Witches' Dance 1903

Max Slevogt made this plate showing a Witches' Dance. It’s a flurry of dark strokes, a real frenzy of marks. You can almost feel the scratch of the needle on the plate, the resistance, the give. I imagine Slevogt hunched over this plate, really digging in, trying to conjure up something dark and wild. I imagine his arm aching, his eyes squinting in the dim light, totally engrossed in the task. Look at the way he’s suggested form with these quick, frenetic lines. Are they figures? Are they shadows? I can’t quite tell, and I think that’s the point. What do witches even look like anyway? Are they grotesque crones or figures like dancers? The ambiguity allows for an interesting conversation. That frenzied, chaotic energy connects him to other expressionists and symbolists, but it also feels very much his own. It’s like he’s inviting us into his own private dance, one that’s both terrifying and exhilarating. The act of making art is a sort of conversation across time, with other artists, ideas, and ways of seeing. Each artist is in a way, a witch, conjuring something out of nothing.