Were his paintings actually that bad or did he just get kicked from art school because the professor was a hooknose...

Were his paintings actually that bad or did he just get kicked from art school because the professor was a hooknose whose kids and grandkids hopefully got turned into a bar of soap.

They were actually bad for academic standards

fuck off to with your poor bait

He couldn't paint people properly that's why he didn't make it.

Is it just me, or is the perspective a bit fucky?

they were very average which is not enough to get to art school
sorry Adolf you should practice more

he could paint buildings right, but not people, and all his pieces had perspective problems and he did realism when abstract was just picking up speed.
he was an OK artist, but not good enough.

Yeah..

The door on the right looks a bit off.

These are better.

Well the world has already seen stuff like impressionism, cubism was starting
That's not cutting it

His signature looks like it says Gary Hitler.

afaik his style was considered too plain

anyway i like the coloring on that building

isn't that what art school is supposed to teach you? shit, these paintings definitely show a great handling of basic skills.

Yeah but art at the time was way beyond that and artists were searching for different things in a piece. Sure, he is mundane and his perspective sucks but he could have improved on it. My guess is that he was stubborn to learn and look for something different.

Not bad at all, although architecture was clearly more his talent.

Problem was he tried too many other things. If you read the memoirs of his childhood friend from his puberty/adolescent days, August Kubiczek, who died in 1955, he tried his hand at composing and immediately tried to finish an unfinished work of Wagner. The fact was that he was a talented and multifacetted man, but these failed projects were wasted time of course.

It is not an uncommon thing for talented youths to do, but remember that there were no NEETbucks in those days, so if you had no rich family of a mecenas to support you, you could pretty much forget it.

He survived for a while painting advertisements, but you need to spend the little you get on brushes, paint etc and you have to live too. He ate and drank very little in those days.

I can recommend the book to anyone interested in Hitler's youth and pre-WW I days. You can download it from archive.org. It's called in English "the young Hitler I knew".

It's a wonder his memoirs survived. Kubiczek lost contact with Hitler after he was denied at the academie (while Kubiczek was accepted at the music academy) and started to drift. Kubiczek was never a nazi, lived in Austria all his life and didn't meddle in politics. I remember he only saw Hitler back once in the early 40s when he got invited to Bayreuth. After the war the Americans searched his house repeatedly and held him prisoner for a while. He already had written part of his memoirs and had a collection of letters and other stuff from their youth friendship he had hidden deep under his basement floor.

oh so thats why he hated czechs, his childhood friend was accepted to art school

Music school, not art school. He later said he left because he felt he would be a burden, financial and otherwise, for his friends budding music career. Kubiczek was from a very poor family, his father was an upholsterer who suffered occupational lung disease, but wanted his son to take over his business. It was the young Hitler who convinced his father of his friend's genuine musical talent.

I am not a proponent of Hitler's politics, but as a young man he really was a good-natured and polite guy.

He hated especially the Habsburg empire and their politics at the time, already at that age. I really can recommend the book.

>I cannot conclude this chapter without mentioning one of Hitler's qualities which, I freely admit,
seems paradoxical to talk about now. Hitler was full of deep understanding and sympathy. He
took a most touching interest in me. Without my telling him, he knew exactly how I felt. How often
this helped me in difficult times! He always knew what I needed and what I wanted. However
intensely he was occupied with himself he would always have time for the affairs of those people
in whom he was interested. It was not by chance that he was the one who persuaded my father to
let me study music and thereby influenced my life in a decisive way. Rather, this was the outcome
of his general attitude of sharing in all the things that were of concern to me. Sometimes I had a
feeling that he was living my life as well as his own.

war really does fuck you up in the head

Well Its the sort of thing where your friends die but life at home continues if nothing happened, then your country surrenders and is bankrupted by greedy jewish bankers......

There were actual art standards back then

>tfw what was considered average back then is a thousand times better than todays "modern art"

I want off this ride

that's actually bad though. the perspectives and angles are a mess

They're not great but with a bit if work and guidance hitler could have been a great artist

entartete kunst is the reason
had he painted humans as debased, twisted animals he would have been a shoo-in

Adolf should've been an architect.

...

I've seen a yoko ono "installation" that was literally just a ladder that you climb to watch the sky

this one really fucks with your eyes, the windows are distorted

they were bad and that picture you posted is pretty shit.
his perspective is all fucked, the colours just look odd and out of place
shadows are all over, no single light source
things look so flat rather than textured, windows and doors just end at odd places like he ran out of room.

he was a much better Orator so him getting kicked out was a blessing

yea but these are very basic, and simple sketches.
nothing worthy of a prestigious art school.

>get expelled from art shool

>starts world war

>that window that just ends in the middle of the stairway

>tfw reading mein kampf
>the part where hitler slowly gets red pilled on the jews

what a tale

But you will remember it.

he would be too "german" for today's german art academy XD

Being an artist myself I can attest to this.

It's less aesthetic and more shock to send out a message.

And now they're trying to shift identity politics into it.

If he was such a bad painter he should have tried cubism.

>these paintings definitely show a great handling of basic skills.

I'm sure there were tons of better artists. Bernini was 22 years old when he made this.

I like the palette, sure the painting is dead and asks for some light into the author's heart...:)

there's clearly a gap between the wall with the window and the stairs

Adolf stood outside my house in his black overcoat, his dark hat pulled down over his face. It was
a cold, unpleasant November evening. He waved to me impatiently. I was just cleaning myself up
from the workshop and getting ready to go to the theatre. Rienzi was being given that night. We
had never seen this Wagner opera and looked forward to it with great excitement. In order to
secure the pillars in the Promenade we had to be early. Adolf whistled, to hurry me up.
Now we were in the theatre, burning with enthusiasm, and living breathlessly through Rienzi's rise
to be the Tribune of the people of Rome and his subsequent downfall. When at last it was over, it
was past midnight. My friend, his hands thrust into his coat pockets, silent and withdrawn, strode
through the streets and out of the city. Usually, after an artistic experience that had moved him,
he would start talking straight away, sharply criticizing the performance, but after Rienzi he
remained quiet a long while. This surprised me, and I asked him what he thought of it. He threw
me a strange, almost hostile glance. "Shut up!" he said brusquely.
The cold, damp mist lay oppressively over the narrow streets. Our solitary steps resounded on
the pavement. Adolf took the road that led up to the Freinberg. Without speaking a word, he
strode forward. He looked almost sinister, and paler than ever. His turned-up coat collar
increased this impression.
I wanted to ask him, "Where are you going?" But his pallid face looked so forbidding that I
suppressed the question.
As if propelled by an invisible force, Adolf climbed up to the top of the Freinberg. And only now
did I realize that we were no longer in solitude and darkness, for the stars shone brilliantly above
us.

Adolf stood in front of me; and now he gripped both my hands and held them tight. He had never
made such a gesture before. I felt from the grasp of his hands how deeply moved he was. His
eyes were feverish with excitement. The words did not come smoothly from his mouth as they
usually did, but rather erupted, hoarse and raucous. From his voice I could tell even more how
much this experience had shaken him.
Gradually his speech loosened, and the words flowed more freely. Never before and never again
have I heard Adolf Hitler speak as he did in that hour, as we stood there alone under the stars, as
though we were the only creatures in the world.
I cannot repeat every word that my friend uttered. I was struck by something strange, which I had
never noticed before, even when he had talked to me in moments of the greatest excitement. It
was as if another being spoke out of his body, and moved him as much as it did me. It wasn't at
all a case of a speaker being carried away by his own words. On the contrary; I rather felt as
though he himself listened with astonishment and emotion to what burst forth from him with
elementary force. I will not attempt to interpret this phenomenon, but it was a state of complete ecstasy and rapture, in which he transferred the character of Rienzi, without even mentioning him
as a model or example, with visionary power to the plane of his own ambitions. But it was more
than a cheap adaptation. Indeed, the impact of the opera was rather a sheer external impulse
which compelled him to speak. Like flood waters breaking their dikes, his words burst forth from
him. He conjured up in grandiose, inspiring pictures his own future and that of his people.

Hitherto I had been convinced that my friend wanted to become an artist, a painter, or perhaps an
architect. Now this was no longer the case. Now he aspired to something higher, which I could
not yet fully grasp. It rather surprised me, as I thought that the vocation of the artist was for him
the highest, most desirable goal. But now he was talking of a mandate which, one day, he would
receive from the people, to lead them out of servitude to the heights of freedom.
It was an unknown youth who spoke to me in that strange hour. He spoke of a special mission
which one day would be entrusted to him, and I, his only listener, could hardly understand what
he meant. Many years had to pass before I realized the significance of this enraptured hour for
my friend.
His words were followed by silence.
We descended into the town. The clock struck three. We parted in front of my house. Adolf shook
hands with me, and I was astonished to see that he did not go in the direction of his home, but
turned again towards the mountains.
"Where are you going now?" I asked him, surprised. He replied briefly, "I want to be alone."
In the following weeks and months he never again mentioned this hour on the Freinberg. At first it
struck me as odd and I could find no explanation for his strange behavior, for I could not believe
that he had forgotten it altogether. Indeed he never did forget it, as I discovered thirty-three years
later. But he kept silent about it because he wanted to keep that hour entirely to himself. That I
could understand, and I respected his silence. After all, it was his hour, not mine. I had played
only the modest role of a sympathetic friend.

In 1939, shortly before war broke out, when I, for the first time visited Bayreuth as the guest of the
Reichs Chancellor, I thought I would please my host by reminding him of that nocturnal hour on
the Freinberg, so I told Adolf Hitler what I remembered of it, assuming that the enormous
multitude of impressions and events which had filled these past decades would have pushed into
the background the experience of a seventeen year old youth. But after a few words I sensed that
he vividly recalled that hour and had retained all its details in his memory. He was visibly pleased
that my account confirmed his own recollections. I was also present when Adolf Hitler retold this
sequel to the performance of Rienzi in Linz to Frau Wagner, at whose home we were both
guests. Thus my own memory was doubly confirmed. The words with which Hitler concluded his
story to Frau Wagner are also unforgettable for me. He said solemnly, "In that hour it began."

>wants Ubermensh people to strive
>can't even draw a people
top kek Hitler

^^ he was 17 years old when this happened

Yeh but the jury's still out on whether Bernini was man or android.

>keeps churning stuff out and churning stuff out like a machine from when he was a teenager into his 70s
>was active and still doing projects until shortly before his death at 81

They are not bad, but a bit borring for the 20th century and also a bit dull in contrast

dude on the right kind of looks like skepta

I wouldn't dare try getting into an art school with his skills

They're fine. These threads are always comparing Hitler's works with the works of people who actually went on and became artists.
An art school doesn't expect its new students to master art.