You may have first encoun­tered the word Bauhaus as the name of a campy, arty post-punk band that influ­enced goth music and fash­ion. But you’ll also know that the band took its name from an even more influ­en­tial art move­ment begun in Ger­many in 1919 by Wal­ter Gropius. The appro­pri­a­tion makes sense; like the band, Bauhaus artists often leaned toward camp—see, for exam­ple, their cos­tume par­ties—and despite their seri­ous com­mit­ment, had a sense of humor about their endeav­or to rad­i­cal­ly alter Euro­pean art and design. But the Bauhaus move­ment has been unfair­ly pegged at times as over­ly seri­ous: cold tech­nol­o­gists and pro­po­nents of face­less glass and steel build­ings and aus­tere mod­ernist fur­ni­ture. That impres­sion only tells a part of the tale.

When we speak of Bauhaus design, we often for­get that the Bauhaus was also—and first principally—an art school. Until bro­ken up by the Nazis in 1933, it oper­at­ed under a rig­or­ous course of train­ing with a fac­ul­ty who brought with them a vari­ety of organ­ic the­o­ries and practices—not all of them enam­ored of tech­nol­o­gy or 90-degree angles. Paul Klee, for exam­ple, mocked our fas­ci­na­tion with machines in works like Appa­ra­tus for the Mag­net­ic Treat­ment of Plants (top) and Wass­i­ly Kandin­sky enact­ed his mys­ti­cal the­o­ries of sym­bol­ism in increas­ing­ly abstract, vibrant can­vas­es like Small Worlds, above.

Both of these paint­ings reside in Harvard’s spe­cial col­lec­tion, “one of the first and largest col­lec­tions relat­ing to the Bauhaus,” and at the Har­vard Muse­ums web­site, you can find more works–in fact, more than 32,000 objects–by these artists and oth­ers like Oskar Schlem­mer, who designed many of those out­landish cos­tumes. (See some of those designs in his cos­tumes for the Tri­adic Bal­let, below.)

The Har­vard Bauhaus col­lec­tion demon­strates how the Bauhaus school “served as hot­house for a vari­ety of ‘isms,’ from expres­sion­ism, Dadaism, con­struc­tivism, and func­tion­al­ism.” The ten­den­cy to asso­ciate Bauhaus with pri­ma­ry col­ors and min­i­mal­ist glass, steel, and con­crete has much to do with some of its best-known faculty/alumni, like founder Gropius, and architects/designers Mies Van der Rohe, Le Cor­busier, Eero Saari­nen, and his stu­dent Charles Eames.

These names are rep­re­sent­ed in the Har­vard col­lec­tion, but so are “dif­fer­ent facets of the Bauhaus and its lega­cy.” Paint­ings, pho­tographs, ceram­ics, tex­tiles, met­al­work…. One sec­tion of the site, Ped­a­gogy, shows us stu­dent work of artists like Her­bert Bay­er, below. Known for his “hard-edged ‘machine aes­thet­ic,” Bayer’s tra­di­tion­al char­coal study of wool and wood shav­ings “appears anti­thet­i­cal to the school’s rev­o­lu­tion­ary pro­gram.” Yet it is an exam­ple of Bauhaus’ empha­sis on fun­da­men­tals of tech­nique, “ped­a­gog­i­cal meth­ods that per­sist in var­i­ous form in art schools today.”

Harvard’s web site rep­re­sents its phys­i­cal col­lec­tion, but it does not dupli­cate it. Many of the small images in its online archive do not expand to larg­er ver­sions and can­not be down­loaded. How­ev­er, if you fol­low the guid­ed tour by click­ing “Con­tin­ue Read­ing” under the site’s intro­duc­tion, you’ll be able to click on the sev­er­al dozen exam­ples in each sec­tion and see them up close. You’ll also get a thor­ough sur­vey of the Bauhaus school’s brief his­to­ry and mis­sion. The best way to access the col­lec­tion is to click here, then scroll down to the box where it says “Search the Bauhaus spe­cial col­lec­tion by key­word, title, artist, or object num­ber, and by using the fil­ters below.”

The only U.S. exhi­bi­tion of Bauhaus artists dur­ing the school’s life­time took place at Har­vard in 1930, orga­nized by under­grad­u­ates. And Wal­ter Gropius taught for fif­teen years at Harvard’s Grad­u­ate School of Design, dur­ing which time “he built the school up as a bas­tion of archi­tec­tur­al mod­ernism.” Gropius and his stu­dents and col­leagues changed the way we build and design. (See Gropius’ Total The­ater for Erwin Pis­ca­tor, above). The Har­vard Muse­um Bauhaus col­lec­tion also reminds us that they rev­o­lu­tion­ized art edu­ca­tion in Europe and the U.S.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Down­load Orig­i­nal Bauhaus Books & Jour­nals for Free: Gropius, Klee, Kandin­sky, Moholy-Nagy & More

Kandin­sky, Klee & Oth­er Bauhaus Artists Designed Inge­nious Cos­tumes Like You’ve Nev­er Seen Before

Time Trav­el Back to 1926 and Watch Wass­i­ly Kandin­sky Cre­ate an Abstract Com­po­si­tion

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Artist Ai Wei­wei has been giv­ing the fin­ger to author­i­ty for most of his career in a fig­u­ra­tive sense, butting heads with Chi­nese cen­sors, and refus­ing to tame his mes­sage even after sev­er­al arrests, bans, and beat­ings. Fight­ing has been with him his entire life: his father, Ai Qing, a renowned poet, was declared a “class ene­my” in 1967 and sent to a forced labor camp, along with his fam­i­ly, when Ai Wei­wei was only 10 years old.

His pho­tog­ra­phy series, Study of Per­spec­tive (1995 to 2003)–which you can see in the video above–is a lit­er­al flip­ping of the bird to sym­bols of pow­er across the globe, from the White House to a nest of CCTV cam­eras, and makes explic­it the artist’s non-vio­lent form of dis­sent.

The video above is a mini-doc made for the first major Ai Wei­wei ret­ro­spec­tive in Greece, at The Muse­um of Cycladic Art, run­ning through Octo­ber 30, 2016. (It’s also his first exhi­bi­tion in an arche­o­log­i­cal muse­um.) Along with show­ing the artist giv­ing the fin­ger to author­i­ty, it high­lights Ai Weiwei’s recent works on the refugee cri­sis.

“The whole sit­u­a­tion is so des­per­ate,” he says, “because you don’t see human con­nec­tions in those events. It’s com­plete­ly cut off.”

In the past, Ai Wei­wei has wrapped the pil­lars of a Ger­man con­cert hall in life vests, cov­ered pre­vi­ous sculp­tures with gold­en ther­mal blan­kets, recre­at­ed the famous pho­to of the drowned Syr­i­an child on the shore, and has shut down his own shows over anti-refugee laws in Europe.

At a 2015 march in Lon­don, Ai Wei­wei and fel­low artist Anish Kapoor flipped the bird over on Kapoor’s Insta­gram account as an invi­ta­tion to the aware­ness-rais­ing protest. (They also told fel­low walk­ers to bring a sin­gle blan­ket as a sym­bol of the refugees’ sit­u­a­tion.)

The sparse nar­ra­tion by the artist may sound fatal­is­tic in the video, but he’s a man who knows the pow­er of protest. But he also knows the con­se­quences.

“What I have always been involved in is human rights,” he says. “The human strug­gle and the free­dom of speech. Those val­ues are not giv­en by any­body. It always comes through fight­ing and strug­gle. Because some­body has to defend it. And also, if just one per­son defends it, it ben­e­fits every­body.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The God­dess: A Clas­sic from the Gold­en Age of Chi­nese Cin­e­ma, Star­ring the Silent Film Icon Ruan Lingyu (1934)

The His­to­ry of the Seem­ing­ly Impos­si­ble Chi­nese Type­writer

The Syr­i­an Con­flict & The Euro­pean Refugee Cri­sis Explained in an Ani­mat­ed Primer

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the FunkZone Pod­cast. You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills, read his oth­er arts writ­ing at tedmills.com and/or watch his films here.

Mari­na Abramović, who in her over forty-year career has put her­self through count­less har­row­ing works of per­for­mance art — involv­ing knives, fire, unpre­scribed med­ica­tion, and ardu­ous­ly long peri­ods of motion­less­ness — does­n’t do things by half mea­sures. “Once you enter into the per­for­mance state,” she once said, “you can push your body to do things you absolute­ly could nev­er nor­mal­ly do.” It makes sense that she would con­nect with peo­ple who think and feel sim­i­lar­ly about the artis­tic poten­tial of endurance (or the endurance poten­tial of art), and no such con­nec­tion has had as dra­mat­ic an impact on her career as that with her fel­low per­for­mance artist Ulay.

After meet­ing in Ams­ter­dam in 1976, Abramović and Ulay entered into a twelve-year roman­tic rela­tion­ship and artis­tic col­lab­o­ra­tion that brought them togeth­er into what they for a time described as a “two-head­ed body.” In the form of this “col­lec­tive, androg­y­nous being,” says one blog devot­ed to Abramović’s work, they “ques­tioned the social­ly defined iden­ti­ties of both fem­i­nin­i­ty and mas­culin­i­ty, and encour­aged view­ers to par­tic­i­pate through their own explo­ration of gen­der rela­tion­ships.” At the top of the post, you can see a video of their 1977 piece Rela­tion in Time, which shows a cou­ple min­utes of the six­teen hours they spent tied togeth­er by their hair, nev­er mov­ing. The video just above shows a few moments of that same year’s Impon­der­abil­ia, in which they naked­ly formed a nar­row human cor­ri­dor through which every audi­ence mem­ber want­i­ng to enter the gallery must pass.

“ ‘We are kneel­ing face to face, press­ing our mouths togeth­er,” say Abramović and Ulay by way of intro­duc­tion to Breath­ing In/Breathing Out. “Our noses are blocked with cig­a­rette fil­ters.” This piece, which they also put on in their evi­dent­ly pro­duc­tive year of 1977, had them pass­ing one anoth­er’s breath back and forth, breath­ing noth­ing else, for as long as they found human­ly pos­si­ble. The fol­low­ing year’s AAA AAA, rather than begin­ning with mouth-to-mouth con­tact, cul­mi­nates in it: “Abramović and Ulay stand oppo­site of each oth­er and make long sounds with their mouths open. Grad­u­al­ly, they move clos­er and clos­er to one anoth­er, until even­tu­al­ly they are yelling direct­ly into each oth­er’s open mouths” in an “explo­ration of aggres­sion between phys­i­cal­ly present fig­ures.”

Back in 2013, we fea­tured a clip of Abramović’s The Artist Is Present, a much-pub­li­cized 2010 piece in which, for a total of 736 and a half hours, she sat silent­ly in the atri­um of New York’s Muse­um of Mod­ern Art, oppo­site a chair in which any­one who cared to could sit across from her. 1,545 peo­ple, some hav­ing stood in line overnight, seized the oppor­tu­ni­ty, one of the ear­li­est par­tic­i­pants being Ulay him­self. Alas, things have since soured. Ulay and Abramović have had a con­tract meant, accord­ing to The Guardian’s Noah Char­ney, “to man­age their joint oeu­vre.” It’s owned by Abramović with 20 per­cent of the prof­its for all “saleable work” derived from it going to Ulay. But last year, sus­pect­ing that the for­mer oth­er half of the “col­lec­tive, androg­y­nous being” has vio­lat­ed that con­tract and “is try­ing to write him out of art his­to­ry,” Ulay mount­ed the ulti­mate endurance test: a law­suit.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

In Touch­ing Video, Artist Mari­na Abramović & For­mer Lover Ulay Reunite After 22 Years Apart

Yoko Ono Lets Audi­ence Cut Up Her Clothes in Con­cep­tu­al Art Per­for­mance (Carnegie Hall, 1965)

Watch Chris Bur­den Get Shot for the Sake of Art (1971)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.