The year was 1922. Dada was dead, Surrealism not yet born. Max Ernst, a fledgling artist who had figured prominently in the former movement and would soon help formulate the latter, was in his native Cologne, yearning for the radical friends that he knew were spawning the most adventuresome ideas of the day in postwar Paris. For Germans in those days, French visas were almost impossible to obtain. Finally, one August night, Ernst slipped across the border. Later he turned up at the Paris apartment of two friends, the poet Paul Eluard...
To continue reading:
or
Log-In
