Drummer Boys 1935

Editor: So here we have Hugo Gellert's "Drummer Boys" from 1935, created using graphite as a medium. The scene... well, it's a little haunting. The repetitive, almost endless array of crosses just creates this incredibly somber mood. What’s your immediate reading of it? Curator: Haunting is the word, isn’t it? And visually… that relentless repetition gets right under your skin, doesn’t it? You know, it reminds me of my grandmother's garden. Rows and rows of identical blooms, meticulously planted. At first glance, lovely. But then, this suffocating feeling of… control? That’s how Gellert's crosses feel. Are they a tribute? A lament? Or something far more pointed? Given it was 1935, one wonders about the rise of fascism and the human cost of ideological drums beating... Editor: Control, yes, I see that. It almost feels like a manufactured grief. And the graphite adds to that sense of unease, doesn’t it? Curator: Absolutely. It’s that monochrome starkness. He denies us any comfort, any softening. Like a charcoal rubbing from a gravestone, perhaps? What stories lie beneath those identical white shapes? It's interesting, this 'social realism' tag. Where's the "realism", do you think, and where does the social message punch through? Is he inviting empathy or indictment? Editor: That's a great question! I think it’s both. There's a starkness that confronts you, but then you start imagining the individuals behind each cross, and that's where the empathy seeps in. Curator: Precisely. And isn't it curious, this tension between abstraction—the geometric repetition—and raw human loss? I find Gellert brilliantly unsettling here, holding us in this in-between space. It's not comfortable viewing, is it? Editor: Not at all, which I suppose is the point. Thank you, I'm definitely going to look at his other work now with that tension in mind. Curator: Wonderful. May we all find discomforting beauty today!