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Our lives are full of stories.
There are the stories we are told at childhood
to pass on the rules and regulations, fears and
prejudices, uncertainties and doubts of our parents,
community and society. There are the stories we
tell each other to forge the bonds between us, to
make ourselves appear to be more important or humble,
and to make ourselves feel better, feel less alone
during times of trouble and doubt. Then there are
the stories we tell ourselves to make sense of the
world, to explore our feelings and thoughts, to
construct meaning, to find a steady point amid the
whirlwind and confusion that characterizes most
of our minds.
Then there are the things we tell stories about.
Stories about our world, ourselves, events that
came before us, and what may come after.
This is a story about a picture, about a photograph
that I first saw in a book over fifteen years ago.
The photograph, one of two on a single page, is
of a man walking past a vast field of rubble and
burnt out buildings.
The man in the photograph is in the foreground,
slightly left of center, the top of his head coming
to the middle, approximately level to the top of
the pile of rubble behind him. His gait appears
to be steady, slow and deliberate, as he walks by,
strolls by. Tall and lean wearing a tunic, loose
fitting pants and a jacket.
Though the photograph is in black and white his
clothes appear to be dark in color, perhaps dark
green, brown or dark gray. Bald from the forehead
to the crown of the head, long gray hair flows from
the back and sides. His beard is long and gray as
well. The only visible hand (the right hand) is
partially in his right jacket pocket. He is carrying
a sack, its strap crossing his chest from left to
right. His left leg is straight, the right leg bending
as he prepares to take his next step.
At first it appears as if his presence is the only
sign of visible life in the photo, until closer
examination shows that there is another figure as
well. This figure, standing at the foot of the pile
of rubble to the right of the walking figures’
head, is dressed in a black coat or cloak with a
white collar. Though it is hard to make out any
specific details, the figure appears to be that
of a woman. The pile of rubble is over twice her
height.
Not only have we not noticed her, but neither does
the walking figure. Nor does he seem to notice the
burnt out buildings right behind him, to the left
and to the right, their windows blown out, the roofs
of some of them caved in. Neither does he seem to
notice that someone is taking his picture as he
continues following through on whatever task he
has chosen for that day. Given the surroundings,
given the destruction, the very act of surviving
seems task enough.
The city he is walking through is Munich in 1945.
And when I first saw this photograph I couldn’t
help but wonder if he was walking by in indifference
to or in defiance of the destruction that surrounded
him. But to know that you first need to know about
the man, who he was, what he did. Before we get
to that, let’s take the time to look at another
photograph.
I have long believed that nothing exists on its
own, that no one exists on their own. And stories
need contexts, stories need reference points. That
is where they get their meaning, that is where they
get their strength.
To begin to provide context, because each story
has to go beyond description, let’s return
to the book where I first saw this photograph, to
the very same page where it appeared and to the
photograph beneath it. That photograph shows a group
of people engaging in a rite, a ritual where they
appear to be dancing around in a grove of trees.
This ritual in which so many people are partaking
was inspired by that lone man walking past the ruins
of Munich over fifty years ago. The second photo
is placed in 1978, more than thirty years later.
Twenty years after that lone man died.
That lone man was Arthur “Gusto” Graser,
one of the major figures of the counter culture
in Europe in the early twentieth century, and his
story is well told in the book in which both of
these photographs appear (Mountain of Truth
by Martin Green). Though he was an important representative
of this early flowering of the protest against modern
industrial civilization, his story is not a well-known
one.
Gusto Graser was never the leader of any group
or social movement, nor did he publish any great
works of political theory or literature. This is
why he may have been forgotten, and this is exactly
why he should be remembered, why this story, Gusto’s
story, the story in the photographs, is important
for me to tell.
Stories provide lessons, examples. When I look
at these photographs, the story I find is a story
of hope, a story of possibilities. The story of
how one man engaging the world provided, and provides,
an example for others to find their own ways to
become so engaged.
This is a story of both indifference and defiance.
Indifference to the social mores, the everyday
political concerns, and those day-to-day things
in all our lives that make us all fearful and complacent.
Defiance against corrupt and destructive political
authority.
Gusto lived as an outsider, as a deviant in a time
and place when deviance could lead to one's imprisonment
or death. The story we can tell through the photograph,
through the photographs, is one of someone who stood
outside of society to show that there were other
ways, other options. It is one of the stories that
we can tell ourselves, that we need to tell ourselves,
as we look for own ways to be engaged in the world.
We are always looking for stories, the stories
we want, the stories we need.
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