Another big project of my father's were the houses on the "Palmaille," a lovely promenade street running along the high shore parallel with the Elbe river. On the side facing the water stood a row of stately homes which Hitler wanted to have razed so that he could build a parade street to show off his "Brown shirts". Some of these homes were built by C.F Hansen. It horrified my father to have these homes destroyed though I don't know if the owners were equally upset. In any case, he set to work and somehow managed to convince the authorities in Berlin to keep their hands off these buildings.
And he succeeded. Whom he approached in Berlin I don't know since he did not belong to the "Partei" (the Nazi party).
He ended up writing a book about the buildings and the Danes were delighted. So much so that King Christian the Xth gave him a medal for his effort and success. The buildings were put under the "Denkmal Schutz" (Monuments Act), which meant they could not be altered in any way. I do know that years later when business activities started up again in Germany some of the owners were not pleased since they could not utilize the interiors of the buildings for their needs such as office space. Beautiful stately rooms do not lend themselves well to accommodate typing pools, nor is a wonderful view of a busy harbor conducive to concentration on the work at hand.
So I am sorry if my father inconvenienced these families and business but I am glad that we at least have the two books he wrote about C. F. Hansen, the Danish architect building in Germany.
What my father would think of the modern structures being erected in the Hafen City (Harbor City) I can only guess at. Much would be too utilitarian for his taste, but on the other hand he would be pleased that the harbor is utilized in such a positive way such as the concert hall (Elb Philharmony) under construction.
One day, he was 79 years old, he passed a sign sitting in the window of a shipping company offering a cheap fare on a freighter to Egypt. So he booked a passage to Alexandria in order to visit the pyramid of Giza. He was never seasick though otherwise not given to sports activities. He only learned to ride a bicycle when he was 59 years old and at that it took him a long time to negotiate turning corners. But once he had learned he used his bicycle until he was unable to see properly. So the passage to Alexandria through the Bay of Biscay and its stormy weather did not phase him at all.
When they let him off the boat in Alexandria he disappeared into the milling crowds waving his cap. Nasser had just taken over and the population demonstrated in the streets. Somehow my father found a hotel and then a taxi which took him to the pyramid. But it did not return to take him back to the hotel. So my father set off on foot. In order to prevent sunstroke he used the water he had brought to paint his watercolors and sprinkled it on his bald pate. Needless to say, he made it back in one piece to the hotel and back to Hamburg where he proceeded to write a book about his experiences.
Somebody recently said my father must have been lonely in his old age. He was never lonely except right after the war when he felt he had nobody to talk to, meaning, to discuss the issues concerning the destroyed cities. Other, young people, had taken over who ran the show, though not very well at first. So he started writing articles and slowly gathered a group of young people around him who were interested in his opinions.
He was never about himself. He was always about an issue. Neither was he about money in the sense of acquiring
it.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
My father part III
Essentially, Werner Jakstein was an historian who used his job to explore the culture around him. One thing always led to another. Once, visiting a small museum in the north of Germany, he noticed a dusty pack of playing cards lying on the window sill. So he suggested to the museums director to lay out the cards on the table as if people were playing. I don't know if the museum's director followed his advice but my father,
taking a closer look at the cards which were several hundred years old had his interest pricked and he started collecting old playing cards.
His collection, which contained cards from Europe to China via India, over the years grew to be the biggest of its kind in Germany. When he tried to sell it sometime during the Nazi years to an interested American collector, he was forbidden to do so. It was deemed to be too important to leave the country. He sold it after the war to the Altenburger Spielkarten firm in Stuttgard where it became the basic core of their museum. Aside from the fact that now he did not have to worry about the fate of his cards anymore, since neither my sister nor I were able to take them, he was able to hold lectures about their origins.
I don't know if my father became interested in Denmark because of his job in Altona, in any case, he spent quite some time in Kopenhagen, researching the work of the Danish architect C.F. Hansen (1756-1845) who had worked in Altona. He learned to speak and write Danish and in spite of his atrocious accent held often lectures there. Here he also met and married my mother who had partly grown up in Kopenhagen and whose mother was Danish.
Times in Germany were anything but calm, to say the least. The first World war broke out in 1914 and lasted 'til 1918, during which time my father had a desk job, since he was, at 38 years of age, too old to be sent to the front. Then came the hyper-inflation toward the height of which the wives would wait with empty baby buggies on payday to receive the huge bundles of worthless money and dash to the stores to buy whatever they could before the money was devalued again. I was born just after this horror ended. But unrest remained since there was not enough work for the workers.
Though the Deutsche mark was now stable the "Arbeitslosen" (the ones without work) were restless. My father watched them day in day out from his window at his office at townhall standing around idly, waiting for work which did not come. He decided, something needed to be done to help them think about something other then their and their family's misery. He organized cultural events, mostly concerts, asking anybody he could get hold of to donate their time. He had no problem convincing his artist friends to participate but had great difficulty convincing the city fathers to open up the hall without compensation since it would cost money to heat the hall. As history shows, small events such as these were not enough to stem the tide of unrest, later to culminate in the election of Hitler. Since we had moved to the suburbs I never experienced the street fights which raged in the cities.
His collection, which contained cards from Europe to China via India, over the years grew to be the biggest of its kind in Germany. When he tried to sell it sometime during the Nazi years to an interested American collector, he was forbidden to do so. It was deemed to be too important to leave the country. He sold it after the war to the Altenburger Spielkarten firm in Stuttgard where it became the basic core of their museum. Aside from the fact that now he did not have to worry about the fate of his cards anymore, since neither my sister nor I were able to take them, he was able to hold lectures about their origins.
I don't know if my father became interested in Denmark because of his job in Altona, in any case, he spent quite some time in Kopenhagen, researching the work of the Danish architect C.F. Hansen (1756-1845) who had worked in Altona. He learned to speak and write Danish and in spite of his atrocious accent held often lectures there. Here he also met and married my mother who had partly grown up in Kopenhagen and whose mother was Danish.
Times in Germany were anything but calm, to say the least. The first World war broke out in 1914 and lasted 'til 1918, during which time my father had a desk job, since he was, at 38 years of age, too old to be sent to the front. Then came the hyper-inflation toward the height of which the wives would wait with empty baby buggies on payday to receive the huge bundles of worthless money and dash to the stores to buy whatever they could before the money was devalued again. I was born just after this horror ended. But unrest remained since there was not enough work for the workers.
Though the Deutsche mark was now stable the "Arbeitslosen" (the ones without work) were restless. My father watched them day in day out from his window at his office at townhall standing around idly, waiting for work which did not come. He decided, something needed to be done to help them think about something other then their and their family's misery. He organized cultural events, mostly concerts, asking anybody he could get hold of to donate their time. He had no problem convincing his artist friends to participate but had great difficulty convincing the city fathers to open up the hall without compensation since it would cost money to heat the hall. As history shows, small events such as these were not enough to stem the tide of unrest, later to culminate in the election of Hitler. Since we had moved to the suburbs I never experienced the street fights which raged in the cities.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
My father: Part 1
As I am reading, observing, thinking about construction, new or old, commercial or residential, big or small, I cannot help but think back in time, more than 80 years, when I accompanied my father on his walks through the community.
When I was very little, four years old, he was building inspector. Later he was promoted to city planner. Not that I really knew what these titles meant but I could discern that he was always greeted with great respect.When we approached a building site the foreman stepped forward lifting his hat—it was always a hat, not a cap—bowed slightly and said "how do you do, Herr Doctor?" My father, in turn would also lift his hat, smile somewhat awkwardly, replying in kind.
I do not remember ever being bored on these often rather lengthy walks or complaining about being tired. It seems I just trudged along, trying to match my steps tp his strides. He never slowed down and always lectured as we walked. "Look at those windows so close under the roof of that house. It must be hot in the summer in that room." Or: "How do you think they heat that garden-room with a tree growing through the roof and the walls mostly made of glass?" This was clearly a very modern house, and he was not a modern man.
Neither was he young when he married my mother and when I was born. His last name was Jakstein. His passion was the Backstein, Backstein meaning brick. Baked brick.To him the ideal material for building houses in the northern country was brick since it weathered well, could be produced locally and was therefore reasonably priced. Roofs should be pitched so that the snow could slide off when the sun melted it. Needless to say, he was often teased by colleagues about his obsession with the Backstein.
Werner Jakstein was born 1876 in Potsdam, Germany. Potsdam then being the Capital of the Mark Brandenburg, an almost stone's throw from Berlin, the Capital of the young German Empire. Americans may have heard of the town even if they are not very interested in history because it was in Potsdam that Roosevelt, Stalin and Churchill sealed German's fate for the post-war years. At the time my father lived there it was a very important municipal seat. His father had an IMPORTANT job but I don't know what which entailed, among other duties, to stand at the side of a red carpet clad in tails and top hat awaiting the arrival of some member of the imperial family. I am sure he had other duties but it seems he was always home for dinner. I am sure he was a very nice man but probably not very interesting. Though, I am sure, very pious. His wife, my grandmother, was the person with talent in that family. She had gone to art school in Berlin and our family was blessed with many copies of famous Rembrandt paintings. Some of them have survived the war and are now hanging in my little apartment in Brooklyn.
Not only was Potsdam an important municipal seat but it also had been the summer seat of Frederick the Great's who built Schloss Sansoussi, the castle where he was able to persue the entire scope of his interests. When I was a child visiting my god-mother Tutti, every year we took at least one walk to the park of Sanssoussi, stopping at the goldfish pond at the bottom of the steps before slowly ascending to the castle finally arriving in the room where the chair stood in which Frederick had died. I was very surprised not to see any blood. I suppose at that time all I knew about kings dying were battles and wounds.
This then, in a very brief overview, was the environment in which my father the future city-planner grew up. Provincial town steeped in tradition and pursuit of artistic life and the hustle and bustle of Germany's capital Berlin where he later studied when he did not travel.
When I was very little, four years old, he was building inspector. Later he was promoted to city planner. Not that I really knew what these titles meant but I could discern that he was always greeted with great respect.When we approached a building site the foreman stepped forward lifting his hat—it was always a hat, not a cap—bowed slightly and said "how do you do, Herr Doctor?" My father, in turn would also lift his hat, smile somewhat awkwardly, replying in kind.
I do not remember ever being bored on these often rather lengthy walks or complaining about being tired. It seems I just trudged along, trying to match my steps tp his strides. He never slowed down and always lectured as we walked. "Look at those windows so close under the roof of that house. It must be hot in the summer in that room." Or: "How do you think they heat that garden-room with a tree growing through the roof and the walls mostly made of glass?" This was clearly a very modern house, and he was not a modern man.
Neither was he young when he married my mother and when I was born. His last name was Jakstein. His passion was the Backstein, Backstein meaning brick. Baked brick.To him the ideal material for building houses in the northern country was brick since it weathered well, could be produced locally and was therefore reasonably priced. Roofs should be pitched so that the snow could slide off when the sun melted it. Needless to say, he was often teased by colleagues about his obsession with the Backstein.
Werner Jakstein was born 1876 in Potsdam, Germany. Potsdam then being the Capital of the Mark Brandenburg, an almost stone's throw from Berlin, the Capital of the young German Empire. Americans may have heard of the town even if they are not very interested in history because it was in Potsdam that Roosevelt, Stalin and Churchill sealed German's fate for the post-war years. At the time my father lived there it was a very important municipal seat. His father had an IMPORTANT job but I don't know what which entailed, among other duties, to stand at the side of a red carpet clad in tails and top hat awaiting the arrival of some member of the imperial family. I am sure he had other duties but it seems he was always home for dinner. I am sure he was a very nice man but probably not very interesting. Though, I am sure, very pious. His wife, my grandmother, was the person with talent in that family. She had gone to art school in Berlin and our family was blessed with many copies of famous Rembrandt paintings. Some of them have survived the war and are now hanging in my little apartment in Brooklyn.
Not only was Potsdam an important municipal seat but it also had been the summer seat of Frederick the Great's who built Schloss Sansoussi, the castle where he was able to persue the entire scope of his interests. When I was a child visiting my god-mother Tutti, every year we took at least one walk to the park of Sanssoussi, stopping at the goldfish pond at the bottom of the steps before slowly ascending to the castle finally arriving in the room where the chair stood in which Frederick had died. I was very surprised not to see any blood. I suppose at that time all I knew about kings dying were battles and wounds.
This then, in a very brief overview, was the environment in which my father the future city-planner grew up. Provincial town steeped in tradition and pursuit of artistic life and the hustle and bustle of Germany's capital Berlin where he later studied when he did not travel.
Friday, December 16, 2011
My father part II
Here in Potsdam he went to the gymnasium, which is what the High School for boys was then called. There were no Majors as they are known here in the U.S. The subjects were: Physics, Chemistry, Biology and Zoology, Algebra and Geometry and, of course, languages. Aside from German he had English, French, Latin and Greek. He was not a very good student but managed to pass his exams for the Abitur, the final exam, without which he would not have been able to enroll at University. After many years of studying, or pretending to study, he received a degree in Engineering for Architecture.
He spent much of his student years traveling, pursuing different interests, visiting the museums and churches or any building he considered worthy of his attention. In 1910 he finally settled down and took the job as building inspector in Altona, Hamburg's smaller neighbor long since incorporated into Hamburg.
Altona, many years ago, had started out as a fishing community by the Elbe river right next to the big harbor of Hamburg. Though never achieving the importance of Hamburg it nevertheless grew into a sizable town under the auspices of the Danish King who, until 1866, ruled the Province of Schlesswig Holstein which, in turn, at that time belonged to the Kingdom of Prussia. Here my father spent his years until his retirement and beyond. He was fascinated with the old part of Altona when it was not much more than a village and whenever he discovered a house, no matter how humble, which clearly still belonged to the past he painted a water color of it since he did not like photography.
At one point he wrote a book which he called "Liebe alte Stadt" "Dear old town". For many years this book was a collector's item. The water colors were stored in archives in Altona and over the years have disappeared into apartments of municipal employees.
He spent much of his student years traveling, pursuing different interests, visiting the museums and churches or any building he considered worthy of his attention. In 1910 he finally settled down and took the job as building inspector in Altona, Hamburg's smaller neighbor long since incorporated into Hamburg.
Altona, many years ago, had started out as a fishing community by the Elbe river right next to the big harbor of Hamburg. Though never achieving the importance of Hamburg it nevertheless grew into a sizable town under the auspices of the Danish King who, until 1866, ruled the Province of Schlesswig Holstein which, in turn, at that time belonged to the Kingdom of Prussia. Here my father spent his years until his retirement and beyond. He was fascinated with the old part of Altona when it was not much more than a village and whenever he discovered a house, no matter how humble, which clearly still belonged to the past he painted a water color of it since he did not like photography.
At one point he wrote a book which he called "Liebe alte Stadt" "Dear old town". For many years this book was a collector's item. The water colors were stored in archives in Altona and over the years have disappeared into apartments of municipal employees.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)