Kurt Schwitters is a pivotal figure in the modernist revolution, a writer, poet, critic, artist, designer and printer he is well connected in both the Dada movement—his Merz magazine is one of many Dada magazines, and is an example of the new typography that gathered power in the 1920s. He is one of the founding members and chairman (Vorsitz)—as letters written to Piet Zwart clearly state—of the Ring Neue Werbegestalter (the ring of new commercial designers) an organization that would exhibit members work and with the fame gained work for industrial or commercial clients. The members (and guest) list reads like the canon for the modernist movement in typography and design: Walter Dexel, Jan Tschichold, Georg Trump, Piet Zwart, Dick Elffers, Ladislav Sutnar, Karel Teige, Paul Schuitema, Laszlo Moholy-Nagy, Lajos Kassak, Max Burchartz, Cesar Domela, Robert Michel, Max Bill, Friedrich Vordemberge-Gildewart.


Schwitters also worked closely with Theo and Nelly van Doesburg, performing with them in the small dada soirée (Kleine Dada Soirée). He is also famed for his Ursonate (the ancient sonets) which are animal or primitive sounds. These were recorded on an LP during his exile in England. The nine square images of Schwitters are taken by his son Ernst (in 1944) and show him performing the Ursonate.


Schwitters is also known for his collages (both 2 and 3 dimensional). A great deal of his work can be found online at the Sprengel Museum in Hannover. One of my (Switzer) favorite passages about Schwitters (among otherss) is written by Sibyl Moholy-Nagy, Laszlo’s second wife:


Excerpt from: Moholy-Nagy, Experiment in Totality, 1969, pages 100-103

The following night the German Press Association gave a banquet for the Italians, to which we had received an personal invitation from Marinetti. Moholy was unwilling to go. He had been shadowed by the SS; his refusal to submit his paintings to the censorship of the National Socialist Art Chamber to obtain a ‘work permit’ had been followed by threats of arrest. His cleaning woman had stolen his mail and had delivered it to the Blockwart (political block warden), and some of his associates had disappeared mysteriously. He was done with Germany, and on his last night in Berlin he didn’t feel like sitting down with the new rulers. But Kurt Schwitters, who was our house guest at the time, insisted on going, to honor the revolutionary in Marinetti, and he finally persuaded Moholy to join him. ....
The banquet offered a very different picture from the lecture the night before and confirmed all of Moholy’s misgivings. Short of Hitler, all the Nazis were present: Goebbels and Goring, August Wilhelm of Hohenzollern, the president of the Berlin university, Gerhart Hauptmann, once the torchbearer of revolution but now a chipped plaster image of Goethe. Hess was there, and with him was fat Rohm, whose days were already numbered. These officials were sitting along a huge horse-shoe table, while Nazi underlings and the artists whom Marinetti had insisted upon inviting sat at individual tables. Moholy, Schwitters, and I were sandwiched between the head of the National Socialist Organization for Folk Culture, and the leader of the ‘Strength Through Joy’ movement. The disharmony between the guests was accentuated by the absence of speeches and an unlimited consumption of excellent German Rhine wine. Moholy was silent. His face was shuttered, and when our eyes met I saw that he was full of resentment. The more Schwitters drank, the more fondly he regarded his neighbor.
‘I love you, you Cultural Folk and Joy,’ he said. ‘Honestly I love you. You think I’m not worthy of sharing your chamber, your art chamber for strength and folk, ha? I’m and idiot too, and I can prove it.’
Moholy put his hand firmly on Schwitters’ arm and for a few moments he was silent, drinking rapidly and searching the blank face of his neighbor with wild blue eyes. ‘You think I’m a Dadaist, don’t you,’ he suddenly started again. ‘That’s where your wrong, brother. I’m MERZ.’ He thumped his wrinkled dress shirt near his heart. ’I’m Aryan-the great Aryan MERZ. I can think Aryan, paint Aryan, spit Aryan.’ He held an unsteady fist before the man's nose. ‘With this Aryan fist I shall destroy the mistakes of my youth—If you want me to—’ he added in a whisper after a long sip. There was no reaction at all from the ‘Strength Through Joy’ man while the official from the Folk Culture Organization nodded droolingly, his round cheeks puffed up with wine and amazement. Schwitters took a sudden liking to him. ‘Oh joyful babyface,’ he muttered, tears running down his cheeks. ‘You will not prohibit me from MERZing my MERZ art?’ The word ‘prohibit’ had finally penetrated the foggy brain of the ‘Strength Through Joy’ man. ‘Prohibited is prohibited [Verboten ist verboten],’ he said with great firmness and a heavy tongue. ‘And when the Fuhrer says ‘Ja’ he says ‘Ja’ and when the Fuhrer says ‘Nein’ he says ‘Nein’. Heil Hitler!‘

Schwitters looked wildly at Moholy, at me, at Marinetti, but before he could incite anyone to action, Marinetti had risen from his chair. He swayed considerably and his face was purple. ‘My friends,’ he said in French, ‘After the many excellent speeches tonight’—the silent officials winced—‘I feel the urge to thank the great, courageous, high-spirited people of Berlin. I shall recite my poem ‘The Raid on Adrianople.’
There was polite applause. Some nice poetry would break the embarrassing dullness of the dinner.
‘Adrianople est cerne de toutes parts SSSSrrrr zitzitzitzitzi’ roared Marinetti.
‘Ouah ouah ouah. depart des trains suicides, ouah ouah ouah’
The audience gasped, a few hushed giggles were audible.
‘Tchip tchip tchip---feeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelez!’
He grabbed a wineglass and smashed it to the floor.
‘Tchip tchip tchip----des messages telegraphiques, couturieres Americaines.
Piiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing, sssssssssrrrrrrrrr zitzit toum toum Patrou ille tapie----’
Marinetti threw himself over the table.
‘Vaniteeeeee, viande congeleeeeeeee--veilleuse de La Madone.’
expiring almost as a whisper from his lips.
Slowly he slid to the floor, his clentched fingers pulling the tablecloth downward, wine, food, plates, and silverware pouring into the laps of the notables. Schwitters had jumped up at the first sound of the poem. Like a horse at a familiar sound the Dadaist in him responded to the signal. His face flushed, his mouth open, he followed each of Marinetti's moves with his own body. In the momentary silence that followed the climax his eyes met Moholy’s.
‘Oh Anna Blume,’ he whispered, and suddenly breaking out into a roar that drowned the din of protesting voices and scraping chair legs, he thundered:

‘Oh Anna Blume
Du bist von hinten wie von vorn
A-n-n-a.’


This account demonstrates two things, first the strength of conviction to art and Schwitters’ own chaotic driven personality. Second, it shows Schwitters’ fear and ambivalence, even willingness to be a Nazi, if they will only let him keep making his art. Furthermore, it shows how many seemingly unrelated art and design movements were indeed connected or certainly very much aware of each other.