offensive pushed forward from these bridgeheads over the Düna to the east of Riga, threatening to encircle the Russian Twelfth Army. However a fierce holding action, fought in large part by Latvian riflemen, held up the German attackers long enough for the Twelfth Army to retreat towards Petrograd, still mostly intact.

Nonetheless the fall of Riga on September 5, 1917 was a major defeat for the Russians and another demoralizing setback for the Allied war effort, which even official propaganda couldn’t sweep under the rug (top, German troops enter Riga). Marian Baldwin, an American woman volunteering with the Red Cross in France, wrote home on September 8:

Isn’t the Russian news fierce? I’ve never seen anything like the way it has taken the punch out of every one. I was down at the Gare du Nord yesterday doing a little work for the Red Cross, distributing cigarettes, etc., among the outgoing French soldiers. We couldn’t seem to cheer them, and I didn’t see any of the usual smiles. The ray of light which the U.S. troops brought when they began coming over has, for the moment, been completely obliterated. The papers don’t deny that it is the worst blow the Allies have received since the war began, and it is as though a black cloud has descended upon every one.

Of course the effect on Russian morale was even more pronounced. After the disastrous outcome of the Kerensky Offensive, the loss of Riga seemed to show that the Russian Army was essentially unable to defend the homeland. Meanwhile conditions for ordinary soldiers had hardly improved, and in many cases worsened, since the February (March) Revolution. Finally the infamous Order No. 1, issued by the Petrograd Soviet in March 1917, which effectively abolished military rank and with it officers’ authority, encouraged mutiny and insubordination and resulted in a steady stream of dispirited officers resigning their commissions and going home.

Charles Beury, an American representative of the YMCA who visited Russia during this period, painted a portrait of complete disarray in the military:

The demoralization was most noticeable in the army. That fundamental characteristic of any army – discipline – was gone… It was quite unusual to see soldiers marching in uniform ranks. On the contrary, masses of these men were aimlessly wandering about the streets, eating sunflower seeds, overloading the street-cars, and crowding, without tickets, into first-class compartments on passenger trains… In many places we noted the lack of authority of superior officers… Many officers had been shot by their men in payment of old scores…

With disaster looming, the Provisional Government appeared irrelevant while the Petrograd Soviet seemed more concerned with “protecting the revolution” than fighting the external enemy. Against this backdrop one of the last bastions of conservatism in Russia mounted a final, desperate attempt to restore order – and failed spectacularly.

The Kornilov Revolt

For months rumors had been circulating of a military coup to replace the feeble Provisional Government and crush the growing power of the Petrograd Soviet. The flashpoint for the failed military revolt came when Prime Minister Alexander Kerensky asked Kornilov, recently appointed commander-in-chief, to move troops loyal to the Provisional Government from the front to Petrograd in order to shore up the government’s authority versus the Soviet, increasingly dominated by radical socialists including Lenin’s Bolsheviks (below, Kornilov).

Kornilov, reasoning that such half-measures were no longer appropriate, instead led a large force of loyal troops in a march on Petrograd with the intention of purging the Provisional Government of radical elements, suppressing the Soviet, and calling a new Constituent Assembly, claiming that he was doing so at Kerensky’s invitation. However this action was far more extreme than Kerensky had envisioned, and the prime minister feared (probably with good reason) that Kornilov in fact meant to establish himself as a military dictator. Kornilov also earned the hatred of troops loyal to the Soviet with his support for the reinstatement of capital and corporal punishment within the Army.

Unfortunately for the coup plotters, Kornilov’s plans were an open secret, allowing the Provisional Government and Soviet to take measures to suppress it. Ivan Stenvock-Fermor, at the time a 19-year-old junior officer, noted that the coup preparations were widely known in Petrograd, giving the whole thing a distinctly amateurish feel: “… Conspiracy? But what kind of conspiracy was it? Once when I went to have lunch in one of the restaurants… all the people I met there were also discussing the details of the same conspiracy… This plot and the impending coup seemed to me very childish, and childish it was.”

Nonetheless the Kornilov Revolt threatened to galvanize conservative opposition to both the Soviet and the Provisional Government. Anton Denikin, commander of the southern sector of the Eastern Front, recorded Kornilov’s message to the Russian people after Kerensky tried to remove him from command, moving him to open revolt:

People of Russia. Our great Motherland is dying. Her end is near. Forced to speak openly, I, General Kornilov, declare that the Provisional Government, under pressure from the Bolshevik majority in the Soviets, is acting in complete accordance with the plans of the German General Staff and simultaneously with the landing of enemy troops near Riga, is killing the Army, and convulsing the country internally. The solemn certainty of the doom of our country drives me in these terrible times to call upon all Russians to save their dying native land… I, General Kornilov, son of a peasant Cossack, announce to all and everyone that I personally desire nothing save the preservation of our great Russia, and vow to lead the people, through victory over our enemies, to a Constituent Assembly, when they themselves will settle their fate and select the form of our new national life. I cannot betray Russia in the hands of her ancient enemy – the German race! – and make the Russian people German slaves… People of Russia, in your hands lies the life of your native land!

Faced with this apparent attempt at counter-revolution, Kerensky took the extreme – and extremely unwise – measure of arming radical forces loyal to the Soviet, including the Bolsheviks, who had already been building their own paramilitary force in the form of the Red Guards. He also submitted to the Soviet’s demand that the government release leading socialists imprisoned after the unsuccessful Bolshevik coup attempt in July, including Trotsky. Kornilov and his associates were imprisoned by socialist troops loyal to the Soviet, and dozens of officers suspected of supporting the counter-revolution were arrested.

Ever the opportunist, Kerensky then presented himself to the conservative elements of Russian society as the only force able to contain the looming Bolshevik menace. In the short term this move allowed Kerensky to make himself virtual dictator of Russia, while declaring the country a Republic as a fig leaf for this power grab – but in reality it spelled the end of his authority, as both left- and rightwing factions now distrusted him for what they viewed as serial betrayals. Bolshevik power was growing by leaps and bounds: by the end of September 1917 Lenin’s party had 400,000 members, up from 24,000 at the beginning of the year.

The days of the Provisional Government were clearly numbered. On September 13, 1917, the anonymous Englishman believed to be the diplomatic courier Albert Henry Stopford wrote in his diary:

As the Kornilov attempt to bring order has failed, I will tell you what I foresee now, for the cards are shuffled again. Kerenski is already in the hands of the Soviet. The Soviet now have virtually full power, and the Bolsheviki will become more daring and try to turn out the Government; then would come anarchy, with 70,000 workmen fully armed. With the Bolsheviki are all the criminal classes. The failure of Kornilov has completely knocked me over, yesterday I could not walk. I still foresee an ocean of blood before order comes.

See the previous installment or all entries.

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15 Facts About Franz Marc's Yellow Cow
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To gaze upon German Expressionist Franz Marc's Yellow Cow is to take in a surreal and spirited painting, alive with color. But within its bold brush strokes and envelope-pushing aesthetic lies the unexpected story of a complicated love between two artists, and the path that led them together.


Philosophy student-turned-painter Franz Marc attended the Munich Academy of Art during the turn of the 20th century. There, he studied natural realism, striving to capture his subjects in portraits true to dimension, gesture, and color. In 1902, he created Portrait of the Artist's Mother, which immortalized homemaker and devout Calvinist Sophie Marc. Sitting in profile, she leans over a book, reading by the light of an unseen lantern. Though Marc would become known for his vibrant color choices, here he favored darker shades that gave the painting a flat appearance, and a somber mood.


In the early 20th century, Germany was in the midst of a back-to-nature movement, which saw several new artist collectives and nudist colonies pop up around the country. This celebration of the glory of the land and its natural inhabitants spoke to Marc, who later explained, "People with their lack of piety, especially men, never touched my true feelings. But animals with their virginal sense of life awakened all that was good in me."


Like the naturalists, Marc came to value the rural wonders of the country. He abandoned the bustle and urban intellectualism of Munich, and sought the spirituality and peace he believed could be found in living simply, as animals do. He began to think of them as having a "god-like presence and power." In a 1908 letter, Marc attempted to detail how this belief was informing his work, writing, "I am trying to intensify my ability to sense the organic rhythm that beats in all things, to develop a pantheistic sympathy for the trembling flow of blood in nature, in trees, in animals, in air—I am trying to make a picture of it … with colors which make a mockery of the old kind of studio picture."


This is an image of Dog Lying in the Snow by Franz Marc
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By 1907, Marc was focusing his work on capturing the spiritualism found in animals. Other notable works in the vein include The Fox, Dog Lying In The Snow, The Little Blue Horses, The Red Bull, Little Monkey, Monkey Frieze, Wild Boars in the Water, and The Tiger.


Measuring 55 3/8 by 74 1/2 inches, it's nearly 5 by 6 feet wide.


This is an image of Self-portrait by August Macke.
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Colors would recur in Marc's work and speak to different emotions or themes. In 1910, he explained his use of color in a letter to friend and colleague, artist August Macke. Marc wrote, "Blue is the male principle, astringent and spiritual. Yellow is the female principle, gentle, gay, and spiritual. Red is matter, brutal and heavy and always the color to be opposed and overcome by the other two."


Exploring the painter's works and statements on his use of color, art historian Mark Rosenthal declared that the frolicking cow is actually a veiled depiction of Marc's second wife Maria Franck, while the distant blue mountains are meant to represent the painter himself. Painted the same year the couple were married, it times out to potentially be representative of their nuptials. The blending of the blue into the cow's spots suggests the joining of masculine and feminine.


In 1906, before they were married, Marc had sketched a more traditional portrait of his wife-to-be, titled simply Mädchenkopf, which translates—rather unsentimentally—to "girl's head." That same year, he captured Franck in the abstract painting Two Women on the Hillside. Later, he created Maria Franck in a White Cap.


An artist in her own right, Franck met Marc at a costume ball in Schwabing, Germany. The pair hit it off, and also befriended illustrator Marie Schnür, resulting in a shared Bavarian summer of creativity (and rumored three-way trysts). Schnür was the other woman who modeled for Two Women on the Hillside, as well as the other woman captured in a NSFW photo from their formative season in the sun. Marc ended up marrying both women, starting with Schnür.

Theirs was a marriage of convenience, meant to aid her in securing custody of her bastard baby boy, whom she had with another man. Details on this marriage are scant beyond that it was brief, lasting from 1907 to 1908. However, because Schnür accused Marc of infidelity, he was barred from remarrying until a special dispensation was granted, which took years. So while Marc and Franck had tried to wed in 1911, their official "I do" didn't come until June 3, 1913, in Munich.


This is an image of Two Women on the Hillside by Franz Marc.
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Looking back on 1906's Two Women on the Hillside, it seems to foretell Yellow Cow. Depicting the two women who, in their own ways, would inspire Yellow Cow, Marc moved away from the German realist art he studied in college. Instead, looser brush strokes speak to Post-Impressionist interests, and the willful abstractness of its subjects predicts the evolving German expressionism movement of which he would become a part. It also shows repetition in the lines—of the woman's hip to the hill beyond—that would be revisited in Yellow Cow, whose haunches mirror the rise and fall of the mountains behind her.


Named for a Wassily Kandinsky painting, this movement boasted members like Kandinsky, Marc, Macke, Alexej von Jawlensky, Marianne von Werefkin, and Gabriele Münter. Der Blaue Reiter (translating to The Blue Rider) had no hard manifesto, but its members shared a common urge to express spiritualism through their work, and often specifically through color. Turned away from exhibitions, they toured with their own, and published an almanac that celebrated contemporary, primitive, and folk art, along with children's paintings.


The Blue Rider movement only lasted from 1911 to 1914, in large part because the tensions growing between nations chased Russian artists back to their homeland, while Germans, including Marc and Macke, were conscripted into military service. As these artistic colleagues scattered, their movement faded. But it proved fundamental to the evolving Expressionism, and its works would remain.


Marc's animal paintings would go on to awe viewers for decades to come. They'd become coveted by collectors and museums. And a plaque would be placed on the Munich home where he was born, remembering him as a founder of Der Blaue Reiter. But Marc was killed on March 4, 1916, during the Battle of Verdun. He was 36 years old.


This is an image of art historian, Klaus Lankheit.
Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain

Marc's widow gave records of his life and writing to German art historian Klaus Lankheit. She called on German writer/gallery owner Herwarth Walden to exhibit her late husband's works in a posthumous show in October of 1916. While continuing to create and exhibit her own work, she collected Marc's letters from the war's front, and in 1920 had them published in a two-volume book called Briefe, Aufzeichnungen und Aphorismen (translating to Letters, Records, and Aphorisms). According to the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, where a copy of each is preserved, "The first volume contains letters written from September 1914 to March 1916 as well as records alongside color plates, and the second presents the artist’s sketchbook." Franck preserved Marc's legacy in whatever way she could, and in doing so, gave him to the world.


While it might not sound complimentary to compare your wife to a cow, the consensus on Yellow Cow is that it signifies the happiness and bliss Marc's bond with Franck brought to his life. The bovine's bright colors are jubilant and yet the colors of her body jibe with those in her environment. She belongs here. Her pose is enthusiastic and bold—almost dance-like. If you look closely, you can even see a small smile play across her lips. It's an unusual love letter, but one that's outlived its lovers, and now hangs on the walls of the Guggenheim in New York City, to inspire many more.


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