The text below contains my contribution to the printed book, ‘Lives of the Most Excellent Architects’, edited and curated by Thomas Weaver and Cecilia Da Pozzo (2024). This work stems from a course taught during the spring semester of 2024 in Mendrisio. 

In this piece, I present an intimate conversation with Lilly Reich, which serves as a fictional interview. I believe this conversation is vital to the discourse surrounding the Bauhaus Women topic and the book Bauhaus-Frauen: Meisterinnen in Kunst, Handwerk und Design

Lilly Reich, born in Berlin on 16 June 1885 and died on 14 December 1947, left an indelible mark on the world of design, furniture and textiles. Her agile mind and prominent position within the Deutscher Werkbund had a profound influence on these disciplines.Her career, while marked by enriching encounters and experiences, was also shaped by inequalities of treatment and documented injustices. She started out as an embroiderer, but her career led her to cross paths with exceptional women who opened doors for her in the world of design and exhibitions. These encounters contributed to her growing recognition and popularity in the early twentieth century. The injustices she suffered from the 1930s onwards greatly limited her reputation, which needs to be re-examined.

EG: Lilly, firstly, thank you for the time you are according to me today.
I promise we’ll come to your professional career and your extraordinary achievements, but I’d like to ask you to give me access to your early life. Could you tell me about your childhood in Berlin and your first trip to Vienna?

LR: It’s funny, people usually ask me questions about Mies and my entry into the Werkbund, as if I barely existed as an individual. I had a relatively privileged childhood, in the south of Berlin, near Tempelhof. My mother, Ottilie, and my father, Alwin, gave my siblings and I every opportunity. You see, I was born in 1885, at a time when it was considered progressive for a woman to want a career. However, I was hard-headed and undertook training as a Kurbelstickerin (machine embroiderer), a weaving technique popular with Jugendstil enthusiasts. You might say that I was far removed from convention! At the age of 23, I moved to Vienna, to the Wiener Werkstätte to be precise, where I discovered a great deal of dynamism and, above all, Josef Hoffmann. Ah, Josef Hoffmann, I think it was this encounter that would later lead me to architecture and design. Unfortunately, apart from the city’s nocturnal beauty and my boring working days, my memories of Vienna are very limited. Perhaps it’s important to note that it was there that my love of textile design was born, even if everything else remains rather vague.

EG: What about your return to Berlin? I understand that you took some courses at Die Höhere Fachschule für Dekorationskunst, where you met people who had a big influence on you. What about this experience?

LR: Indeed, one of these personalities is undoubtedly the magnificent Else Oppler-Legband, architect, costume designer and stylist. It makes me laugh just thinking about all of her different identities! Maybe she should be interviewed too. I owe my incredible interest in fabrics, textures and materials to her. The year after we met, I was proud to open my own fashion and interior design studio in Berlin. The women around me were extraordinary. I also met Anna Muthesius, who is older than me, but friendship is easy. I think it was easy for me to surround myself with progressive women, because deep down I was one myself. While I was designing shop fronts in Berlin, Anna was designing new clothes, allowing us to break free from the constraints of nineteenth-century fashion. She called them Reformkleidung, and I wore them proudly.

EG: It’s important to note that you also designed clothes, and even published an article in the journal die form 1, no. 5 in 1922, in which you questioned the approach to fashion and the issues involved.

LR: Yes, I think I was very angry with conventions. You know, I used to hang out with these women, Else, Anna and Margarete Junge, who were all in important positions. In those days, you had to be a bit angry to be taken seriously… In fact, I was often reproached for my strong character, but it never really bothered me. To talk about my approach to fashion, I’d like to tell you first about joining the Deutsche Werkbund in 1912, alongside Else and Anna. We worked together on a project in 1914 called Haus der Frau – what kind of name is that! We were always amused by that title, as if we could only exist in our own design and our own spaces, as if a man could never benefit from our talents. Of course, the Werkbund preferred to describe this project as a complement to the men’s Werkbund, rather than as a contrast. What’s more, I don’t think there are any photos of this exhibition, at least not that I’m aware of… So I can only tell you about it in a vague, unspecific way. Perhaps for the men of the time, women’s design wasn’t important enough to be represented or preserved. I digress, but I’ll soon get to your question. Although I took great pleasure in creating showcases and organising exhibitions, the arrival of the war slowed down this interest. Nobody saw the point of exhibitions any more, you understand. In 1915 the state of Berlin was in full search of a German fashion that would no longer depend on imports, that’s when I came into play and decided to take up the challenge. I transformed my studio into a sewing workshop and that’s when I made it one of my main, if not the main, activity. I’ve forgotten exactly what your question was, please excuse my clumsiness, but I hope this has provided a bit of context.

EG: In truth, I don’t think I really had a question, it was an observation to which you ably replied… incidentally I was talking about this publication in 1922, the very year in which you were elected to a ‘committee’ of the Werkbundhaus, two years after being elected to a committee of the organisation, could you tell me a bit more about these activities?

LR: In Frankfurt I was responsible for quality control and setting up the exhibition of Werkbund products at the trade fair. We were promoting the Werkbund’s rational quality as well as our industrial production capabilities. During this period, I had a lot to do: not only was I responsible for the overall presentation of the exhibition, but I was also in charge, alongside Richard Schulz and Ferdinand Kramer, of communication in the streets of Frankfurt. You know, it was crucial to promote the movement at that time. To do this, we designed projection screens that we placed in different parts of the city. Our mission was to educate the German people about the importance of good design – and what a responsibility that was! In Frankfurt, I also had the opportunity to research exhibition methods, but not only that. I was very interested in the relationship between the products and the visitors. Understanding the economic and social issues involved in this new industrial design was essential, and I had all the time I needed to do so. During the 1920s, I combined my knowledge of textiles with my knowledge of exhibitions, seeking to create light, fluid spaces. This approach greatly inspired Mies, who had heard of me on several occasions. After repeated meetings, he hired me as the artistic director of interior design for the Weissenhof exhibition in 1927. A detail he later failed to mention,which I find slightly ironic: I suppose admiration can sometimes blind you, even unintentionally.

EG: You don’t need to dwell on your relationship with Mies. Your uniqueness is more than enough for me. However, if it’s something you feel strongly about, I’m more than willing to listen.

LR: Oh, you know, Mies no longer has a hold on me… However, let’s stay factual. In 1927, I was using lino, glass and textiles. During this time Mies and I were preparing the exhibition at the Samt café, where I was able to fully express my research into the spatial qualities of textile walls. I consider that to have been a key moment in my career, and that’s when Mies’s ego got the better of my talent. By the way, did anyone ever talk to you about this project being mine?  That’s what I thought! But remember, life was difficult at the time, because this was during the economic crisis of 1929 and the political instability slowed down our work. Until 1926, my projects were recognised as my own, even when I did them with other professionals, which was almost always the case, because we worked as a team. That’s something that changed a lot after I met Mies. We had developed a kind of professional exclusivity, a choice I regretted for a long time, because it distanced me from my work and my beloved colleagues.

EG: So, albeit briefly, you told us about the first act of your professional life, made up of diverse experiences, both inter/intra-personal, in which you did not limit yourself in your learning and your fields of action. From 1926 onwards, can we speak of a second act, where the experience is more specific, more architectural, as a result of your meeting with Mies, but also to the exclusivity of your professional relationship?

LR: That’s a funny thought – a second act? I’m not sure. It seems to me there was a lot more than that. I’d like to think that my experience with Mies is not of such vital importance. To stay in the theatrical register, perhaps my encounter with Mies was just one scene among many. It’s amusing to think that at the time I was just a discredited assistant. It’s even more ironic that I remained in that position. For ten years, I managed the exhibition spaces and interior design, while he devoted himself to designing the buildings. It was a collaboration: Mies didn’t have a degree in architecture, and neither did I. Perhaps that was a problem… I’m afraid I’ve lost the thread of my answer; even for me, the subject remains unclear.

EG: Let me rephrase it: there has been a major change, because up until then you had a full media presence. To quote a few articles; Breuer in 1911, when you were only 26 years old, already described your work at the youth centre in Charlottenburg with great respect. Later, in 1924, your full name appeared in the catalogues of exhibitions in which you took part. And again in 1926, when Modlinger wrote your eulogy after your departure from Frankfurt. How do you explain this disappearance from the media and this lack of recognition for your talents after your meeting with Mies? As if you hadn’t produced anything during that period, although I know that’s very far from the truth.

LR: Unfortunately, I think Mies had more opportunities to put himself forward than I did. When he talked about me, I was just his Engster Mitarbeiterin, in his own words. Those ten years were extremely productive; he drew a lot, while I was more pragmatic, dealing with construction and experimentation. In 1927, Mies was designing a building for the Weissenhof, and I was in charge of all the interior design and furnishings. We also collaborated on joint projects such as the Glasraum and the Linoleum Hall, although few people are aware of my involvement in these projects. My role in these projects has been omitted on several occasions. For example, the Café Samt und Seide for the exhibition on women’s fashion, and the Barcelona International Exhibition in 1929, for which I was responsible, as evidenced by the letters I sent to him. Strangely enough, Mies never mentioned those. However, my name sometimes appeared alongside his. I believe that Fortuni, in an article published at the time, praised the combination of elements designed by Mies and myself. Unfortunately, my name was often forgotten or relegated to the  photo’s captions.You see, I was the one who produced the curtains, carpets and chairs that furnished the pavilion… but the critics didn’t seem interested. In 1931, Mies and I took part in the Berlin exhibition Die Wohnung unseres Zeit. Sadly, without knowing it, it was perhaps one of our last projects where we could experiment. I designed the entire exterior perimeter of the gallery with the aim of highlighting the exhibition stands. I had the opportunity to experiment with the colours, textures and elasticity of the materials. At the time, I didn’t know that the rise of Nazism would ruin our efforts to experiment. Between 1931 and 1933 I taught and ran the weaving workshops at the Bauhaus, but in 1933 the school had to close. A few years later, in 1938, the Werkbund was dissolved. We tried to maintain a regular rhythm, but it was too complicated. What’s more, the reviews were no longer favourable. Mies decided to move to Chicago, in a strong impulse to escape both Germany and me.  My strong personality seemed to be a limit to his greatness, and in August 1939 he asked me not to follow him. So I stayed in Germany and suffered the full consequences of the war. I continued to design despite the political pressure, even when my studio was destroyed by bombs. This event had disastrous consequences, and despite my exchanges of letters with Mies, I had to fend for myself. I received no financial help, and our project, which had once been shared or defined as his, became my sole responsibility. I also tried to revive a Werkbund which, unfortunately, was never revived. Meanwhile, Mies, safe and out of harm’s way, asked me to manage his paperwork and pay his bills in preparation for his eventual return. So I lost my way in maintaining a man who stole my life and my plans. I believe that the lack of documentation of my work stems largely from the ephemeral nature of my creations. Whether it’s the furniture I’ve designed, my timid interventions at the start of my career in shop windows or ephemeral exhibitions, all these things contribute to the difficulty of documenting my career. Textiles, for which I’ve developed a particular affection, unfortunately don’t offer the solidity needed to preserve my work over time. Perhaps if I’d experimented with concrete, my creations would have been more resistant to destruction. As for the lack of recognition, I think it’s linked to a sad, but somehow inevitable sexist reality. Most of my talented female friends are only known through the men with whom they collaborated. They are often excluded, pseudo-included or more likely became invisible. Even my own more ephemeral works have simply been used to shape Mies’s new narrative, in which I, a woman, could hold no part. But perhaps a real legacy can one day emerge.

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