3

Naked shoulders and tuxedo

jackets. The gentlefolk is saun­

tering around in the vestibule,

where the glass doors were.

I myself was separated from

the couples by an invisible

sheet of glass. They had taken

over the vestibule and virtually

banished me behind the pane.

I did not dare to move. The

colorful evening dresses out­

shone the shimmer of the

columns, the scent of society

pervaded the room. Everybody

chatted, girls and gentlemen,

and formed rosy groups. Just

like at a party. From one group,

a single lady detached herself.

She was young and actually

beautiful. I looked at her and

she glanced towards my corner.

Whether she really saw me, I

couldn’t even say, because she

was also surrounded by the

bright mist of festivity that

covered the others and that

blocked out the outside world

with its palm tree and its chauf­

feur. Suddenly our eyes met.

fig. 1

1Auch wenn man be reits dicht vor dem Hotel steht, ist man noch weit weg von ihm, weil es auf eine monumentale Fernwirkung berechnet ist, über der alle Klei­nigkeiten vernach läs sigt werden. Genau wie bei Filmstaffagen. Vor allem die große Halle scheint nur zu dem Zweck einer Komödie errichtet worden zu sein, die an der Riviera spielt. Der Mar mor klingt dumpf wie Gips, und der matte Schiller der Pfeiler und Säulen rührt unstreitig davon her, daß sie mit Silber­papier beschlagen sind. Jeden Augenblick er war tet man, Willi Fritsch hinter den grünen Vorhängen her­vor treten zu sehen.

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4 Rudimente von Individuen entgleiten ins Nirvana der Entspannung, Gesichter verlieren sich hinter der Zeitung, und die künst li­che Dauerbeleuchtung erhellt lauter Mannequins. Ein Kommen und Gehen der Unbekannten, die durch den Verlust ihres Kennworts zur Leerform werden und als plane Ge­spenster ungreifbar vor­überziehen. Besäßen sie ein Innen, es entbehrte der Fenster, und sie ver gingen in dem Bewußtsein unend­licher Verlassenheit, statt wie die Gemeinde um ihre Heimat zu wissen. Als bloßes Außen aber ent­schwin den sie sich sel ber und rücken ihr Nicht­sein durch die schlecht­ästhe ti sche Bejahung der zwischen ihnen gesetzten Fremde aus. Die Darbie­tung der Oberfläche ist ihnen ein Reiz, der Hauch des Exotischen durchfrös­telt sie angenehm. Ja, um die Ferne zu bekräftigen, deren Definitivum sie lockt, lassen sie sich ab­prallen an einer Nähe, die sie selbst heraufbeschwö­ren: ihre monologische Phantasie heftet den Mas­ken Bezeichnungen an, die das Gegenüber als Spielzeug nutzen, und der flüchtige Blickwechsel, der die Möglichkeit des Austausches schafft, wird nur zugestanden, weil das Trugbild der Möglichkeit die Wirklichkeit der Dis­tanz bestätigt.

3 Nackte Schultern und Fräcke. Die Herrschaften lustwan­delten im Vestibül, wo waren die gläsernen Türen. Ich selbst war durch eine unsichtbare Glasscheibe von den Paaren getrennt. Sie hatten Besitz vom Vestibül ergriffen und mich gewissermaßen hinter die Scheibe gebannt. Nicht zu regen wagte ich mich. Die farbigen Abendtoi­letten verdunkelten den Glanz der Säulenschäfte, der Gesellschaftsduft erfüllte den Raum. Alle plauderten sie, Mädchen und Herren, und bildeten rosige Gruppen. Genau wie bei einem Fest. Aus einer Gruppe löste sich eine vereinzelte Dame. Sie war jung und eigentlich schön. Ich sah sie an und sie blickte in meine Ecke. Ob sie mich wirklich erblickt, vermochte ich nicht einmal zu sagen, denn auch um sie lag der helle Festschleier, der die andern einhüllte und die Außenwelt nicht durchließ mit ihrer Palme und ihrem Chauffeur. Auf einmal begegne­ten sich unsere Blicke.

1

Aus einem französischen Seebad,

Siegfried Kracauer, Frankfurter Zeitung,

14. September 1932.

(From a French Seaside Resort,

translation: own)

2

Einer der nichts zu tun hat,

Siegfried Kracauer, Frankfurter Zeitung,

9. November 1929. (Someone with

Nothing to Do, translation: own)

3

Abend im Hotel, Siegfried Kracauer,

Frankfurter Zeitung, 25. Dezember1928.

(Evening in the Hotel, translation: own)

4

Hotelhalle (1925), Siegfried Kracauer,

Der Detektiv-Roman, Frankfurt 1979.

(The Hotel Lobby, translated by

Thomas Y. Levin, Siegfried Kracauer,

The Mass Ornament,

Cambridge MA 1995.)

1

Even if you stand right in front of the hotel, you are still far away

from it, because it is designed for monumental distance effect,

which leaves all details neglected. Exactly as with film décor. Par­

ticularly the great hall seems to be built exclusively for the purpose

of a film comedy that would take place at the Riviera. The marble

sounds as hollow as plaster and the faint shimmer of the pillars

and columns indisputably originates from the fact that they are

covered with silver paper. Any second one expects Willi Fritsch to

step out from behind the green curtains.

2

Sometimes, of course, I can’t

go on. Then I try to wean my­

self from the frenzy of strolling

around. I stick with familiar

streets and in the evening I visit

friends and acquaintances.

My best trick however is the

following: to close myself off

from the outside world of the

streets in a hotel lobby. The

floor is covered with nice car­

pets, in a lounge chair the

flâneur finds peace. Or is this

the point where his journey

really begins?

l

o

bb

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2 Manchmal freilich kann ich nicht weiter. Dann suche ich mich vom Rausch des Fla nierens zu ent wöhnen. Ich halte mich nur in den vertrauten Straßen auf und mache abends bei Bekannten und Freunden Visite. Mein bester Trick ist aber der: mich in einer Ho tel halle von der Straßenwelt abzu riegeln. Der Fußboden ist mit schönen Tep pichen belegt, in einem Klubsessel findet der Flaneur seinen Frieden. Oder beginnt seine Wande­rung von diesem Punkt aus erst recht?

fig. 2

lobby Playl i s t

Oliver Augst / Marcel Daemgen *max 9.2

4 Remnants of individuals slip into the nirvana of relaxation, faces disap­pear behind newspapers, and the ar tificial con­tinuous light illuminates nothing but manne­quins. It is the coming and going of unfamiliar people who have become empty forms because they have lost their pass­word, and who now file by as ungraspable flat ghosts. If they possessed an interior, it would have no windows at all, and they would perish aware of their end less aban­donment, instead of knowing of their home­land as the congregation does. But as pure exte­rior, they escape them­selves and express their non being through the false aesthetic affirma­tion of the estrangement that has been installed between them. The pre­sentation of the surface strikes them as an attrac­tion; the tinge of exoti­cism gives them a plea­surable shudder. Indeed, in order to confirm the distance whose definitive character attracts them, they allow themselves to be bounced off a prox­imity that they them­selves have conjured up: their monological fan­tasy attaches des igna­tions to the masks, des ­ignations that use the person facing them as a toy. And the fleeting ex change of glances which creates the pos­sibility of exchange is acknowledged only be­cause the illusion of that possibility confirms the reality of the distance.

lobbyLektürenAusgehend von Beobachtungen in Berliner Hotels der zwanziger Jahre beschreibt Siegfried Kracauer die Hotellobby als einen paradigmatischen Ort der Moderne. Im Zuge der Expansion des Tourismus im 19. Jahrhundert wird die Lobby zum Transitraum zwischen öffentlichen und privaten Räumen, Treffpunkt und temporären, unbestimmten Aufenthaltsort. Kracauer fasst diesen Charakter des Unbestimmten in der Beschreibung der Lobby als ‚negative Kirche‘. Gegenüber dem sakralen Versammlungsort der Gemeinschaft, oder auch den zweckgebundenen Sitzungszimmern der Konzerne, ist die Lobby vor allem ein Ort der Zerstreuung, wo die Gesellschaft in ihre atomaren und anonymen Bestandteile zerfällt. Ein Ort, an dem man ‚gleichsam im Raume an sich zu Gast‘ ist. Hierin wurzelt ein merkwürdiger Doppelcharakter der Lobby, insofern sie Lesbarkeit zugleich annulliert und in hohem Maße herausfordert. Zum einen hüllt der Ort das wahre Geschehen im mer wieder in den Schleier der Anonymität und Konvention, zum anderen versetzt er die Anwesenden in einen Zustand gesteigerter gegenseitiger Beobachtung. In einem der-artigen Szenario, das Kracauer mit dem Aufführungscharakter eines Filmsets vergleicht, begegnen sich die Personen als Masken, die sich in ihrer ‚monologischen Phantasie‘ ge gen -seitig ‚Bezeichnungen anhängen‘. Die ‚seltsamen Geheimnisse‘, die die opaken Ober -flächen ebenso verbergen wie evozieren, machen die Hotelhalle zum prädestinierten Ort des Detektivromans. Nicht zuletzt verdankt sich ihr narratives Potential der Überschnei-dung sozialer Sphären und einer ständigen Möglichkeit der zufälligen Begegnung.An der Stelle des heutigen Sony Centers stand zu Kracauers Zeiten das 1907 erbaute Grand Hotel Esplanade. Indem der jetzige Bau dessen ausgebombte Reste integriert, stellt er diese als auratische Relikte des Berlin des frühen 20. Jahrhunderts aus, und evo -ziert dessen Mythos als Metropole der Moderne. Die Architektur des Filmhauses selbst lässt mit ihrer Glasfassade, den Glasaufzügen und dem ins Untergeschoss verlegten Foyer an eine andere einflussreich gewordene Hotelanalyse denken – Frederic Jamesons Aus-einandersetzung mit John Portmans Westin Bonaventure Hotel in Los Angeles. Dessen Architektur beschreibt er als exemplarisch für einen ‚postmodernen Hyperspace‘, der sich selbst an die Stelle des urbanen Außenraums zu setzen versucht und zugleich die Fähig-keit des Individuums, sich zu lokalisieren und seine Umgebung distanziert wahrzunehmen tendenziell auflöst. Folgt man der Analyse Jamesons, so sind es spezifisch die Glasaufzüge, die einen ‚narrative stroll‘, eine freie Bewegung der Raumaneignung, wie sie der urbane Flaneur der Moderne noch erleben konnte, medialisieren und in ein reflexives Zeichen übersetzen. Man könnte sagen, dass im Filmhaus dasselbe mit der Logik des Ankommens und Auftretens geschieht. Als Apparate des ‚Sehen und Gesehen Werdens‘ ermöglichen die Aufzüge den Ankommenden einen kurzen Moment des Überblicks, exponieren sie aber zugleich als Statisten einer architektonischen wie technologischen Inszenierung, die sich an die Gäste unten im Foyer zu richten scheint.

fig. 3

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illCompiledby Erich Pick: Hauschka *Chicago Morning World Standard*Tic TacTied + Tickled Trio*Chleb­nikov

Michaela Melián*Brautlied

Christian Naujoks *Bar 27

Asia Today*I luv U

Lawrence*Until Then, Goodbye

Christian Naujoks*Idyll

aleph­1*1 C A c 08.2.2

Michaela Melián

*Con ­ven tion

Lawrence*Sunrise

Denzel + Huhn*Paraport

aleph­1*1 C A g 08.4s

Christian Naujoks*Two Epilogues: No. 2

***Gunter Adler*Schepper­tones

fig. 4

fig. 3

fig. 5

5

The Maltese Falcon,

Dashiell Hammett,

Hamburg 1932.

6

At Bertram‘s Hotel,

Agatha Christie,

London 1965.

7

ibid.

8

Last Year at Marienbad,

Alain Robbe-Grillet,

translated by Richard Howard,

London 1962.

9

Hotel World, Ali Smith,

London 2001.

10

The Silent Barrier, Louis Tracy,

New York 1908.

11

The Hotel, Elizabeth Bowen,

New York 1928.

5When he reached the Belvedere he saw the youth who had shadowed him sitting in the lobby on a divan from which the elevators could be seen. Apparently the youth was reading a newspaper. At the desk Spade learned that Cairo was not in. He frowned and pinched his lower lip. Points of yellow light began to dance in his eyes. “Thanks,” he said softly to the clerk and turned away. Sauntering, he crossed the lobby to the divan from which the elevators could be seen and sat down beside – not more than a foot from – the young man who was appar­ently reading a newspaper. The young man did not look up from his newspaper. Seen at this scant distance, he seemed certainly less than twenty years old. His features were small, in keeping with his stature, and regular. His skin was very fair. The whiteness of his cheeks was as little blurred by any con­siderable growth of beard as by the glow of blood. His clothing was neither new nor of more than ordinary quality, but it, and his manner of wearing it, was marked by a hard masculine neatness. Spade asked casually, “Where is he?” while shaking to­bacco down into a brown paper curved to catch it. The boy lowered his paper and looked around, moving with a purposeful sort of slowness, as of a more natural swiftness restrained. He looked with small hazel eyes under somewhat long curling lashes at Spade’s chest. He said, in a voice as colorless and composed and cold as his young face: “What?”

fig. 6

fig. 7

fig. 8

lobbyreadingsBased on his observations of Berlin hotels in the twenties, Siegfried Kracauer describes the hotel lobby as a paradigmatic site of modernity. In the course of the expansion of tourism in the 19th century, the lobby becomes a transit space between public and pri-vate space, a meeting point and a temporary, undetermined resting spot. Kracauer conceptualizes this undetermined character by describing the lobby as a ‘nega-tive church.’ In contrast to the sacred gathering place of the congregation, as well as the utilitarian conference rooms of corporations, the lobby is a place of dispersion and dis-traction, where society falls to its atomic and anonymous pieces. A place where we are ‘guests in space as such.’ Herein lies the root of the lobby’s strange double quality, inas-much as it cancels out legibility, while at the same time demanding it to a large degree. On the one hand the place constantly wraps real events in the veil of anonymity and convention, on the other it shifts those present into a state of increased mutual observa-tion. In such a scenario, which Kracauer compares with the performative character of a film set, the individuals meet as masks, whose ‘monological fantasy attaches designations’ to each other. ‘Strange mysteries,’ simultaneously concealed and evoked by the opaque surfaces, render the hotel lobby a predestined site of the detective novel. Its narrative potential, not least, derives from the overlapping of social spheres and the permanent possibility of a chance encounter. In Kracauer’s time, the location of today’s Sony Center was the site of the Grand Hotel Esplanade, built in 1907. By incorporating its bombed-out remnants, the present struc-ture exhibits them as auratic relics of early 20th century Berlin and evokes its myth as a metropolis of modernity. The architecture of the Filmhaus itself, with its glass façade, glass elevators, and the foyer displaced into the basement, might remind us of another well-known hotel analysis–Frederic Jameson’s examination of John Portman’s Westin Bonaventure Grand Hotel in Los Angeles. Its architecture serves as an example of a ‘postmodern hyperspace,’ which attempts to substitute itself for urban outdoor space and at the same time tends to dissolve the individual’s ability to locate himself and per-ceive his environment with any kind of distance. Following Jameson’s analysis, it is specifi-cally the glass elevators that refer to a ‘narrative stroll,’ a free movement of the appro-priation of space still experienced by the urban flâneur of modernity, and that translate it into a reflexive sign. We might say that the same thing happens in the Filmhaus with the logic of arriving and making an appearance. As an apparatus of ‘seeing and being seen’ the elevators provide those arriving with a short moment of overview, at the same time exposing them as players in a staging that is both architectural and technological, and which seems to be targeted at the guests below in the foyer.

6Suddenly the doors were pushed open with violence – a violence quite unusual in Bertram’s Hotel – and a young man strode in and went straight across to the desk. He wore a black leather jacket. His vitality was such that Bertram’s Hotel took on the atmo­sphere of a museum by way of contrast. The peo­ple were the dust encrust­ed relics of a past age. He bent towards Miss Gor­ringe and asked, “Is Lady Sedgwick staying here?”

7He nodded, and push­ed through the doors into the hotel. There were not very many people in the lounge this evening. He saw Miss Marple sitting in a chair near the fire and Miss Marple saw him. She made, however, no sign of recognition. He went towards the desk. Miss Gorringe, as usual, was behind her books. She was, he thought, faintly dis­com posed to see him. It was a very slight re­action, but he noted the fact.

fig. 6

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9She put her weight against the revolving door and pushed it round till she found herself on the street. Relief streamed over her, unheated unconditioned air. She had been blessed with the gift of no guilt, or at least the gift of guilt that was never more than momentary, a matter of the imagination only. All she ever had to do was change her air. She stood in the hotel doorway and breathed in, then out again.

11That Miss Fitzgerald should, after so violent an exit, simply continue to stand there had been beyond the cal­culations of Miss Pym. She, after a short blank pause of astonishment up in her room, had begun to creep down the stairs warily. She listened, she clung to the bannis­ters; taut for retreat at every turn of the staircase. The lift shaft rose direct from the lounge and the stairs bent round and round it; she stared down for a long time through the wire­netting case of the shaft to assure her­self that the lounge was empty. It was. There was not a soul down there, not a movement among the shadows; it was eleven o’clock and everybody would have gone out to the shops or the library, up to the hills or down to the tennis­courts. Not a shadow crossed the veiled glass doors of the drawing­room to interrupt the glitter from the sea. Not a sound came up from the smoking­room. Miss Fitzgerald was not there.

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8Almost immediately, the camera begins moving back very slowly. And the setting reappears around A. It is no longer the garden, but once again the hotel salon, the one where A was sitting, alone, reading a book. But now X is also in the picture. And they are not in the same part of this salon. They are both standing. X is in evening dress as usual. A, on the contrary, has kept the same gown she was wearing in the garden scene, the same make­up, etc. Yet she is holding in her hand the book she was read­ing. There are not so many empty chairs around them – only a few. And also a few people here and there, sitting or standing. X is seen almost from behind in relation to the camera. A, on the contrary, almost in full face.

fig. 10

fig. 11

10After a repast of many courses Helen wandered into the great hall, found an empty chair, and longed for someone to speak to. At the first glance, everybody seemed to know everybody else. There were others present as neglected and solitary as Helen; but the noise and merriment of the greater number dominated the place. It resembled a social club rather than a hotel. Her chair was placed in an alley along which people had to pass who wished to reach the glass covered veranda. She amused herself by trying to pick out the Wraggs, the Burnham­Joneses, and the de la Veres. Suddenly she was aware that Mrs. Vavasour and her son were coming that way; the son unwilling­ly, the mother with an air of deter­mination. Perhaps the Lucerne epi­sode was about to be explained.

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