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For Genet,

Anselm is playing.

Here Kiefer is dressed up in strange clothes,
standing around in strange poses,
and saluting like Hitler has done.

He looks as ridiculous to me,
as Hitler does and I don’t cease to wonder,
that nobody has seen in the thirties
what a funny strange little guy our dark haired Arian leader was.

But of course this could also be a piece about an other Hitler,
who after having been denied twice at the Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna,
other that in real life, finally has been admitted to become an artist, a painter.

Now, in this fictive story,
Hitler is getting up late,
stays all day long in his nightgown,
sometimes he dresses up as a women,
and once in a while he is painting some beautiful aquarelles.

Hitler the artist is living here the empty clichés of an artist,
showing off a pathos that is bound to be sadly funny.

Changing his dresses, Kiefer is changing roles,
hinting at Caspar David Friedrich, or at the breeches of a military uniform.

For Genet,
I have no idea whatever that means.