February 1st, 1921, Amsterdam: "Dinner with Einstein. Talked about God and Humanity. I said: 'The human with his endlessly colourful fantasy and intelligence rests in God like the pearl in the oyster.' To which Einstein countered: 'On the contrary, the deeper one drills down into nature the more respect one has for God.'
Imagine a man sitting at a café table in Weimar in the 1920s. Impeccably dressed — tailored suit, elegant cane, an aristocratic bearing. But if you lean closer, you’ll notice he’s scribbling in a small notebook, recording, in piercing detail, what he’s seeing around him.
The man is Count Harry Kessler. He was called the Red Count — an aristocratic socialist, a product of privilege and a social reformer, a soldier and a pacifist, a patron of avant-garde art and high culture. Born into a wealthy Anglo-German family and spent his life in a constant balancing act: between Germany and France, tradition and modernism, between the old Europe of emperors and the volatile new Europe of revolutions, avant-garde art, nightclubs, and dictators.
Welcome to The Weimar Spectacle, where I explore the brief and extraordinary life of the Weimar Republic. I’m Bremner Fletcher Duthie, singer, actor and theatre maker. I’ve spent years performing songs and theatre from the Weimar period, and I’m inspired and maybe more than a little obsessed by that moment in time. I’ll put images for this episode onto my website: bremnersings.com. Just click on the Weimar Podcast link on the site. So, as you know, my big, big absurd idea for these podcasts, is that the Weimar Republic invented everything about the modern world, and we are all still dealing with the possibilities and problems it gave to us. To prove this possibly unprovable idea, I’ll be exploring the arts, politics, science, architecture, social innovations of the Weimar period, and of course, the terrible and irresistible rise of the Nazi Party.
Listen to Bremner's two albums of Weimar Cabaret songs
https://songwhip.com/bremnerduthie/bremner-sings-weill
https://songwhip.com/bremnerduthie/bremner-sings-kurt-weill-vol-2-moon-faced-starry-eyed
Count Harry Kessler is remembered today less for what he did — though he did quite a lot — than for what he wrote. His diaries, kept over six decades, are among the most extraordinary documents of the twentieth century. They record conversations with everyone from Rodin and Rilke to Einstein, Strauss, Cocteau, Hofmannsthal, and Diaghilev. They also record his impressions of the great turning points of modern history: the First World War, the Weimar Republic, the rise of Nazism. Kessler was very much a man of his moment, restless, visionary, and conflicted. His diaries span half a century and read like backstage passes to European intellectual history. He saw it all coming: the collapse of empires, the rise of totalitarianism, and he feared it would mean the end of European civilization.
In this episode, we’re going to trace the arc of Harry Kessler’s life, with special attention to his Weimar years — when he tried, with extraordinary energy, to build cultural bridges across a divided Europe. I’ll take a look at his privileged origins, his aesthetic vision, his wartime disillusionment, and his relentless advocacy for art as a force for peace and meaning.
Welcome to the story of a man who saw Europe through its most dramatic transformations—from Belle Époque salons to the blood-soaked trenches of World War I, and the avant-garde heart of Weimar modernism. A diplomat, diarist, publisher, pacifist, aesthete, and cultural lightning rod. He spent his youth shuttling between Paris, London, and Germany—absorbing languages, mannerisms, and a sense of the world’s interconnectedness that would define him. Educated at elite schools, he grew into the image of the cultured European gentleman. Travels to Italy and Greece began his interest in classical ideals of beauty and form, setting the tone for his lifelong pursuit: to reimagine art as a transcendent, unifying force for good.
🏛️ ACT I: ORIGINS AND PRIVILEGE
Count Harry Kessler was born in Paris on May 23, 1868. His father, Adolf Wilhelm Kessler, was a banker from Hamburg. His mother, Alice Harriett Blosse-Lynch, was Anglo-Irish with aristocratic ties from a distinguished family in County Clare.
Alice Harriett Blosse-Lynch
So right from birth, Harry belonged to two worlds: the German bourgeoisie and the Anglo-Irish gentry.Kessler’s upbringing was multilingual, multicultural, and transnational. There were many rumours about a supposed affair between Kaiser Wilhelm I and Countess Alice Kessler. The swift rise of the Kessler family led to a legend that either Harry or his sister were the illegitimate offspring of the Emperor and Countess Alice Kessler. Adolf Wilhelm Kessler was ennobled in 1879 and again in 1881, Harry inheriting the titles on his father's death. This dual heritage gave him, as one biographer put it, “the consciousness of a European rather than a national.” He would never quite belong to one country. He was German, yes — but he grew up speaking fluent English and French, spending his childhood moving between Paris, Hamburg, and the English countryside.
He was educated first in Paris and then, from 1880, in St. George's School, Ascot, an English boarding school where one of his classmates was Winston Churchill. He was given governesses, tutors, summer trips to spas, grand tours of Italy. But young Harry was bookish, precocious, hungry for culture. He devoured Goethe, Shakespeare, the French symbolists. He studied law in Bonn and Leipzig. His diaries from these years reveal a young man already both deeply self-conscious and deeply ambitious.
Here’s a line from one of his early diary entries, written when he was barely twenty: “I feel I am destined to stand between nations — to absorb the best of each and to create a synthesis, a harmony that is lacking in our divided Europe.” It sounds pretentious. But in a way, that’s exactly what Kessler spent his life trying to do.
While at university, he became fascinated with art and philosophy. He traveled frequently to Paris, where he mingled in salons and galleries. As a university student, Kessler was among a group of students invited in 1891 to see the former chancellor Otto Von Bismarck at his residence in Kissingen.
After spending an afternoon drinking coffee with Bismarck, Kessler wrote that Bismarck still had an impressive voice, but "the longer and apparently the [more] freely the prince spoke, the more the feeling of numbed helplessness grew stronger...His conversation had something ghost-like, as if we hauled him from the company of dead contemporaries out of the grave" He met artists like Pierre Bonnard and Auguste Rodin. He also discovered the intoxicating world of Wagnerian opera — the Gesamtkunstwerk, the “total work of art” that would combine music, poetry, and drama. Wagner’s vision of art as a transformative — almost religious power — hit Kessler like lightning.
Back in Germany, Kessler began to move in elite circles. His charm, wealth, and cosmopolitan flair made him a welcome guest. But he was not content to simply drift as a dilettante. He wanted to shape culture. He wanted to be a mediator between old traditions and new movements.
By the 1890s, the young Kessler was in love with the modern, gravitating to artists and thinkers who were pushing the boundaries of their forms: Auguste Rodin, Édouard Vuillard, Hugo von Hofmannsthal. Kessler became director of the Museum of Decorative Arts in Weimar, where he revolutionized curatorial practice and championed Art Nouveau.
Rodin and a painting by Édouard Vuillard
Kessler was a great believer in the concept of Bildung, an untranslatable German word that refers to a process of artistic and moral self-cultivation. The concept of bildung holds that if a person listens to beautiful music; reads great books and poems; admires beautiful paintings, architecture, and sculpture; and so forth that eventually it will make a person into spiritually a better human being.
One of his earliest and most important friendships was with Hugo von Hofmannsthal, the Austrian poet and playwright. They met in the 1890s, when Hofmannsthal was just beginning his meteoric career. Hofmannsthal later wrote of Kessler: “He seemed to me a man born to be at the center of things — a man who could speak with princes and with painters, with generals and with poets, and find the thread that bound them all.”
That thread — the belief that art and culture could unify, and give meaning to a life and an era — would define Kessler’s life.
By the late 1890s, he was publishing art criticism, writing essays, and building friendships with artists across Europe. His diaries from these years are full of sharp, witty sketches of people he encountered: a dinner with Bonnard in Paris, a lecture by Nietzsche’s disciple in Leipzig, a night at the opera in Vienna. He writes: “We sat in Rodin’s studio until dusk, the smell of clay and plaster in the air, the half-finished figures looming like gods. Rodin spoke little, but his silence was itself like a kind of discourse — a weight pressing upon us. I felt in that moment that art, true art, was a form of religion.”
By the turn of the century, Harry Kessler had fashioned himself into something unusual: a cosmopolitan aristocrat who was also a modernist, a mediator between German tradition and European avant-garde, and a diarist who was already beginning to see himself as a witness to history. He was instrumental in introducing French and British avant-garde ideas into German circles, especially through connections with figures like Stéphane Mallarmé and Oscar Wilde. His circle included writers, sculptors, composers, and designers—an intellectual salon spread across Europe. He thought of himself as a conduit between cultures. His cultural diplomacy tried to forge connections between different countries through shared artistic vision, long before UNESCO or the European Union imagined such a thing. Like all other German homosexuals at the time, Kessler lived in fear of being convicted under Paragraph 175 of the German criminal code that banned homosexual acts in the Reich. A key element in Kessler's politics was a call for "a version of sexual liberation, of uninhibited sensuality" to create a society free of the "“hypertrophy of shame" around human sexuality. Kessler was greatly heartbroken when one of his lovers, the handsome Bavarian aristocrat and officer cadet, Otto von Dungern, chose to marry in order to improve his prospects of promotion, which ended their relationship.
In 1904, at 36, he founded the Cranach Press, named after the German Renaissance painter Lucas Cranach. Its goal was ambitious: to produce books that were artworks in themselves. The press published stunning editions, including Shakespeare's Hamlet with woodcuts by Edward Gordon Craig and translations by Kessler’s friend Gerhart Hauptmann.
When we think of Germany under Kaiser Wilhelm II, we often picture a stiff, militaristic society — spiked helmets, parades, the heavy architecture of empire. But beneath that surface, there was a restless ferment in art and culture. Modernism was bubbling up. Art Nouveau, Symbolism, new ideas about design and aesthetics were challenging the stiff official culture. And Harry Kessler was right in the middle of it.
One of his great projects was his involvement with the German Werkbund, a group of artists, designers, and industrialists who wanted to improve everyday life through better design. He collaborated with Henry van de Velde, the Belgian Art Nouveau designer. Together, they promoted a vision of art that was functional, elegant, and democratic.
An example of Werkbund craftsmanship
This was radical for Wilhelmine Germany, where official taste was heavy, historicist, full of neoclassical bombast. A diary entry from 1902 captures his role as connector:
“At lunch with Hofmannsthal, I spoke of Rodin and Bonnard, and in the evening with van de Velde I argued for a German style that could match the French. Always I feel myself standing on a bridge, one foot in France, one in Germany, carrying fragments across.”
In the rigid, nationalistic atmosphere of Wilhelmine Germany, Kessler’s cosmopolitanism aroused suspicion. His political liberalism and openness to French influence earned him the nickname “The Red Count.” It was not meant as a compliment. Conservatives considered him decadent, unpatriotic. But Kessler thrived on being an outsider and seemed to believe that by positioning himself on the margins — between nations, between movements — he could see more clearly.
His friendships deepened. He and Hofmannsthal collaborated on artistic projects. He supported Richard Strauss, who was then revolutionizing opera with works like Salome and Elektra. In 1907, he became director of the Weimar Museum of Art. There he championed modern art, collecting works that shocked the conservative public. He also turned the museum into a hub of intellectual exchange. A friend later remarked: “In Kessler’s salon one might meet a general, a ballet dancer, a socialist deputy, and a French poet — all in the same evening, all speaking as if they belonged together. It was a miracle of harmony, though it rarely lasted beyond midnight.” That “miracle of harmony” was Kessler’s dream — that art could dissolve boundaries, could unite people across classes and nations.
Part III: The War Years (1914–1918)
When the First World War broke out in August 1914, Kessler was forty-six years old. World War I laid down battle lines that Kessler had spent his life trying to avoid. He could have sat it out. He was rich, aristocratic, cosmopolitan. But he volunteered for service.
He was commissioned as an officer and served on the Western Front. His diaries from the war years are among the most remarkable records we have — not just of battles, but of the psychological and cultural impact of the war. In September 1914, after witnessing the aftermath of the Battle of the Marne, he wrote: “The earth itself seemed to have bled. Fields churned into mud, the bodies of boys lying twisted as if asleep, and over all a silence so deep it seemed indecent to breathe. This is not war as we imagined it — this is organized suicide.”
Kessler fought bravely. He was awarded the Iron Cross. But the war shook him to his core. He moved between the trenches and the salons of Berlin, where he attended dinners with diplomats and artists. The contrast was unbearable. At one point, he wrote bitterly: “In Berlin, champagne flows and the ladies chatter about uniforms. At the front, boys drown in shell craters. Europe is eating itself alive.” His cosmopolitan faith — that art and culture could unify nations — seemed grotesquely naïve in the face of mechanized slaughter. And yet, even during the war, he clung to it. He worked on cultural diplomacy, trying to maintain contacts with intellectuals in neutral countries. He believed that after the war, Europe would need a new cultural order.
On 20 May 1916, Kessler was honorably discharged from the Prussian Army as unsuitable for further military service following a doctor's report that Verdun had psychologically broken him. At the end of the war, Germany was totally defeated, the Kaiser fled, the empire collapsed, revolution erupted in Berlin. Kessler, like so many of his class, saw the world he had known disintegrate overnight. In December 1918, he returned to his estate in Weimar, recording that although the house seemed unchanged from 1913 and his old servants and pets greeted him with affection, his collections of paintings, statues, books and mementos reflected a European intellectual and cultural community which was now "dead, missing, scattered .. or become enemies". In December 1918, he visited the former Imperial Palace in Berlin, which had been looted by the mutinous sailors of the High Seas Fleet who had just staged the November Revolution that had toppled the ancient House of Hohenzollern along with the rest of Germany's royal families.
Kessler wrote in his diary after viewing the looted palace: "“But these private apartments, the furniture, the articles of everyday use...are so insipid and tasteless, so philistine, that it is difficult to feel much indignation against the pilferers. Only astonishment that the wretched, timid, unimaginative creatures who liked this trash, and frittered away their life in this precious palatial haven, amidst lackeys and sycophants, could ever make any impact on history.” Writing about the former Emperor, Wilhelm II, a man whom he always disliked, Kessler called him: "this nincompoop and swaggerer who plunged Germany into misfortune...Not a facet of him is capable of arousing pity or sympathy."
One of his last wartime diary entries reads: “We stand among ruins. The monuments of our fathers lie broken. What remains? Perhaps only this — to build anew, from art, from spirit, from whatever still breathes.” That would be his mission in the years ahead: to build anew. The Weimar Republic, fragile and chaotic, became the stage on which Kessler would attempt his most ambitious experiments. He proposed a European cultural union and met with leaders across France, England, and Germany to push for diplomatic alternatives. He helped found the German Peace Society and campaigned vigorously for reconciliation. He envisioned a Europe united by art, not boundaries. His pamphlets and speeches from this period bristle with urgency—pleading against vindictiveness and for visionary peace.
For Harry Kessler, the end of the war was a moment of possibility. If the old Europe had collapsed, maybe — just maybe — something new could be built from its ashes. Kessler met and was actively engaged in correspondence with a number of leading figures in Europe such as Albert Einstein, André Gide, Jean Cocteau, Virginia Woolf, Marcel Proust, George Bernard Shaw, Isadora Duncan, and Josephine Baker. In 1919, he wrote a "plan for a League Of Nations. The purpose of this was above all to prevent new wars, securing human rights and the regulation of world trade. He saw culture not as decoration but as a vital force that could bind nations together. In his diary in 1919, he wrote: “The politicians are drawing borders in ink and blood. But the only borders that matter are those that art erases. If we cannot create a European spirit, Versailles will be nothing but a truce before the next catastrophe.”
Kessler’s most ambitious project was the Cranach Press, which he had founded in Weimar before the war but which blossomed in the 1920s. This was not just a publishing house — it was a cultural experiment. Kessler wanted to create books that were works of art in themselves, combining the finest typography, paper, illustration, and translation.
He poured enormous energy and money into it. One of the most famous Cranach Press productions was Shakespeare’s Hamlet, published in 1929. It was a masterpiece: printed in a typeface designed by the English calligrapher Edward Johnston, illustrated with stark woodcuts by Eric Gill, and translated into German by Gerhart Hauptmann, the Nobel Prize–winning playwright. Kessler wanted this book to be more than a book. He wanted it to be a symbol — of European cooperation, of the marriage of English, German, and classical traditions. As he wrote in his diary: “Hamlet is not merely English. He is European — a mirror of our divided soul. To give him form anew is to bind England and Germany together, even after war.”
The Cranach Press also produced editions of Goethe, Virgil, Homer. Each was crafted with obsessive care. Kessler spared no expense. To some, it seemed insane — at a time when ordinary Germans were struggling to buy bread, here was a count producing luxury books for a tiny elite. But Kessler believed that beauty was not a luxury; it was essential.
Alongside his publishing, Kessler threw himself into cultural diplomacy. He traveled constantly — to Paris, London, Geneva, Rome — meeting politicians, artists, and intellectuals. He hoped to use his networks to rebuild trust between Germany and its former enemies. In 1922, for example, he attended the Genoa Conference, a major diplomatic gathering. But instead of focusing on reparations or borders, Kessler lobbied for cultural exchanges, art exhibitions, translations of literature. He once described himself half-jokingly as “an ambassador of culture without portfolio.” He was tireless. In Paris he met Jean Cocteau, André Gide, Picasso. In Berlin he dined with Einstein, George Grosz, Walter Gropius. In Vienna he visited Hofmannsthal and Stefan Zweig. His diaries are like a who’s who of interwar Europe. One French writer marveled: “Kessler seemed to know everyone — and not just to know them, but to bind them, like pearls on a string. With him, a conversation over dinner became a negotiation between nations.”
But not everyone admired him. German nationalists loathed him. To them, he was a symbol of cosmopolitan decadence — half-English, half-Irish, too French in taste, too liberal in politics. A traitor to the German spirit.
Berlin Nights
If Weimar was a republic of creativity then nowhere was that more vibrant than in Berlin. The city in the 1920s was electric — nightclubs, cabaret, jazz, avant-garde theatre, Bauhaus architecture. It was a playground for experimentation and a refuge for outsiders. Kessler, naturally, was in the thick of it. His diaries record evenings at cabarets where Marlene Dietrich sang, afternoons in studios with painters like Max Beckmann, nights at the opera with Richard Strauss.
In 1923, during the hyperinflation crisis, he wrote: “Tonight the cabaret was delirious. Banknotes fluttered like confetti. Men drank champagne by the crate while children begged in the streets. Berlin is dancing on a volcano.”
Kessler was not a politician in the narrow sense, but he could not ignore politics. He attended the Weimar National Assembly, observed debates on the new constitution, dined with ministers and diplomats. He was especially interested in the League of Nations, which he hoped could embody the European spirit he dreamed of.
But his liberal internationalism put him increasingly at odds with the mood in Germany. As inflation and unemployment worsened, nationalist resentment grew. Many Germans felt humiliated by Versailles, embittered by economic collapse. Kessler’s talk of art and Europe seemed detached, even offensive. In 1925, after a particularly heated meeting, he wrote: “They want blood, not books. They want revenge, not reconciliation. How can one speak of Homer or Shakespeare when they demand only steel and slogans?”
Still, the friendships he cultivated during these years were extraordinary. With Hofmannsthal, he discussed the spiritual crisis of Europe. With Rilke, he exchanged letters about poetry and death. With Cocteau, he talked about theatre and opium. With Einstein, he debated time and art. He was, as one friend said, “a conductor of the orchestra of Europe.” And yet His diary entries sometimes reveal a profound loneliness:
“I am surrounded by brilliance, yet I remain a spectator. Always the witness, never the actor. Perhaps my destiny is not to create but to record — to leave behind a mirror of what once was.” In that sense, his diaries became his greatest work of art — a vast, many-volumed portrait of Europe in its moment of crisis.
By the late 1920s, the cracks in Weimar were deepening. The Great Depression in 1929 devastated the fragile economy. Unemployment soared. Extremist parties — communists on the left, Nazis on the right — gained ground. Kessler watched with alarm. He attended meetings where nationalist students shouted down liberals. He saw swastika flags appear in the streets. In 1932 he wrote: “The air grows poisonous. Conversations end in shouting, newspapers drip with venom. The faces of young men harden into masks of hate. One feels the approach of a storm — not tomorrow, perhaps not next year, but soon.”
Despite the darkness, he continued to work. In 1931, the Cranach Press issued its monumental edition of Goethe’s Faust. It was the culmination of years of labor, combining German poetry with illustrations by artists like Aristide Maillol. It was a triumph of craft —. For Kessler, aesthetics were not escape; they were a duty.
When the Nazis seized power in January 1933, many Germans told themselves it would be temporary — a passing storm, a radical government that might soon collapse under its own weight. Harry Kessler understood immediately that Hitler represented something profoundly destructive, and that for a man like him — aristocratic, liberal, cosmopolitan, a patron of “degenerate” modern art — there would be no place in the new order. Kessler fled first to Paris, then to Spain. He was sixty-five years old and the world he had devoted his life to building — that fragile cosmopolitan culture, the bridges between nations, the salons and publishing houses, the orchestras and presses — had been annihilated almost overnight.
His diary entry for March 1933 is chilling in its clarity: “What we built over decades has collapsed in weeks. The men of noise and slogans rule. Books burn, artists scatter, fear thickens the air. Germany has entered its dark age.” For Kessler, exile was not just geographical. It was existential. He had always defined himself as a European mediator, a man in between nations. But now Europe itself seemed to be collapsing. France and Britain were paralyzed, unwilling to confront Hitler. Intellectuals fled across borders, carrying fragments of a culture that no longer had a home.
In Paris, Kessler tried to pick up the threads. He met with exiles — writers like Heinrich Mann, artists who had once been part of his circle. But the energy was gone. The old conversations, once so sparkling, now had a desperate edge. People spoke not of building but of survival. One friend, the writer André Gide, described Kessler at this time as “a figure of immense dignity, but with the eyes of a man watching a funeral.”
Even in exile, he kept working on his diaries, polishing old entries, drafting memoirs. He believed that if he could no longer act as a mediator in the present, he could at least preserve the past. He would leave behind a record — an archive of a civilization in ruins.
As his health declined, he moved to Mallorca, seeking sun and rest. He spent his last years in relative obscurity, far from the salons and conference halls where he had once been at the center of Europe’s cultural life. On November 30, 1937, Harry Kessler died in Lyon, France. He was sixty-nine. At his death, much of Europe was already sliding toward another war.
Kessler's Tomb in Pere Lachaise
It might have seemed, at that moment, that his life had been in vain — that the bridges he built had all collapsed, that his cosmopolitan dream had been swept away by the tide of nationalism and violence. But his diaries remained. And those diaries, stretching across sixty years, are perhaps his greatest legacy.
So who was Harry Kessler? He was, in one sense, a paradox: an aristocrat who admired revolutionaries, a soldier who hated war, a German who loved France, a patron of artists who rarely created art himself. He was a man of privilege who called himself “the Red Count,” a man who always seemed to belong everywhere and nowhere.
But he was also something rarer — a witness. His diaries capture the heartbeat of a civilization at its peak and at its collapse. They are filled with intimate portraits: Rodin’s silence in his studio, Einstein’s laughter over dinner, Marlene Dietrich shimmering under cabaret lights, Berlin students shouting slogans in the streets.
he was present. He paid attention. And he left us words that can still help us make sense of the chaos of modernity. Through Kessler’s eyes, we see not only the brilliance of Weimar culture, but also its fragility. He finally understood that art alone could not save a society when hatred and violence were on the rise. And yet, he never abandoned his faith that beauty mattered, that culture was worth defending. In one of his last diary entries, written in exile in 1935, he wrote: “Perhaps my life has been only a footnote to history. But if the future wishes to know how Europe destroyed itself, it will find in these pages not an explanation, but a mirror.”
That mirror — polished across six decades of observation — still reflects something essential to us today. We live again in a world of borders hardening, of populism and anger, of art struggling to find its place. And Kessler reminds us that culture is never a luxury. It is a lifeline, a fragile bridge in deeply troubled times.
So, once again, if some of the concerns and desires in these stories seem familiar, well they should, because I believe the Weimar Republic helped give birth to the modern world.
Thanks for listening. Hit subscribe or follow if you want to know when the next episode appears. I don’t have any advertising budget for this show or really a budget at all, I’m just some obsessed singer repurposing an old microphone, so if you leave a review on your app, or hit the star button, it really encourages the podcast to be found by other listeners, or just forward a link to a friend, that’d be great. And I hope you’ll join me in the coming months as I explore more about the strange birth, life and death of an experiment in creating a new society.
And who am I to discuss Weimar? Well, I’m not a sociologist, a political scientist or an historian. I’m an obsessive artist. A singer, play-write and cabaret performer who has been obsessed with the arts and music of the Weimar republic all my life. I’ve recorded three albums dedicated to the music of this time and particularly the music of Kurt Weill and Bertolt Brecht. If you want to listen to them, just search for Bremner Fletcher Duthie in any music streaming site, and you’ll find all my albums. And if you want to know more about my work, see the images from the period, or suggest a specific Weimar subject for an episode, check out bremnersings.com
Join me next time for another walk through the amazing creative madness of 1920’s Germany.