The Rubber Muse

Gerhard Peitschl was the scion of a rich Austrian family. At an early age, he expressed horror at the mere thought of taking over his father’s tractor factory. He roundly declared he’d be an artist, a dancer or an actor instead. 

Gerhard Peitschl (top), glowers above his muse (bottom), thought to be Princess Trautwig von Zorn und Arsch.

He painted, danced and acted at various times in his life, but preferred to enact live flesh-and-rubber performances in hotel suites.

“Herr Peitschl left unhealthy puddles on the floor, instead of tips or thank-you notes on the bedside tables,” recalled a chambermaid.

Two hotel chambermaids, who preferred not to be identified, shared bitter memories about Herr Peitschl’s “Awful Happenings”.

“Had we known,” an indignant hotel Manager said, “we would’ve charged extra. A lot extra.”

Some are born to lordly might, others cower in trembling fright.

For this, and other reasons, Peitschl never “played” the same hotel twice. The tightwad playboy affected elaborate disguises, and signed hotel registers with names invented on the spot. 

Some noblewomen, it’s rumored, enjoy being humiliated in public, or nearly so. Herr Peitschl never closed a curtain or drew a blind in his life.

“Life is a fluid matter,” he is quoted as saying in Artforum (Oct. 1977). “Therefore all the vital juices must spurt, flow, squirt and converge in a hideous, magnificent flood.” 

A model and a muse. But which was which, on that dreadful afternoon?

The audience for his actions was Vienna’s effete, decadent élite. No one knows his models’ names, or how he enlisted them. Peitschl’s secrets died with him, true to form, messily.

Passion isn’t pretty.

***

La musa elastica

Gerhard Peitschl era il rampollo di una ricca famiglia austriaca. Fin da giovane professò orrore al solo pensiero di dover prendere in mano l’omonima fabbrica di trattori. Dichiarò che avrebbe fatto piuttosto l’artista, il ballerino o l’attore. 

Gerhard Peitschl (sopra), e una delle sue anonime “muse”.

Dipinse, danzò e recitò in varie fasi della sua vita, ma prediligeva inscenare orge di carne umana e caucciù in suite d’hotel. 

“Herr Peitschl lasciava malsane pozzanghere per terra anziché mance sul comò,” ricorda una cameriera.

In hotel, c’è chi lavora, chi si diverte, e chi piange, dopo.

“L’avessimo saputo,” dice un Manager d’hotel, “gli avremmo fatto pagare di più. Ma parecchio di più.”

Gradita ospite, o cameriera salariata? Nessuno lo saprà più.

Per questa e altre ragioni, Peitschl spostava di continuo i luoghi delle sue azioni. Il tirchio playboy si mascherava e inventava sul momento nomi da firmare nei registri. 

Modella in attesa dello sciacquone.

“La vita è una storia fluida,” afferma Peitschl, in un’intervista che ha concesso alla rivista Artforum (Ottobre, 1977). “Perciò tutti i succhi vitali devono schizzare, scrosciare, squirtare e confluire in un mostruoso, magnifico diluvio.”

Peitschl (in basso, di spalle) si ispirava al Graf von Zeppelin.

Il suo pubblico era la decadente élite viennese. Nessuno sa chi furono le sue modelle né come le adescava. I suoi segreti si sono estinti con lui, tipicamente in modo poco igienico.

Muse, musi, musei, meduse…

Specchio, specchio del mio dolce supplizio.