Charles dellschau

James Brett
Thomas McEvilley
Tracy Baker-White
Roger Cardinal
Tom D. Crouch
Barbara Safarova
Randall Morris
Charles A. A. Dellschau
1830–1923
Marquand Books, Seattle
D.A.P./Distributed Art Publishers, New York

4McEvilley
Introduction
James Brett
Dedication and Acknowledgments
Stephen Romano
1. Charles A. A. Dellschau’s Aporetic Archive
Thomas McEvilley
2.To Cross the Plains:The Art and Life of Charles A. A. Dellschau
Tracy Baker-White
3.The Art of Interpolation: Charles A. A. Dellschau’s Inscriptions and Airo Cutts
Roger Cardinal
4. Charles A. A. Dellschau and the Dream of Flight
Tom D. Crouch
5.The Art of Charles A. A. Dellschau:Tell the Modern Experience from Exile
Barbara Safarova
6. Charles A. A. Dellschau: Enigma in Plain Sight
Randall Morris
Selected Works
Contributors
Photography Credits
Contents
7
8
11
29
47
61
73
81
87
332
334

7
Hello dear friend of the air, why do you gaze at the skies? Is it perhaps that you want to fly, to sail, to flap
on an aspirational Archimedean abstraction, a profound nonsense of watercolour stripes and industrial
press cuttings?
If so, then you have come to the right place. You are not alone, far from it, for on these very pages
shall you experience the complex contraptions of Mr. Charles August Albert Dellschau, C.A.A.D. as he
signed himself, a lowly Prussian by birth, an everyday butcher by profession, an immigrant into the
Americas whose lifetime imaginary hobby found form in a dozen books of impossible flying machines.
What are these strange aesthetic drawings? Dreams, most certainly, transcontinental shifts from
one country to another. Think of a fellow who arrived in the new world to escape from the old and you
will surely understand this hobby of flight. Yet the escape is not simply geographical, it is metaphysical.
In flight comes the dream of what is to come, a visionary future filled with possibility, where a carver of
meats knows no limitation, where mankind can aspire to immortality.
Like the brave collaged pilots he admires, so Dellschau’s inventions are celebrated by the Sonora
Aero Club, dozens of tiny figures who man the mighty vessels, shoveling in coal as they sail, book after
book, into the hereafter. So look beyond the red, white, and blue, lift up the grease-proof paper, dis-
cover Charles Dellschau as a hero of the heavens, whose butchery is emblazoned all over his vessels,
be they FLANCKS or FINE CUTTS.
There are self-absorbed notations, imagined passenger announcements, there are numbers, over-
heads, sections and diagrams for movement, there are names, dates, cuttings, endless cuttings, plus
puns-a-plenty. Best of all there is beauty, great beauty, a private expression of joy, so childlike in its
creation, so limited in its colour palette, that it forms a body of work at once compelling, intimate,
and grand.
These creations are truths, be they fiction or reality, made by C.A.A.D. for C.A.A.D. You, dear friend
of the air, are privileged just to be here, taking a peek, gazing at the skies, and dreaming of up.
James Brett
The Museum of Everything, London, 2013
Introduction
Plate 4558 Callifornia Broad Cutt, February 1, 1920, 17 × 16 in.,
The Museum of Everything, London

8 9
The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all sci-
ence. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe,
is as good as dead: his eyes are closed.
—albert einstein
This book is dedicated to the life and art of Charles August Albert Dellschau (1830–1923). The pages that
follow are a testimony to the artist's extraordinary legacy.
Many people’s generosity of spirit went into the production of this book, and it is my pleasure to
acknowledge them here.
Foremost, this project has the distinction of having seven genuinely passionate advocates for the
artist behind it. They would be the distinguished James Brett, Thomas McEvilley, Tracy Baker-White,
Roger Cardinal, Tom D. Crouch, Barbara Safarova, and Randall Morris. Thank you all for giving Charles
Dellschau his due respect, at long last.
Thank you to Ed Marquand and his staff at Marquand Books: Leah Finger, Brielyn Flones, Jeremy Lin-
den, Adrian Lucia, Ryan Polich, Brynn Warriner, and Jeff Wincapaw. At D.A.P., thank you Todd Bradway.
Thank you, Tanya Heinrich, for your editorial commitment and vision. I am extremely grateful for the
life, resonance, grace, and dignity with which you have imbued this project by going so far above and
beyond the call of duty. Your contribution is immeasurable.
My deepest appreciation goes to J. Kevin O’Rourke of Maryland, who has made available all of the
works from his extensive collection for this book. Furthermore, his continued support over the years has
allowed me the opportunity to devote myself to the dissemination of Dellschau’s art.
My sincere gratitude also goes to James Brett of The Museum of Everything, in London, for his early
support of this project and full commitment to the appreciation of the artist, and for giving continued
worldwide visibility to Charles Dellschau through exhibitions and publications of his collection.
Similarily, to Bruno Decharme of the abcd collection, Paris, it is with great admiration that I also
applaud your efforts to give this artist’s work and legacy respect throughout the world.
A recipient of my utmost gratitude is the owner of the earliest known Dellschau works—three vol-
umes of illustrated memoirs written between 1898 and 1900—who wishes to remain anonymous. With-
out your insight and custodianship these magnificent works by Dellschau would not have survived, and
indeed, it is one of the distinct great honors of my lifetime to be able to present them for the first time
within the context of this book.
I must also acknowledge several Texas museum professionals who generously shared their time
and resources. At the San Antonio Museum of Art: Katie Luber, The Kelso Director; Marion Oettinger Jr.,
curator of Latin American art; and Karen Baker, registrar. At the Witte Museum, San Antonio: Marise
McDermott, president and chief executive officer; Amy Fulkerson, curator of collections; and Shellie
Eagan, registrar. At the Menil Collection, Houston: Mary Kadish, collections registrar; and Amy Chien,
rights and reproductions. A special thank-you to curator Michelle White for her ongoing enthusiasm and
support for the artist.
Thank you as well to historian and genealogist W. M. Von-Maszewski, who helped with the bio-
graphical research on Dellschau’s life in Texas, and Clint Drake of the George Memorial Library,
Richmond, Texas.
Heartfelt thanks go to all the photographic artists who generously lent their time and tal-
ent toward representing Dellschau’s works with integrity. My deep gratitude to René Pierre Allain
of Brooklyn, who gave his full commitment to this project. Additional thanks go to John Berens of
Brooklyn for his beautiful cover photograph. Thank you also to William Bengston, Charles Bechtold,
Dimitris Skliris, Patrick Goetelen, Peggy Tenison, Todd White, Sylvain Deleu, Rick Gardner, Hickey-
Robertson, Paul Hester, David Plakke, Madelaine Johnson, and especially Frank Maresca and Roger
Ricco for generously donating the Ricco / Maresca Gallery photographic archives for this effort.
And to the honorary members of the Sonora Aero Club, I salute all of the above, as well as Tom Isen-
berg for his inexhaustible enthusiasm for Dellschau, Lynne Adele, Edward Blanchard, Shari Cavin, Scott
and Susan Glazer, Audrey Heckler, Stacy C. Hollander, Lee Kogan, Rebecca Hoffberger, Phillip March
Jones, George Morton and Karol Howard, Siri Von Reis, Charles Russell, Jan Petry, Ann Percy, Susan
Crawley, Adam and Flora Hanft, John Foster, Larry Dumont, Harriet Finkelstein, Terry Nowell, Francois
Meyer, Chris Navarro, John Jerit, Dennis Crenshaw, Robert Kruckemeyer, Rita Reif, Cynthia Greenwood,
Ruben Calderon, Lauren Redniss, John Turner, Deborah Klotchko, Phil Allocco, Stephanie Smither,
Michael Burke, Jennifer Pinto Safian, Leslie Umberger, Steven Simons and Cheryl Rivers, Bruce and Julie
Webb, and the late and forever great Elli Buk, Kenneth Simpson, William Steen, and Kim Maenak. And to
the late Dennis Oppenheim, one of the greatest artists of the second half of the twentieth century,
whose early encouragement and admiration for Dellschau was a seminal inspiration for this book.
Of course, thank you to my family, Amie, Jordan, Phemie, Amber, and Anika.
As for myself, my contribution to this effort is well known to those close to the project, a psychoto-
mimetic journey, as is the unravelling of the many layers of mystery in Dellschau’s work.
Finally, thanks to those who preserved Dellschau’s legacy: Fred Washington, Dominique de Menil,
Mary Jane Victor, Cecilia Steinfeldt, Frank Maresca and Roger Ricco, and again, James Brett, Bruno
Decharme, and the late William Steen.
And to the greatest of all Aeronauts: P. G. Navarro. No words can possibly express how indebted I
feel to you for sharing so unselfishly and enthusiastically all of your original resources and research
into Dellschau. Your lifelong commitment to the artist can only be described as beautiful, and truly
articulates the above quote by Albert Einstein. Bless you, Wonder Weaver.
Stephen Romano
New York, 2013
Dedication and
Acknowledgments
Ink drawing of Charles A.A. Dellschau by P. G. Navarro, 1999
Private collection

Thomas McEvilley
Charles A. A. Dellschau’s
Aporetic Archive
1
Recolections second part, Otto Krauses Batery Revolving Generator and Releaver, 1900, 11 × 8 in.,
Private collection

12 13McEvilley Dellschau’s aporetic ARchive
An Orphic Journey
In 1921 the psychiatrist Dr. Walter Morgenthaler, working in Waldau, Switzerland, published a book
called Ein Geisteskranker als Künstler (A Psychiatric Patient as Artist); the psychiatric patient was Adolf
Wölfli. In the next year another psychiatrist, Hans Prinzhorn, began to collect and publish the artworks
made by his patients at the university clinic in Heidelberg. This led to the 1922 book Bildnerei der
Geisteskranken (Artistry of the Mentally Ill).1
These events were in the background of the artist Jean Dubuffet’s decision in 1945 to visit mental
hospitals in Switzerland and amass a collection of patients’ art, which he called art brut—rough art or
raw art: it hadn’t been cooked yet. In 1948 Dubuffet published the Art Brut Manifesto, in which he defined
art brut as “work produced by one who is unscathed by artistic culture”; all the inspiration, in other
words, comes from the inside, nothing from the culture roundabout. “These artists derive everything
. . . from their own depths,” he wrote, “and not from the conventions of classical or fashionable art.” In
this and other writings he developed the idea that “madness . . . is merely a mechanism for revealing
true creativity, a sign of ‘liberation’ from the stultifying effects of social convention.”2
In 1949 the first
art brut show, at the Galérie René Drouin, in Paris, was called “L’Art Brut préféré aux arts culturels” (Art
Brut in Preference to the Cultural Arts). Art brut, then, seems to be uncultured art or art by an uncultured
or uneducated person. Is that what uncooked means? Dubuffet in the essay for this show said that art
has “nothing to do with ideas.” The “art of intellectuals,” he insisted, “is false art, counterfeit art, an
abundantly ornate currency which nevertheless rings hollow.” Later Roger Cardinal would revisit the
question of whether autistic people are more creative than others.3
Thus things got underway, and they soon sped up. In 1959 the Tate Gallery in London received some
outsider works into its collection. In 1962 the Collection de l’Art Brut was located in Paris, with its first
catalog appearing two years later. In 1967 the Musée des Arts Décoratifs, Paris, showed the collec-
tion. In 1972 Harald Szeemann introduced conceptual art and minimal art at documenta V, in Kassel,
Germany, and also the works of Adolf Wölfli and American outsider artist Howard Finster. In the same
year Roger Cardinal published Outsider Art, though in his own writing he continued to use the term “art
brut.” In this book, outsider art was proposed as a larger category that contained the smaller category
of art brut. The outsider category also contained, for example, prisoners’ art and children’s art. In 1976
the Collection de l’Art Brut gained a permanent home in Lausanne, Switzerland. In 1979 the Hayward
Gallery, in London, had a show of British outsider art cocurated by Roger Cardinal and Victor Musgrave,
“Outsiders: An Art Without Precedent or Tradition.” Written on a placard at the show was a quote from
Dubuffet that read:
Outsiders: Art does not lie down on the bed that is made for it; it runs away as soon as one says
its name; it loves to be incognito. Its best moments are when it forgets what it is called.
In the catalog Musgrave posited a deep connection that would endure: “It offers an Orphic journey to
the depths of the human psyche.” The unconscious part of the human mind has often been thought of
as an underworld, and an “Orphic journey” seemingly refers to Orpheus’s descent to hell and reascent
from it. Musgrave, in conjunction with Monika Kinley, curated “Arte Incomum” (Unusual Art), an exhi-
bition of outsider art for the 1981 São Paulo Bienal. Szeemann included outsiders again in “Der Hang
zum Gesamtkunstwerk” (The Tendency toward the Total Work of Art), at the Kunsthaus Zürich, in 1983.
Adolf Wölfli
Adolf Wölfli (1864–1930) has been called the first outsider artist, a statement that doesn’t add up chron-
ologically, since Charles A. A. Dellschau (1830–1923) was born thirty-four years earlier than Wolfli. Still,
Wölfli was the first outsider artist to be designated as such, so it was his work that catalyzed the con-
cept of the outsider and affected its definition. When Dellschau’s work first entered the discourse,
some said he was an American Wölfli. This was not a light or meaningless observation. In fact, there are
pronounced similarities between Dellschau’s and Wölfli’s work. Their obsessive detail and structural
order is much the same. Perhaps that is a result of both artists being northern or Germanic Europeans,
or perhaps there is more to be said about it. Wölfli, like Dellschau, took up writing and drawing at what
would usually be retirement age, and spent the last two decades of his life making a series of large
hand-bound books containing hand lettering and thousands of illustrations.
The Mandala
Perhaps the most thorough correspondence between the oeuvres of Wölfli and Dellschau is that both
are very involved in the tradition of the mandala. All of Dellschau’s drawings of airships (which he called
Aeros) involve an underlying mandala form. Mandala is a Sanskrit word for a type of illustration that
goes back to at least the Late Bronze Age and probably the Neolithic. It was perhaps originally regarded
as the floorplan of a temple (or a monastery, as C. G. Jung has it), with four entrances at the four cardinal
points and everything balanced around the center and the quaternity that rises from it as in a compass
or a clock face.4
In the Jungian tradition it is believed that when someone “constellates” the mandala
archetype it means his or her personality is seeking to center, harmonize, and balance itself. The occur-
rence of this motif in the work of mental patients is not unusual or surprising. Its basic meaning is “the
premonition of a centre of personality.”5
This is experienced as a self-revelation: “The energy of the
central point is manifested in the almost irresistible compulsion and urge to become what one is.”6
This
“what one is” is experienced not as the ego but as a self.
Charles August Albert Dellschau was born in 1830 in Brandenburg, Prussia, grew up there, and at age
nineteen immigrated to the United States. He is believed to have arrived at the port of Galveston, Texas,
in 1849 and settled in Richmond, just southwest of Houston, where he worked as a butcher—the trade
that had been his father’s. An Amnesty Oath he signed in 1865 (indicating that he had served in some
capacity on the Confederate side in the Civil War) describes him as five feet three inches tall with brown
hair and eyes. The one known photograph of him suggests he was balding and paunchy. In the 1850s
he somehow became associated with a group of men in Sonora, California, that he would later call the
Sonora Aero Club. The members of the club were occupied with the attempt to invent, design, and build
a flying vehicle—or a number of them.
At that time an airship meant primarily a balloon. The Sonora Aero Club meetings took place when
ballooning was a craze. In 1803 the Royal Navy lofted observation balloons from ships with people in
the baskets. In the same year a Frenchman flew four hundred miles in a balloon. In 1809 a hydrogen-
filled balloon used wings for changing direction. Various steam-engine dirigibles and aeroplanes were

tried in the 1840s and ’50s. In 1852 Henri Giffard built the world’s first passenger airship, driven by a
steam engine.
In the midst of this activity, which was followed assiduously in the newspapers, Dellschau seems
to have moved to California gold country and to have spent around four years there, from 1856 to 1859.
Upon his return to Texas, he found work as a butcher and got married to a widow named Antonia Helt,
who had a five-year-old daughter. The family grew to include two more daughters and a son.
In 1877, when Dellschau was forty-seven, his wife and young son both died. A decade later, he
relocated to Houston with his stepdaughter, who had married a saddle maker named Anton Stelzig,
and Dellschau occupied a room of their house. Dellschau seems to have lived, in the middle of an
active and expanding household, a quiet and inconspicuous life, indeed almost reclusive. After work-
ing as a butcher for approximately thirty years, he clerked at the Stelzig saddlery for another decade
or so. Thereupon, in his late sixties, he retired from the family business and continued to live in the
Stelzig home.
Now, in his retirement years, Dellschau’s creative energies came to the forefront of his conscious-
ness. From the meager available knowledge of his life up to this moment nothing is known about his
education and training except that his father had been a butcher and he followed his father’s trade.
Whether he had ever worked with drafting or with writing is unknown, but he dove headlong into both
those activities and continued working obsessively at them for the following twenty-three years. It is
worth mentioning that outsider artists often grow into the role of artist in their old age; outsider art is
almost a retirement profession.
First Dellschau spent two years or so—from around 1898 to 1900—writing and illustrating his mem-
oirs, two volumes in English and one in German. The earliest is called In Evening Hours of Lisure Recolec-
tions of real and speculative Work of Friends in Time long gone by from a Friend yet here The are gone
but their Work is not forgoten. The Recolections contains, among other things, an account of some of
the events he was involved in (or witnessed—or maybe just heard about) in Sonora in 1854–1859. At the
same time or immediately after this writing, he went on to write another text, again in English, called
Recolections real and speculative Works on Ideas of Friends in for higher Aims long gone by second part.
This “second part” consists of his responses to a letter he read in the Houston Post in December 1898
that describes the basic concept of jet propulsion. At some point Dellschau translated the English texts
into a German manuscript, with the two parts titled Erinnerung vergangener Jahre Zeit und Sittenspiegel
niedergeschrieben und illustriert in freien Stunden Zweiter Theil (Recollection of Years Past of time and
a Way of Life Written and Illustrated in Idle Hours) and Erinnerungen über Wahre und Versuchs Arbeiten
Gedanken Ideen von Freunden längst todt, aber nicht vergessen von einem jetzt hier Der bringt sie aufs
Papier von den Kerl habt ihr es nicht erwartet (Recollections of real and experimental work and thoughts
and ideas by friends long dead but not forgotten, put presently to paper by one who knew them, you
would not have expected this from that guy). The memoirs were handwritten in a cursive script with let-
ters that tend to lean forward at about forty-five degrees. Each line is remarkably straight and parallel
and the blocks of script occupy almost the entire page, with only small margins on the left and bottom.
Occasionally letters have been written over to clarify them—in one case changing a small e to a capital
E. The overall impression of the writer’s personality is that he is careful, neat, given to small and fine
work, and wants to get things right.
After writing his memoirs, Dellschau began to make drawings and collages, painting in very thick
watercolor on hand-cut sheets of butcher paper roughly eighteen inches square. Often the watercolor is
applied so thickly that it looks as opaque as gouache. It stands up visibly on the page. These paintings
are usually pictures of Aeros, presumably those that had been designed (and flown?) by the Sonora Aero
Club in the 1850s. In addition newspaper clippings are glued onto the pages and there are elaborately
lettered bits of text, sometimes in the Latin alphabet and occasionally in a simple alphabetic code.
Dellschau called the pages “Plates” and the news clippings “Press Blooms,” seemingly a reference
to flowers pressed in books. The whole complicated work is not so much a text as a collage—the text
being one of the elements of the collage, along with representational paintings and drawings (mostly
of various Aeros), hand-lettered messages, press clippings, and elaborate borders or framing devices
that conspicuously assert the art nature of the pages they appear on.
For thirteen years (1908–1921) Dellshau worked on these Plates, binding them with shoestring into
large book-like objects. Twelve of these “books” survived, but it seems, judging from the careful dating
and numeration of each page, and large gaps in the numeration, that there were perhaps ten others
of the same size and type whose whereabouts are unknown.7
The twelve books contained in all about
two thousand pages produced at the rate of about one every two days.8
Each page is an ambitious,
complicated work unto itself, bearing intricate and delicate and sometimes secret messages in both
visual and verbal symbols. In contriving these powerful and somewhat inscrutable messages Dellschau
seems to have felt he was archiving certain historical facts connected with his years in Sonora—but
their historicity has not been evidentially confirmed, and “archive” may be too simple a description of
what he was up to.
Yet, archivist or not, Dellschau, as far as is known, had no audience or readership for these works. He
labored on his creative output over a span of more than twenty years, dying, in 1923 at age ninety-three,
without having made any provision for the publication—or even the preservation—of his accumulated
works, which the Stelzig family simply stored in the attic after his death, along with some other things
the family was keeping there.
The Fate of Dellschau’s Work After His Death
For forty years Dellschau’s thousands of Plates moldered in the darkness of a closed attic, gathering
dust. The only intrusion known to have taken place was when a male child of the Stelzig family became
curious about the Dellschau books and rummaged through them. Sometime in the 1960s there was a
fire elsewhere in the house, and a fire inspector said to clear the debris out of the attic. So, after four
decades in the secret dark, gently wafting the aura of twenty years of solitary late-night concentration
into the depths of shadowy and slightly sinister corners, over the pieces of sad furniture with sheets
flung over them and gathering dust, Dellschau’s life-work was carried unceremoniously out into the light
of day and literally left in a heap in the gutter. (It was born into the gutter, you might say.) So the first
venue for Dellschau’s oeuvre was his bedroom; the second, an attic; the third, a heap in the gutter. From
this point there is uncertainty, and two versions have emerged. First, that a furniture refinisher named
Fred Washington, making his rounds to see what people had thrown out, found Dellschau’s stuff and
took it to his shop in Houston, called the OK Trading Post. Another version adds another pair of hands

and another transaction. The heap in the gutter, on this account, was taken to the dump by a garbage
truck. In the junkyard a nameless picker found it and sold it to Fred Washington for $100.
In any case, the story is that once Washington had Dellschau’s things in his shop they spent some
time under a stack of old carpets or, in another rendition, tarpaulins. Before long they were discovered
by a browser who recognized them as artworks of some kind, and then the books began their wander-
ings through the artworld and its levels of society.
The find made under a pile of carpets in the OK Trading Post was talked about a bit and began to
be split up and moved in various directions—mostly upward (through the classes). Four of the twelve
books were acquired by the Menil Collection, in Houston, which had previously shown some interest
in outsider art.9
Fred Washington sold the other eight books to a man named P. G. Navarro, who is an
interesting figure in the story. Navarro was a practicing commercial artist in Houston who in his spare
time had developed as a hobby an investigation of certain reported airship sightings.
These mysterious airship sightings occurred in the late 1890s first in Northern California (not far
from Sonora), then throughout the United States but especially in the Southwest and Texas. The phe-
nomenon was known in the press (not only in Texas) as the Great Texas Airship Mystery. Navarro was
studying the airship mystery at the time Dellschau’s books were discovered in the OK Trading Post, and
it occurred to him that the Dellschau material might somehow be a part of it. Perhaps at first Navarro
didn’t know about the Sonora Aero Club and assumed that the Aero drawings referred to aeronautical
events around the turn of the century.
You’ve got to admire this sensible guess, and as he started to carry it out it became even more
admirable. Navarro filled several notebooks with his findings, and these pages are exquisite in concep-
tion and execution; his obsessive concentration on order and neatness was not so unlike Dellschau’s
own. Dellschau’s aesthetic is more expressive—meaning somewhat looser and more gestural—whereas
Navarro’s notebooks are “expressive” of rigid order—more or less a contradiction in terms.
Perhaps Navarro appreciated Dellschau’s books as artworks. In any case it is clear that for one
reason or another—maybe aesthetic, maybe spiritual, maybe as a search for something he couldn’t
exactly name—Navarro felt a strong attraction toward the Dellschau material. It almost seems he got
into a folie à deux with the long-dead Dellschau; in his notebooks, Navarro redrew many of Dellschau’s
pages, carefully and in detail. He worked many long evenings to decipher coded messages he found
there in what looked vaguely like alphabetical symbols, as seen in Plate 1631 (at left), but from some
other tradition. Navarro says Dellschau used a simple one-to-one substitution code and claims to have
worked it out.10
He worked on this hobby for thirty years and became something of a philological scholar
in the process. He is still alive now at age ninety-three, the age at which his ego-ideal Dellschau died.
At some point Navarro sold four of the eight Dellschau books of drawings in his possession to the San
Antonio Museum Association; two went to the San Antonio Museum of Art and the other two went to
the Witte Museum, also in San Antonio, a museum devoted to South Texas culture. His remaining four
books ultimately entered the art market and ended up in various hands.11
P. G. Navarro’s “Books of Dellschau”
Navarro worked long and hard on his documentation of Dellschau’s work. The main report, entitled
“Books of Dellschau,” is compiled in a five-hundred-page record book. It is an index of each Plate, each
Aero, each club member, Dellschau’s terminology, and a chronicle of Navarro’s history with the mate-
rial and the process by which he conducted his research. The initial index of the Plates, which includes
brief summary information, key words, and a few sketches of motifs, is joined by another index of each
book, with more detailed sketches and observations of the Plates. Additional record books contain even
more details and replicas of the drawings. Navarro attempted to make his record chronological, but in
this respect there seem to be divisions in the artist’s oeuvre. Dellschau was more out-of-time—more
ahistorical—in the early work. But for the most part Dellschau was not as ahistorical as might be
expected of someone who would fall into Cardinal’s category of autistic artists. He definitely had a view
of history that dominated his thought. But this view of history seems partly made up and partly devised
to conceal this fact; the question of how far Dellschau himself believed it is open. So Dellschau may have
been an obscure archivist, or a Trickster with a Lie to work on, or deluded, as some other outsiders seem
to have been, such as Adolf Wölfli, Henry Darger, and Martín Ramírez. But, deluded or not, the enormous
list in “Books of Dellschau” involves some recognizable themes, among them smatterings of his view
of history.
Plate 1727 is described by Navarro as a “Newsclipping re: Airship War.” This is in connection with
the Aero Hector, which is represented in seven of the surrounding Plates. Hector was the great Trojan
warrior in the Iliad, and the name suggests that the Aeros were intended for use in war. This theme
continues with a number of pictures of the Aero called War Goose on Plates 1776–1780, along with the
somewhat cryptic reports “poem” and “The war lord reads poetry,” which may suggest or hint that the
collage element contained a poem, perhaps about Hector. The War Goose was a version of the original
airship made by a man named Peter Mennis and called Goose (sometimes Goosey, sometimes Gander).
On the same page Dellschau adds the query, “What would Peter do now?” Is one supposed to glimpse
a hidden history behind such references? The Goose, it seems, refers to the 1850s era—the Sonora
Club version of history—and the War Goose recaps it in the era of the turn of the century, the age of the
Wright Brothers, whose first manned flight was in 1903, and the age of the approaching war.
Plate 1856 (see page 171), Navarro notes, includes the following inscriptions: “Jeht nich” and “How
would our members laugh, over the deeds of today’s Aeronauts.” Dellschau is implying that he and
his comrades in the Sonora Aero Club were more advanced in 1856–1859 than early twentieth-century
aeronauts (such as the Wright Brothers).
Two Plates later we find, “Aero des Jeht Nich.” The phrase jeht nich looks like the more common
German phrase geht nicht—(it) does not go. In fact, jeht nich seems to be the Berlinerisch form of geht
nicht, that is, the form in the dialect peculiar to Berliners, which may include Dellschau. So the phrase
“airship that does not go” might be a self-ridiculing joke by Dellschau.
Plate 1877 is described by Navarro as having the words “Das geht jadock! auf papier! ‘Cruel feat
cutting Goosey . . . and exposing Peter napping.’” It seems that Dellschau has made a drawing in which
he “cuts” open the Goose and shows Peter Mennis inside sleeping—lying down on the job. Dellschau
calls his own act of drawing “a cruel feat” and seems to have sympathy for Mennis in regard to a trick he
himself has played on his friend. That little moment—“a cruel feat”—could indeed come from someone
deeply involved in a delusion or daydream, feeling sympathy for one of his own characters. The follow-
ing Plate, of the Aero Goosey, includes the information “Peter Mennis 1857 Builder, Touhume Co., Calif.
‘Nothing new on Earth says Brother Caro.’”
Details from P. G. Navarro’s “Books of Dellschau”
Plate 1631 Peter Mennis Ende, March 9, 1908 (see page 167)

Of the many named characters who appear in these pages as members of the Sonora Aero Club,
Peter Mennis seems to be the main one. He not only designed and flew the first airship, the Aero Goose,
but also provided the mysterious anti-gravity fuel that supposedly permitted some of the airship designs
of the club members to fly and which, when it ran out and could not be obtained, marked the end of the
Sonora Aero Club. Drops of this Lifting Fluid fell onto an Electrande (a set of three rotating black-coated
metal plates), causing a rising gaseous stream that would fill the pockets in which balloons of that time
were filled with hydrogen gas, and have the same lifting effect.
Plate 1910 is titled “Aero B” and is inscribed with the words “up and down,” “ammunition,” “grub,”
and “lights.” Navarro copied a looping symbol and added a little framed drawing to his notes of a
bearded man in profile against a dotted ground headed by the scrap of formula “= X.” This symbol could
be part of the code ¯DM = XØ, which appears on Plate 1688 with the apposition “A Hoax. Long Distance
Aero Berlin.” The next Plate is labeled Groser Aero Berlin, “Prof. Max des Jehtnich teasing Heinrich
Schroeder.” And Plate 1690 is inscribed “Aero Berlin From Below #3/pro des Jeh’tnich—proposer.” The
phrase jeht nich, then, in addition to being a Berlinerisch form of geht nicht, is also found, in the Sonora
Aero Club history, to be the name of the proposer of the Aero Berlin.
In his notes for Plate 1922, entitled “Aero Moyke,” Navarro has sketched one of Dellschau’s symbolic
drawings that look rather like Egyptian cartouches. This one seems to represent the sun, with eleven
rays radiating out from it, and within the circle of the sun a mottling that suggests sand, and the draw-
ing of a V. In New Kingdom Egyptian tomb paintings the mottling means desert sand surrounding the
burning sun. But in Dellschau’s version the mottling that seems to suggest sand is inside the sun-disc
rather than surrounding it. Does the V suggest the double mountain from within which the sun rises in
the ancient iconography?
Plate 1926 is the first in a series of drawings pertaining to another major figure in the Sonora Aero
Club, George Newell. “Geo. Newell—proposer—1858 / Drawn after words.” Does “Drawn after words”
mean that Dellschau never saw the Aero Newell but had heard a verbal description of it and based his
drawing on that? Or does it mean “afterwards,” later. Among several more appearances of Newell in
Navarro’s notebook is the quote “Don’t believe every word I say.” Plate 1930, another drawing of the
Aero Newell, includes the musing “If our Club could meet today.” Then: “free studia after Club debate.”
Studia is the word Dellschau used for his drawings of airships, seemingly the word “study” put into an
Italianate form. He claims to remember accurately and in detail the discussions the Sonora Aero Club
had fifty years before.
Navarro notes that Plate 1939 contains Press Blooms and “pics. of Wright Bros.” At that time
Dellschau clearly was not using only his fictional imagination to picture reality but also real contempo-
rary aeronautic adventures reported in the newspapers. The point that drove his interest seems to have
been the idea that those events around 1900 paralleled those that the members of the Sonora Aero
Club supposedly experienced fifty years earlier. Perhaps in their day the unscheduled flights of Aeros
made by club members might have led to “mystery airship” rumors. Perhaps there is another such club
behind the new reports.
Plate 1940, dated June 14, 1909, contains Press Blooms and the haughty declaration “Goosey
Beats You All—1857.” This is evidently another claim that the Sonora Aero Club members were further
advanced in the 1850s than the Wright Brothers and other twentieth-century would-be aeronauts.
Plate 1944, of the Aero Axel, introduces “Friend Christian Axel von Roemeling” with the senti-
ment “you are not forgotten.” The following two Plates are of the same Aero and bear sentiments to
Dellschau’s old friend. A few Plates later we find this narration, as transcribed by Navarro: “Looking at
the plates of Aero Axel, my friend Williams say it weatherproof all-right in rain, yes—but . . . how in a big
snow storm.” Two points should be made. First, in this case the little glimpse inside the Sonora Aero
Club—the question about the waterproofing—seems to suggest that it was historical (or at least that
the idea of its historicity was plausible), unlike other signs to the contrary. Even more important is the
fact that here for once Dellschau refers to a readership; he seems to say that he has a friend named Wil-
liams who would look at his work and comment on it. Was this a friendship from the 1850s? Or did this
friend enter the private sanctum of Dellschau’s room in the Stelzig house, and, if so, how many times
and how often, and were there others? Or, did Dellschau take some of the work out of the Stelzig house
to somewhere else to meet and show it to this friend? The Aero Axel in Plate 1957 is captioned “After Wil-
liams’ idea.” Perhaps this means that Williams expressed his “idea” in the 1850s period. The attribution
to Williams may conflict with the fact that the Aero Axel has already been established as the proposal of
Christian Axel von Roemeling (who, like Williams, is referred to as a “friend”). Perhaps he remembered
them both from the 1850s or made them both up. But there does seem something legitimate underly-
ing the anecdote about Williams revising von Roemeling’s design. In addition there is confusion about
credits, which seems believable. On page 418 of Navarro’s “Books of Dellschau,” for example, one reads
that August Schoettler accused Juan Maria and Jose, two Spanish members of the club, of claiming as
their own some discoveries that were actually made by other club members. Page 413 recounts that
Dellschau made revisions to the Aero Jourdan that Jourdan himself, the original designer, objected to.
Page 408 states that the Aero Goeit, with the Balancier, or landing device, hanging below it, snagged
on a tree and crashed. Such failures sound realistic (cunningly realistic if indeed written by a Trickster).
Even more so the story on page 400 of the “tragic flight that caused the death (by a broken neck) of a
probable member of the Sonora Aero Club.” (Why a “probable” member?)
Plate 1960 is described by Navarro as containing “Bleriot’s flight across the English Channel—
newsclippings,” which illustrates the atmosphere of Dellschau’s early twentieth-century work, where
almost daily news clippings about aeronautical developments mix with the listing of important Aeros
and their proposers from the possibly fictitious history of the Sonora Aero Club in the 1850s.
Navarro’s notes for Plate 1970, of the Aero Condor, indicate that it contains the phrases “No. 1 Brag-
gart” and “A very free Studia after Emiehl Mentes’ proposition before S. A. C. 1857.” Emiehl Mentes was
another of the club members whom Dellschau says he remembers from the 1850s. Plate 1972, another
drawing of the Aero Condor, contains the remarks: “Very likely laughs of Emiel Mentes proposition and
still his princip is intact.” Someone evidently laughed at Mentes’s proposition yet in Dellschau’s mind
“his principle is intact.”
Plate 2024 contains, among other things, the strange boast “I can ride the highest wave.” Plate 2025
includes the comment “50 years are gone and who laughs now?” The implication is that the claims of
the Sonora Aero Club in the 1850s have subsequently been proved true and those who laughed the first
time the claim was made, in the 1850s, can no longer laugh. Yet that doesn’t actually seem to be the
case. Is this an example of Dellschau speaking from a delusion?
Details from P. G. Navarro’s “Books of Dellschau”
Details from P. G. Navarro's “Books of Dellschau”

The Contents of Dellschau’s Books of Drawings
Dellschau leaves a picture of a reality that has to be pieced together from isolated words, images,
scraps, and reversals. Currently the meager discourse on the artist includes one exhibition catalog from
a 1997 show at a New York gallery and a book published a dozen years later by Dennis Crenshaw, The
Secrets of Dellschau.12
P. G. Navarro is credited as a collaborator on this book, which includes a list of
about fifty Aeros and what detailed information they had on each.
A key element of Crenshaw’s book is the fact that Dellschau’s career was bookended by two aerial
phenomena—in the 1850s the balloon craze and increasing experimentation with flight, and in the late
1890s the series of unexplained airship sightings called the Great Texas Airship Mystery. Dellschau read
the Texas papers and followed aviation stories in general—but especially the mystery airships, which
are referred to in some of the Press Blooms.
The story of what was going on in Sonora in the 1850s can be filled in somewhat sketchily from the
artist’s memoirs combined with the hand-lettered texts in the twelve books. In all, about sixty people
are mentioned by name as being involved in the flight-experiments of the 1850s, and about a hundred
airships, presented in the texts and depicted in the paintings, with some mention of technical develop-
ments from one model to the next. There is dim talk of an entity referred to, after Navarro’s decoding, as
NYMZA, possibly a group of people in Germany that in some unexplained way is supposed to lie behind
the activities of the Sonora Aero Club. Those activities are presented by Dellschau as a record of events
that took place at the meetings of the club, where one member might present to the others a design or
an idea for a design, which would be discussed and criticized.
The drawings in Dellschau’s books, when Navarro got to them, were in disarray; many pages had
been removed from their bindings and stacked or heaped in no particular order. It is not entirely clear
who reconstructed the pages as books, nor if it was done correctly. Navarro may have been involved
at that stage, as part of his attempt to identify everything and organize it all, along with comments, in
his voluminous notebooks, and his work does not seem to be that of a maniac or crank. If he wasn’t a
scholar when he started, he made himself one.
Various authors have proposed different appraisals of the truth value of Dellschau’s account. At
one extreme is the opinion of Fred Washington, who, like Navarro, spent a lot of time studying the
drawings when he had them at the OK Trading Post. Washington believes Dellschau was a seer whose
transcendent visions were, perhaps, above categorization. Dellschau’s “brain,” he surmised, “was far
too advanced to function in the world as we know it . . . His whole mind had been taken over; it wasn’t
of this reality.”13
But he doesn’t say what exactly he thinks “took over” Dellschau’s mind. Was it a delu-
sion? A message from outer space? A mystical flash that just didn’t stop?
Navarro expresses different positions at different moments. His skepticism is apparent when he
says: “The lack of records would seem to indicate that the entire story of the Sonora Aero Club is a fig-
ment of his imagination.” But at the same time Navarro found the books compellingly convincing. Cren-
shaw notes that “Pete felt almost without a doubt that Dellschau was diagramming a working machine.
The detail was too precise, the same pieces of machinery placed time after time on his Aeros.”14
The
later Aeros maintained the same mechanical and aerodynamic principles as the Goose. “If Dellschau
was making these drawings up in his mind as he went along it’s hard to believe that he would continue
to use the same components used in his early Aeros to make up the working machinery in his later
machines.”15
Dellschau’s imagination, according to this view, was too limited; he kept repeating the
same Aero design a hundred times over twenty years. Why didn’t his imagination produce further devel-
opments in the design of the Aeros? Studies of doodles indicate that they do change and develop over
time. Dellschau’s paintings do change a bit over the years, but not in the mechanics envisioned for the
Aeros. The difference is more a matter of style.
Dellschau’s early work may strike one as pragmatic and technical, while in the later work it seems
he is either losing his mind or becoming an artist. The touch of the brush becomes increasingly gestural,
and added emphasis seems placed on the ornamental borders.
What artworks might Dellschau have been familiar with? Another question that stands alone.
The Aesthetic of Dellschau’s Art
It is not hard to see Dellschau’s work as art—especially the later work. The books themselves have a
sculptural presence with a rustic frontier aura. They could be props in a movie. But most artlike are the
airship paintings, of which there are many hundreds. Dellschau’s approach to painting features draw-
ing, which is to say it emphasizes line over color. Much of it could be called drawing with paint. The
airship paintings have the fascination of something light (a bubble) hanging in the air. They really do
speak right out to the beholder in a way that seems like art—a parading of their sensory nuances along
with the overlay of a verbal message that may permanently remain not totally understood. One of the
flagrant qualities of the Plates is the fact that much of the color is heavily tinted—meaning that there
is a lot of white mixed into it; broad areas of the compositions are left translucent, allowing the light of
the page to shine through. Along with the elegant simplicity of Dellschau’s drawings comes the sense
of an object with a lightness not exactly ghostly and not quite supernatural. It floats like a snowflake or
a Christmas ornament or a ghost—yet with remarkable detail. There is a quality of thinking there that
either a child or an adult could follow.
Each of Dellschau’s Plates is carefully composed and attractively, even expertly, merges its verbal
and visual elements. For a similar feeling about space and the beings who might inhabit it in the imagi-
nation one may think of the gods’ departure in Jean-Antoine Watteau’s Embarkation for Cythera (1717),
or the ceilings of Tiepolo—both Rococo depictions of the edge between historical space and pure or
Ideal space. Dellschau’s Aeros occupy that edge, too.
Some Aeros have one balloon or lifting chamber, some two. These mechanical alternatives lead to
two different types of compositions. Many of the Plates are based on unity and structured around the
central point, which gives birth to a mandala-like eight-petaled lotus form. Others are based on portray-
ing the moment when duality emerges from unity. Those are based around a central axis rather than a
central point, and a heraldic flanking device is structured around that axis. Some of Dellschau’s render-
ings embody what you might call an aristocratic use of space, somewhat as in Renaissance painting;
others give the impression of a working-class view of space, with hints of comics and advertisements.
Numerous Plates are devoted primarily to Press Blooms but place them in pictorial settings; the
different orders of the sensual and the cognitive are cunningly brought closer and closer to one another
as they contribute to the same pictorial effect. In Plate 4441 (right, top) a huge Press Bloom hangs
suspended in a pale blue sky, like an Aero; the picture of an airplane dropping a bomb in the Scientific
American clipping in turn parodies or ironizes the fact that the Press Bloom itself is in the position of
Top: Plate 4441 Press Blooms (Attacking Forest Fires with Gas Bombs),
August 6, 1919 (see page 255)
Bottom: Plate 4520 Maybe, December 3, 1919 (see page 275)

an Aero. The massive Bloom hangs on ornamental—even somewhat palatial—brackets on both sides,
which in turn are fastened securely to an emphatic border in primary colors, white, and black whose tiny
framed rectilinear abstractions might be found on a Neolithic bowl. In the similar Plate 4520 (page 21,
bottom), the Press Blooms in or around the center are embedded in massive ornamental borders, which
become picture panels or series themselves.
Plate 4520 is a special masterpiece. The large central panel shows a Press Bloom in which a dirigible
is crashing into the ocean. In the water below is a wooden boat with a crew of six, and a vague aura of
another era. Above it the elaborately framed newspaper headline “Border Drug Smugglers Use Planes”
seems unconnected to the scene of which it is the heading. In the border at the bottom right, in large yel-
low print cunningly superimposed on circus-like primary stripes, is the word Maybe, also seemingly in
a world by itself, only vaguely integrated into the whole pictorial / linguistic puzzle or reality. These and
other elements are lovingly and intricately unified on a page, along with many elements that work and
interpenetrate with some difficulty. The decorative framing of disaster (which Roger Cardinal identifies
as schadenfreude) is like Horace’s famous poem beginning Suave mari magno, in which he says that it
is pleasant to stand safe on the shore and watch a ship caught in a storm out at sea.
Prominent among the center-based compositions are several that present massive eight-cogged
gears (turning at the center of the Platonic clockwork universe) like monstrous mandalas. A great
example—another of Dellschau’s iconic masterpieces on which he seems to have expended especially
loving or reverential care—is a page from Recolections second part that bears the heading “Otto Krauses
Batery Revolving Generator and Releaver” (left, top). It seems that the whole energy of the revolving
universe is held within a transparent glass vial in an ambience of blue air or water—like a perfume. It is
a mighty icon that one can almost hear groaning in the turns. The central mandala figure (representing
the inner harmonic motion of the universe) has eight rays, or petals. The mandalas scattered throughout
Dellschau’s work are almost always eight-petaled, like the primary and secondary compass points or
the quarterly positions of a clock face. The four- and eight-petaled mandala was the ancient Sumerian
form, where the iconograph, which is still everywhere in human culture, came from. In this instance the
mandala is dated on one side 1858 and on the other 1900, the dates invoking both of the spheres of
aeronautical activity that lay behind Dellschau’s work—the Sonora Aero Club in the late 1850s and the
Great Texas Airship Mystery of the late 1890s. The droplets of Mennis’s antigravity fluid are dripping into
the revolving mandala from above; power derived from them presumably keeps the mandala turning
(clockwise, it seems).
Another, also from the same volume of the memoirs, is headed, “George Newells ‘We goe it allone’”
and dated 1858 (left, middle). On the left one sees the drops of Lifting Fluid creating an upward current.
The eight-limbed mandala is centered around a smaller center-plus-quadrature motif. As in many Neo-
lithic and Early Bronze Age icons the cosmic quadrature rises out of a system of concentric circles and
revolves clockwise. The Liftpower, which is generated on the left, is used to turn the Liftwheel. This tiny
engine, it seems, turns the universe.
The mandala center-plus-quadrature icon occurs throughout Dellschau’s Aero designs, often por-
trayed not as the center of everything but as one ancillary part among others. It’s a form that appears
often in Recolections second part. In one drawing, of the Browny Doobely (left, bottom), the little manda-
las appear on both sides in the heraldic flanking arrangement, with eight blades for the eight petals of the
lotus. In other drawings the form occurs with variations but always with the eight primary and secondary
compasspoints.InPlate3352(right,top)theeight-petaledrosetteatthecenterismadeupofPressBloom
photosof“EightMembersoftheNewBritishWarCabinet.”Asthemandalashedsitsmeaningallaroundit,
war is presented here as an ongoing universal life form permeating everywhere.The cabinet members are
like devils.
Dellschau’s depiction of the Aeros involves some artistic license; he found in the concept of a device
for ascent some decorative room to explore alongside symbolic meanings. Dellschau has chosen to
make use of this freedom to give meaning to the work by the incorporation of symbolic forms into it. To
begin with he has imagined his spaceships along Platonic lines—meaning with circular mandala-like
forms, usually divided into eight interior segments, placed in dominating positions in the compositions.
The message is an exhortation to live in peace and harmony—the ethical message inherent in unity,
centrality, and circularity. Aristotelian cosmology has a similar ethical tinge. The motion of eternal enti-
ties is always circular, as their shape is apt to be spherical. Aristotle seems to have adopted this from
the Pythagorean-Platonic tradition, and indeed Dellschau’s imagined conceptions of the Aeros are made
up of circles within circles, like the gearbox of the universe.
Several of the Aeros are featured in numerous drawings—George Newell’s Airostant Stickfast,
Eduard Hermsdorf’s Airostant Doobely, W. H. Brown’s Airo with the Suckerkicker, the Browny Doobely,
and finally and above all Otto Krause’s Idea, two drawings of which are made up almost completely of
an array of circles within and around one another creating a constant flurry of rotation and energy (right,
middle and bottom).
The Theme of Flight
The theme of flight has often been said to dominate the twentieth century. It is a theme with several
branches and levels. There’s the Wright Brothers making an airplane, and then there’s St. Teresa flying
above the treetops. On one level it is the old center-based mandala spirituality, with flight as an ascent
from the center; on another it has an ecological aspect that has to do with the ambition to leave the earth
(perhaps having used it up) and fly to unforeseen rematerializations. Renaissance paintings show saints
and angels floating or flying around amid clouds in the same skies where Dellschau’s angelic Aeros are
suspended light as a feather.
But there is an inner tension to the Aero drawings. The mandala form that much of Dellschau’s
work involves is a vision of cosmic space as an enclosure, but the theme of flight or upward ascension
implies escape from or flying up out of the cosmic enclosure. On the one hand, it may seem that the
mandala theme with its positing of the wholeness of space is the primary theme rather than the theme
of ascent or escape from it. On the other hand, the function of the mandala, though it is static in space
the way a center is, is as a launching pad either out of the mandala or to a higher level of it conceived
three-dimensionally. It provides stability but not a dead stability so much as a space crawling with life—
perhaps it could be called a space for transformation, though it is not glimpsed at the moment of the
blazing miracle—but the gentle ascent of a balloon floating silently up, up, and away.
The ascent or escape from the mandala, in fact, needs some magical or religious help, because it’s
not just a matter of ascent but of descent also. “Of all the metaphors,” Gaston Bachelard says, “only
those pertaining to height, ascent, depth, descent and fall are axiomatic. Nothing can explain them
Top: Recolections second part, Otto Krauses
Batery Revolving Generator and Releaver,
1900 (see page 10)
Middle: Recolections second part, George
Newells “We goe it allone,” 1899–1900 (see
page 124)
Bottom: Recolections second part, Browny
Doobely, 1900 (see page 113, bottom)
Top: Plate 3352 War Press Blooms (Eight Members
of the New British War Cabinet), May 27, 1915 (see
page 224, top)
Middle: Recolections second part, Prof Carolus on Otto
Krause, 1899–1900 (see page 116)
Bottom: Recolections second part, Otto Krause & Carl
Nitschke combination Weather Lodge Type, 1899–1900
(see page 117)

but they can explain everything.”16
Eliphas Levi, in The Mysteries of Magic, presented his own form of
the axiom: “The spirit clothes itself to come down, and strips itself to go up.”17
In Levi’s parable of the
comet and the fixed star, the comet brags: “I am permitted to wander at will and vex the harmony of the
spheres! . . . I am the proscribed, the eternal wanderer, who has infinity as domain.”18
Shamanic traditions around the world involve the claim of bodily flight. “Ancient India,” Mircea
Eliade notes, “knows the ecstasy that makes ascension and magical flight possible.”19
Patanjali, in the
Yoga Sutras (III.45), declares that yogis can obtain the power “to fly like a bird.” In the Mahabharata
the sage Narada “soars into the sky and reaches the summit of Mount Meru.”20
There is also “the myth
of ascent to the sky by a ladder,” which goes back to Old Kingdom Egypt and “is also known in Africa,
Oceania, and North America.”21
And, Eliade notes, “the sky can [also] be reached by fire or smoke, by
climbing a tree or a mountain, or ascending by way of a rope or a vine, the rainbow or even a sunbeam.”22
Shamans are called to their profession by what Eliade calls a psychotic episode, and among them as
among mental patients the dream or imagining of flight is common. Artists too have sometimes exhib-
ited the special personality that needs the dream of flight. One modern artist who was especially literal
about it was the French artist Yves Klein, who wrote:
Today anyone who paints space must actually go into space to paint, but he must go there with-
out any faking, and neither in an airplane, a parachute, nor a rocket; he must go there by his
own means, by an autonomous individual force: in a word, he must be capable of levitating.23
Of course, some or all of these flights or ascents must have been made in the imagination, and that
is clearly how Dellschau’s relationship to flight developed. It seems that he imagined it visually and
thought it, somehow, nearly in his grasp.
Scrap Book
A tantalizing remnant of Dellschau’s oeuvre is Recolections second part, composed in a commercially
bound blank journal with “Scrap Book” imprinted on its leather cover. Dellschau filled both sides of
each of its twenty-four pages with elaborate drawings, among his most intricate and finely finished.
In addition, he affixed two sets of double-sided sheets of handwritten text with brads to some of the
drawings—these he called Yarns and are the two stories for which the pictorial drawings illustrate.
Made with lead pencil and watercolor and/or colored pencil, the gray of the pencil lead is joined by
red and blue with minor touches of lavender-pink and pink. The airship designs vary somewhat in their
aesthetic effect, but the concept remains basically four-part: the balloon on top of the rig, which will
be filled with anti-gravity gas; a cablike arrangement in the middle that provides room for an aeronaut
or two; the device that powers the airship by dripping a few drops of Peter Mennis’s antigravity fluid
onto a plate that converts it into a gas that is funneled into the balloon part or lifting chamber; and
beneath it all, the landing device, involving what Dellschau called the Falleasy. The overall effect of
most of his drawings and watercolors of Aeros is that they are composed principally of circles in some
arrangement and look like flying mandalas.
On the one hand, Dellschau’s drawings look like technical drawings (as Cardinal and others have
stressed), though as far as is known he never had training in draftsmanship; on the other hand they
look like decorative artwork, though again Dellschau never, as far as is known, had training as an artist.
In any case it seems that he took leeway with the technical aspect of the drawings, though he never cut
loose from it completely. This aspect led to Pete Navarro’s argument that if the Aeros were all imagined
they wouldn’t display such regularity.
Another dichotomy that has arisen in the discourse is that some interpret the changes in his late
work as a sign of deterioration, maybe with a bit of old-age dementia, while in reality it may be that his
increasing awareness of himself as an artist is taking over and remaking his personality.
In addition to the apparition-like silence of the colorful Aeros floating and rising iconically, Dellschau
introduced narration here and there in his writings, presenting a childlike story or a dream with pos-
sible symbolic suggestions. He wanted to draw connections between his more important characters,
seemingly in hopes of making the whole thing a single great mandala-yarn (more like Wölfli’s magnum
opus). George Newell, Peter Mennis, Christian Axel von Roemeling, and others are connected in a nexus
of story that is only visible in partial glimpses. One of the supplemental texts in Recolections second
part is entitled “George Newells Yarn of Peter Mennis Dream ‘The Rescue’ of Christian Axel von Roemel-
ing, The Moonskooter, rendered Sumer 1857 after closing Club Transactions of the Sonora Aerial Club”
(right, top). Dellschau claims the yarn to have been “rendered” (just meaning “drawn”?) in 1857, though
his artistic efforts are usually regarded as beginning in 1898 (perhaps in the retirement-artist mode of
the outsider—here again the same three names haunt him: Wölfli, Darger, Ramírez).
One of the Moonskooter rescue drawings shows the Goose tilting at a strange angle above some
landscape (right, bottom). The Aero is made up of four spherical elements disposed around another
larger one. An empty basket swings down below it. A man (Dellschau, perhaps) stands on the ground
with a telescope looking, it seems, at the moon, where von Roemeling, with a sword, is seated astraddle.
He says: “If i get hold of that Mashine I never go to California i strike out for Copenhagen I get that Rope-
ladder tyed to the moons horn and go down to him if ever on I fid him.” Down below: “Ha Shuckelmyer
Air is mighty thin up here you never go to Copenhagen i save you, but my own Way I need Ballast . . . and
you are just built for that.” On the right is a long text that seems spoken by Mennis. “Im gone by myself
August. You have plenty of Grub on hand by dinner. We fetch a good Apetite whit us. You hear Dont you
forget my Order August as he went a going. Yes Fatty will act splendid as Ballance Wheight if i ever get
him of that roost. You bet his weight pull us home quick i recon the action of the air trow the Hair on
our Heads out whit the Boots and i be baldheaded the ballans of my Life im gone August good bye old
Soul.” There is the Man in the Moon, the man on the earth with the telescope, and in between there
is a third man barely visible in the passenger basket of the Aero. That middle figure would seem to be
speaking the long speech just quoted: Mennis. At some point he wakes up and realizes it was a dream.
¯DM = XØ
Present in many of the Plates are character-like symbols that look as if they are based to a degree on
letters of the Greek alphabet. It is not clear to what end these only semi-recognizable characters are
used. A formula that is on many of the Plates looks almost like ¯DM = XØ but not quite. The two letters
on the right of the equation look more like chi and phi from the Greek alphabet than like X and O from
the Latin alphabet. The formula ¯DM = XØ has a horizontal dash entering the D around its middle, from
the left, and a diagonal line from upper right to lower left through the O. And of course D and M are both
in the Greek alphabet, too. Delta mu = chi phi? It may be Dellschau didn’t leave enough clues to figure
Top: Recolections second part, Geo Newells Satyre “The Rescue of the
Moonskooter as given before The Sonora Airostat Club vait a leetle i
come and get you Fatty,” 1899–1900 (see page 120)
Bottom: Recolections second part, The Moonskooter Rescue, 1899–
1900 (see page 120)

it out. Maybe it has something to do with Peter Mennis, as on Plate 2003 (as described by P. G. Navarro
in his “Books of Dellschau”) are the words: “Have you never heard of P. M.’s goose and heir offspring
¯DM = XØ—Peter I haven foregot you!”
Navarro thought he had worked it out in Dellschau’s code so that ¯DM = XØ translates into NYMZA.
In his interpretation the five elements refer by code to a mysterious organization, perhaps operating
from Germany, that was the sponsor or secret director behind the activities of the Sonora Aero Club.
There is in addition one drawing (Plate 2550) that is signed, “a ¯DM = XØ Club Debate Studia . . . Drawn
by CAA Dellschau.” Studia is the term Dellschau used for a model or study or artist’s proof. So: this is
the Study-Model that came out of a Sonora Aero Club debate. But of couse Dellschau treated the right
side of the equation as if it was the Latin letters X and O, and didn’t consider the problems about those
letters mentioned above.
The Question About Question
One of several major questions surrounding the secrets of Dellschau has to do with the historical value
of the account given in his various formats—the three volumes of memoirs and the twelve known books
of Plates. Attempts have been made to find other records or evidences of the Sonora Aero Club, or Peter
Mennis or George Newell or any other character of the many named, but the results have not been
satisfying.
P. G. Navarro sums it up: “Many of the newsworthy events that Dellschau claimed to have happened
while he was there have been verified. But those events dealing with the activities of the Aero Club have
not.” And again: “A personal search of records and cemeteries . . . have turned up nothing that would
prove the members of the Aero Club ever existed.” And “The lack of records would seem to indicate that
the entire story of the Sonora Aero Club is a figment of his imagination.”24
The idea that Dellschau’s yarn
is fiction somehow does not resolve the issue, since fiction has many modes. Is it fiction in the way a
work of art is fiction? Or the way an outright lie is fiction? Or the way confusion may produce a kind of
fiction? Different opinions have been registered on all this.
And after considering them all, one must acknowledge that the evidence simply doesn’t provide a
clear answer to this question. It is one of many questions that just have to be lived with as questions—
or ignored. Dellschau refers to events in the news of the 1850s that check out, but he could have just
looked them up in a library. The problem is that little if any confirmation of Dellschau’s personal history,
the Club and so on, has been found.
If a question is rivetingly important to a questioner, then the failure to find an answer can cast a
question mark over everything in his or her life. Some will try to escape the dilemma by asserting that
a question that does not have an answer is not a real question. Question and answer are a mutually
dependent pair, like yes and no or true and false or up and down. In such a pair neither proposition can
be meaningful in a universe where the other is not also meaningful. The idea that, lacking an answer,
one should live with the question as a question, like an acquaintance whose name one does not know,
may seem frustrating, but at least one major artist, James Lee Byars, has apotheosized the idea of
Question; his oeuvre is posited on a universe in which Question rules, which he feels will be more open
and creative than one in which Answer rules. Question, after all, is wide open; it could be pointing to
anything in the universe. But Answer is closed, it appears as one thing and continues to do so.
Can it be that accepting a question as a question is inwardly, hiddenly, a kind of answer? Or is it
just a kind of shrug? Dellschau’s twelve massive books of words and pictures may be no more than an
old man’s lonely daydreams. They are pretty daydreams, which imply a pretty question mark, pretty
and somehow deep, as one question behind the Aeros is the choice between ascent and descent. The
breathlike striped spheres floating by may remind one of a line from a poem of e. e. cummings: “In Just-/
spring when the world is mud-/luscious the little/lame balloonman/whistles far and wee.” The little
striped spheres float silently onward. What is their destination?
Notes
1. Walter Morgenthaler, Ein Geisteskranker als Künstler
(Bern: E. Bircher, 1921); and Hans Prinzhorn, Bildnerei der
Geisteskranken (Berlin: J. Springer, 1922).
2. Colin Rhodes, Outsider Art: Spontaneous Alternatives
(London: Thames and Hudson, 2000), 45.
3. Roger Cardinal, “Outsider Art and the Autistic Creator,”
Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society of Biologi-
cal Sciences (May 2009): 1,459–66.
4. C. G. Jung, The Archetypes and the Collective Uncon-
scious (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1969),
356.
5. Ibid., 357.
6. Ibid.
7. This calculation was done by P. G. Navarro.
8. This count was made by Stephen Romano.
9. The first public exhibition of Dellschau’s work was
“Flight,” at the University of St. Thomas, in Houston, in
1969. I personally saw them on display in that exhibition.
10. He translates the ciphers as (left side, top to bottom)
P, O, N, M, L, K, I, H, A, B, C, D, E, F, G and (right side,
top to bottom) Q, R, S, T, U, W, X, Y, Z, CH, SCH, with the
O used for double letters and no representation for J or
V. By using this code, he claims the passages on the left
and right edges of the drawing read “Now talk about your
dirigibels” and “O yes we didden know nothing say.” P. G.
Navarro, e-mail to Stephen Romano, July 30, 2012.
11. Two were acquired by a New York gallery that special-
izes in outsider art, one entered the abcd collection, Paris,
and one is in a private collection.
12. Lauren Redniss, The Aeronautical Notebooks of
Charles Dellschau, exh. cat. (New York: Ricco/Maresca
Gallery, 1997); and Dennis Crenshaw and P. G. Navarro,
The Secrets of Dellschau: The Sonora Aero Club and the
Airships of the 1800s, a True Story (San Antonio, TX: Anom-
alist Books, 2009).
13. Redniss, Aeronautical Notebooks, 7.
14. Crenshaw and Navarro, Secrets, 114.
15. Ibid., 138.
16. Quoted by J. E. Cirlot, A Dictionary of Symbols (New
York: Philosophical Library, 1962), 104.
17. Arthur Edward Waite, The Mysteries of Magic: A Digest
of the Writings of Eliphas Levi (London: George Redway,
1886), 192.
18. Eliphas Levi, Transcendental Magic, Its Doctrine and
Ritual (Chicago: Occult Publishing House, 1910), 184.
19. Mircea Eliade, Shamanism: Archaic Techniques of
Ecstasy (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1972),
407.
20. Ibid., 409.
21. Ibid., 490.
22. Ibid.
23. See Thomas McEvilley, Yves the Provocateur (Kings-
ton, NY: Documentext, 2010), 86.
24. Crenshaw and Navarro, Secrets, 114 and 181.

Tracy Baker-White
To Cross the Plains
The Life and Art
of Charles A. A. Dellschau
2
Erinnerungen (Recollections), Rescue of the Moonskooter scene, 1900, 101
/4 × 73
/4 in.,
Private collection

30 3131to cross the plains30Baker-white
Charles A. A. Dellschau was an outwardly ordinary man with an amazingly inventive mind. At sixty-eight
years of age, the retired butcher and saddlery clerk in Houston started a creative project that would
occupy him for more than two decades. It began as a set of illustrated memoirs and grew in time to
include at least a dozen additional handmade books, with thousands of watercolor drawings related
to airships.
Although Dellschau wrote his memoirs at the turn of the twentieth century, they concern the years
1854 to 1859, when the artist was living in a boardinghouse in Sonora, California, a Gold Rush boom-
town. Many who traveled to the Golden State to seek their fortunes made the treacherous trip overland
from the Midwest or by sea—around Cape Horn or to and from each coast of the Isthmus of Panama—
and they dreamed of an easier, faster route. The residents of the Sonora boardinghouse were no differ-
ent. They formed a club that gathered regularly in the saloon to drink and talk about ideas for an airship
capable of transcontinental flight. “The main Object,” as Dellschau inscribed on a drawing from 1912
(left), was “to be able to cross the plains—and avoid Indian—or White mans stares.”
The airships, or Aeros, as Dellschau called them, are somewhat fantastical constructions that com-
bine elements of nineteenth-century air balloons and early twentieth-century dirigibles, zeppelins, and
biplanes. He introduces the Aeros in the memoirs, which were written between 1898 and 1900, but
explores them more fully in the later books of drawings, which date between 1908 and 1921.
The purpose of the Sonora Aero Club was to debate various proposals, secure financial backing, and
build an airship that could fly; the riches would surely follow. But many of the club’s proceedings were
held with great frivolity and jest. A 1912 drawing depicting the Aero Guarda (Plate 2627, opposite, top),
includes a humorous description of the method by which members would present an idea:
Gustav Freyer, a high educated Mechanic, in proposing this Inormus Idea was forced by the
Rules and Bylaws of the Sosiety to produce something to be talked off. His turn had come and
jockinly he stepped to the black board took the Chalk, and says Brethers, you all know I am not
quite a professor. Looking straight to some of the Member I give you a nut to crack. My Idea is to
put a guard Fence all around the mashine to fall—land—easey and always Safe, to keep some
of you Smartys from falling out—to drown you falling on Wather, let her Somersoult and you will
stay perpendicular, I mean head up on the floor of the Hold—He draw a Sketch on the Board and
give a short Explanation—Well now some of you has to pay the treat for me. Tell ye the Thruth,
I am busted and dry as a fish! And they all went to the Barrrr. . . . 1858.
Drinking clubs and boisterous behavior were a well-established part of mining-camp culture. The
infamous drinking club E Clampus Vitus was established in California in 1851 and still survives today. The
“Clampers,” some of whom were the most highly regarded residents in town, met regularly in Sonora in
the Hall of Comparative Ovations.1
It is not unlikely that a group of boardinghouse residents might have
gathered to drink, tell stories, and dream of flying machines just as Dellschau describes.
Dellschau’s artwork was discovered in Houston in the late 1960s.2
After the artist’s death, in 1923,
the drawings remained in the attic of the family home for approximately forty years until it was cleared
of debris by order of the fire department. The drawings were discarded on the street curb and taken to
the dump, where they were found by a trash picker who sold them to a furniture refinisher named Fred
Washington. In 1969 Mary Jane Victor, at the time a student at St. Thomas University and an employee
of the Menil Collection, discovered the books of drawings in Washington’s OK Trading Post. She showed
four of the books to art patron Dominique de Menil, who bought them. The remaining eight books were
purchased from Washington in 1970 by P. G. Navarro, a graphic artist in Houston. Navarro ultimately sold
four to the San Antonio Museum Association and four to a private collector. Dellschau’s drawings have
since been exhibited nationally and internationally.
German Roots
Charles August Albert Dellschau was born in Berlin on June 5, 1830.3
He appears in public records under
the names Charles and Albert, but in the memoirs he refers to himself as Charly. Dellschau was the
third of thirteen children born to Friederike Wilhelmina Franck and Heinrich Adolph Dellschau, a master
butcher.4
As the child of a middle-class family in early nineteenth-century Berlin, he probably received
an elementary school education before entering into an apprenticeship in his father’s trade.5
Presumably Dellschau would have been aware of the revolutionary advancements in flight tak-
ing place during his youth. After the first experiments by the Montgolfier brothers in 1783, ballooning
became a popular craze in Europe. Nineteenth-century inventors drafted all manner of fanciful designs
for balloons and airships and engaged in adventurous attempts to fly them in Germany, France, and
England. Aeronauts like Eugene Godard and Charles Green test-piloted balloons all over Germany in
the 1830s and ’40s, when Dellschau was at an impressionable age.6
One of Dellschau’s late drawings,
Plate 4714 (right, bottom), shows a young man (perhaps the artist himself) flying a kite and may be a
reference to this period in his life.
Times were hard in Germany throughout Dellschau’s childhood. Food was scarce because of poor
harvests, and riots were common as the prices for potatoes, pork, and rye skyrocketed one year then
plummeted the next—a situation that would have created economic hardship for the large family of a
butcher. Social unrest began to develop in the 1820s and culminated in a failed attempt at revolution in
1848. Dellschau was eighteen years old when violent demonstrations in Berlin resulted in the shooting
deaths of more than three hundred citizens at the hands of government soldiers.7
Ultimately, thousands
of Germans left their homeland for the promise of a better life in America, often aided by settlement
societies that would arrange for the voyage and the means to establish themselves upon arrival—a
small house, oxen, and a wagon.8
Immigration to America
Whether Charles Dellschau left Germany because of economic hardship or because of his politics is not
known, but he probably arrived at the Port of Galveston, Texas, in late 1849.9
The first definitive records
of his presence in the United States, however, date to 1860, when he applied for and received his citizen-
ship in Fort Bend County, Texas.10
In 1861 Dellschau married an Austrian widow named Antonia Helt in Richmond, a small town near
Houston.11
Helt had a five-year-old daughter named Elizabeth from her previous marriage, and the cou-
ple had three more children—Mary, Bertha, and Edward. Dellschau worked as a butcher for approxi-
mately twenty-seven years, paying taxes annually on a one-acre lot in Richmond, one horse, and two
to four cows, depending on the year.12
No record of his military service during the Civil War has been
found, but Dellschau evidently served on the Confederate side: the Dellschau family was included on
Top: Plate 2627 Guarda, August 21, 1912 (see page 217)
Bottom: Detail of Plate 4714 Wind 1845 Muehl Berg, October 18,
1920 (see page 319)
Detail of Plate 2554 (see page 41)

a list of those eligible for benefits to indigent families while the head of household was fighting for the
Confederate cause, and after the war Dellschau signed an Amnesty Oath.13
Dellschau’s stepdaughter, Elizabeth, married a saddle maker from Bastrop, Texas, named Anton
Stelzig, in 1873. The couple may have been introduced by Dellschau, who, as a butcher, could have
supplied Stelzig with hides. Tax records indicate that Elizabeth and her new husband lived with her par-
ents for at least a few years after their marriage; Anton Stelzig was listed as a member of the Dellschau
household through 1876.14
A Time of Loss
In 1877 Dellschau’s seemingly normal domestic life began to unravel with the deaths of his wife and
his son. Because their death dates are approximately two weeks apart, they both may have died of a
communicable disease such as yellow fever, which swept through the swampy region in the 1860s and
’70s.15
More tragedy was to follow. Two years after Antonia’s death Dellschau married a T. Petridz, but
she seems to have died within the year.16
Dellschau’s daughter Mary, who had married a young man
from Brenham, Texas, also disappears from historic records around this time and probably died.
Dellschau moved with the Stelzigs in 1887 to Houston, where Anton Stelzig opened a saddlery. The
1889–1890 Houston city directory shows that Dellschau was not working as a butcher but rather was
employed as a clerk in his son-in-law’s store. The 1891–1892 Austin city directory, however, lists an
Albert Dellschau, butcher, living at the Central Hotel.17
Dellschau had relocated to that city to be near his
last remaining natural child, Bertha, who was confined to the Austin State Hospital with tuberculosis.
She died there, in 1893.18
That same year Anton Stelzig died back in Houston, at age forty-three.19
After these untimely deaths, Dellschau returned to Houston and resumed working at the Stelzig sad-
dlery.20
He was sixty-three years old and had lost two wives, three children, and a son-in-law. He moved
in with his widowed stepdaughter, Elizabeth, and her eight children, including an infant and a toddler.
Dellschau would live within the Stelzig household for the remainder of his life.
The First Memoir
Charles Dellschau’s illustrated memoirs provide a critical anchor for understanding the narrative content
of his later work. They consist of three separate manuscripts—two volumes written in English and a third
written in German.They are collections of idiosyncratic text, illustrations, and explanatory inscriptions
that do not take the form of traditional sequential autobiographical narrative. One gleans the overall
story through a collective interpretation of the varied visual and textual elements.
The first volume, In Evening Hours of Lisure Recolections of real and speculative Work of Friends in
Time long gone by from a Friend yet here The are gone but their Work is not forgoten consists of 108
double-sided pages bound with four brads.21
It begins with a flourish: the cover page (left) features a
stack of elaborate cartouches containing quotations by Sonora Aero Club members, such as “I quit that
Foolishness long agoe,” “They will loock on ous to be either Fools or Swindlers,” and “Man had to learn
to Swim licke a Fish Why should he not learn to fly licke a Bird? Yes time will tell. I see no Fault in working
out this Problem!!” A narrow margin on the left features a tiny sketch of a man in an airship dangling by
rope from a sliver of moon, a visual motif that appears again in the later memoirs.
The first half of Recolections consists of many pages of unembellished writings interspersed with
pages with drawings of airships. The earliest pages that contain these drawings have lengthy passages
of narrative text wrapping around the image. In later pages, as the project became more formalized, the
texts are shorter and take on the form of annotations or explanatory lists of various parts. Dellschau
usually named the club member who proposed the design. He also gave the vessels witty names like the
Multyplus and the Maybugg (by Michael Gorée), the Illusion (by George Newell), the Ride Me (by Profes-
sor Carolus), the Dove (by Heinrich Baumann), the Doobeline Balance Sphere (by Edward Hermsdorph),
the Idea (by Otto Krause), the Saturnus (by Joe Cheney), the Hawk (by Christian Axel von Roemeling
and Karl Distell), the Trebla and the Augar Bohrer (by August Schoetler), and the Moveable (by Jonas
Rockstroh).22
The Aeros are carefully rendered in sepia ink, with some details accented with delicate
pale color washes.
The main hero of the Sonora Aero Club is Peter Mennis (right), a rough-and-ready miner who created
a balloon airship called the Goose. Mennis is often depicted in Dellschau’s illustrations wearing a hat
and typical red wool flannel miner’s shirt and holding a pipe; sometimes there is a little dog at his side.
Mennis is central to all of the activities of the club, and it was a Sunday afternoon ascent of the Goose
that seems to have been the impetus for its formation:
Who was Peter Mennis? A California Miner, a German up in the fourthies, a plain yes a rough
Man, whit as kind a hearth as to be found in verry few living beengs. a genius in getting Up useful
contrivances, but adicted to strong drink, and for ever out of Means, “Flat brocke” as the word
goes. Now to astonnish his Friends and Neighbours he was tinkering for some time on some
contraption, borrowing nails, Screws, Wire and other articles to fix his Airostant Goose, and one
Sunday afternoon, calling to witness the whole Neighbourhood on Woods Creek that he was
going to Sonora and Columbia and inviting annyboddy to join in and go whit him. They all had
a hearthy Laugh on Peter, and his ragged Mashine expressly as Peter had a Load, but no boddy
ventured, and up he went, allone & how manny bigmouthed man oppened their Eyes, telling he
would never come back allive, he break his Neck coming down if he ever could turn back. Yes
and he did come back whitin ten feet of his Cabin, and as easy as a Bird alighting. Now he was
a Wichman and some of the Biggmouths went out of his way, talking behind his Back. but oth-
ers began to smell a Fortune to be able to get out of the Fool Duchman and in no greath while
their was the Omibus Plaine Co. born to go it on a large Scale, and fleece Peter. Yes the build
three fine Airomnibusses under Guidans of Mr Dr Michael Gorée a friend of Peter Mennis, and a
man that know it all, and a heap more, as Peter himself, but when all was ready they would not
rise and as their Companies Pocket books was closed to pay Peters Claim he stnd by and had a
horslaugh at the man that where to get rich of Peters Invention. A thing or two that he kept to
him Self and neither Dr M Gorée nor his hungry Money loaners could solve. Yes they bulldosed
Peter, they called Dr Gorée a humbug and as buldosing would not go whit Peter, they landed him
after while in the Insane Assylum, “as i Understand” but their Omnibusses went to old Iron and
Tattess, and their Fortunes never realised. but as some things cant never come to rest Severall
other genial man toock up Peters Invention again and worked the Problem on and off, the vis-
sible Points of Peters “Goose” and Still others Claim all their Own Self made Ideas. but as Yet no
Recolections, cover page, 1898–1900 (see page 93)
Erinnerungen (Recollections), Peter Mennis, 1900
(see page 130)

Baddy has achieved what Peter Mennis has shown whit the “Goose” an Airship constructed as
two Balloons harnessed to the Seatbasket, and a steady Central Parrashute. Making his Lifting
power or Gass as he goes allong, rising, falling, drifting, “at will of Opperator” and minding the
Stearing Apparatus licke a Charm.23
Some of the drawings within the first thirty-six pages of Recolections include the headers “Lather
Propositions” and “Aftermath” and seem to be somewhat later insertions. The Aeros are rendered in a
style even more akin to patent drawings, with labels, legends, and commentary that often takes the form
of banter among the men, as if Dellschau was reliving snippets of remembered dialogue. These illus-
trations also are framed by thin sepia rules, and sometimes a border filled in with a pale red ink wash.
Dellschau made the Lather Propostions and Aftermath drawings in response to a letter to the editor of
the Houston Daily Post—dated November 28, 1898, but published December 6—that was headlined “A
Perfect Air Ship: A Texan Who Thinks He Has Invented a Successful Balloon” (left).24
The letter writer, a
W. H. Brown of Burton, Texas, describes in detail how the propeller design of his aluminum airship would
differ from that of an existing airship—presumably the first aluminum airship to be constructed, which
had a widely publicized but marginally successful test launch in Berlin the previous year. Impressed,
Dellschau copied much of the published letter verbatim into Recolections, calling it “Sucker Kicker Prin-
ciples” (see pages 94 and 95), but he remained skeptical, writing “Now i have read the letter over and
over again and there is a greath principle involved in his Teory, but the man Mr. Brown, has he ever seen
a Ballon or Airostat Stationary? . . . no no the man don’t know what he is writing about.” He continued to
consider Brown’s idea carefully, however, speculating “is it mechanical possible? . . . I have my greath
doubt about not the possibillity of ataining such Speed, but the danger of Frition, the Creation of greath
Heath in a sphere filled with light explosive Gass and the Danger there from.”
The second half of Recolections presents illustrated stories of life in the boardinghouse and the
antics of Sonora Aero Club members. The first tale is the “Rise and Fall” of Christian Axel von Roemel-
ing, a 385-pound man who has failed to remain aloft in Peter Mennis’s Goose and crash-lands on top of
skinny Captain O’Hairy (opposite, top).25
The episode results in von Roemeling’s marriage proposal to
Madam Glantz, the proprietor of the boardinghouse. Alas, O’Hairy is also in love with her, and he takes
revenge on his rival by orchestrating an elaborate prank on their wedding night. He rigs the marital bed
with ropes through the ceiling and, at an intimate moment, gives the ropes a yank, upending the bed
and causing the amorous couple to tumble to the floor (see page 128). All the while he and a friend peep
in through holes at the scene in the bedroom.
After the wedding, it is revealed that O’Hairy is actually a man of questionable reputation who makes
his living robbing stagecoaches.26
He is run out of town by Sheriff Stuart, who pretends to shoot at him
but actually lets him escape unharmed. In one of the illustrations, which contains a rare self-portrait,
Dellschau is seen riding in a stagecoach to Stockton with a friend of Mrs. von Roemeling named Mrs.
Seelich. When the stagecoach is stopped by O’Hairy and his band of outlaws, Mrs. Seelich refuses
to give over her possessions. Instead she draws a gun from under her skirt and shoots O’Hairy dead
(opposite, middle).
The drawings that illustrate these stories are full-page compositions set within simple ruled borders.
The figures are carefully drawn, almost in exaggerated fashion, and show a sophisticated grasp of the
human figure in action. Interiors are portrayed with specific features that carry over from drawing to
drawing, and Dellschau lavished special attention to the details of costume. Those scenes set outdoors
show what is unmistakenly the Sierra Nevada foothills landscape.
Some pages are dated 1898, but it is difficult to determine if that is the year he began to record his
remembrances. The Aftermath and Lather Propositions drawings date to after the December 1898 W. H.
Brown letter that so provoked Dellschau, and these pages show slight stylistic differences in penman-
ship—the nib of his pen was fatter and the ink bled a bit into the paper fibers, as though he was record-
ing these notes in greater haste. The last page of Recolections is inscribed with the date March 1859,
but this may simply be a notation of the time frame of the contents within; the years 1856 and 1859,
as well as the years in between, appear frequently in his work, and these are the years he is believed
to have been in California. A section of text in the middle of Recolections reads “Many years after I left
California, I was standing one day on the Realroad Depot in Richmond, Texas,” which would date the
manuscript to well after his departure from California.27
However, there is an Aftermath drawing with
text in which Dellschau mentions that “In studying over W. H. Brown’s Annoncement of his so called
Invention of bombarding Air whit Air . . . i come to some long forgat Papers . . . If I had found them old
papers before, Geo Newells Idea would have been treated in the forepart, and not the Aftermath of my
Recolections in English.”28
One wonders if the long-forgotten papers were notes or sketches made while
Dellschau was in California, and if indeed they are interleaved among the other pages of Recolections.
Although Dellschau’s narrative is difficult to follow because of misspellings and unusual syntax, he
is a masterful storyteller. He uses wonderfully humorous and idiomatic descriptions. He calls O’Hairy a
“bundle of bones” and Madam Glantz’s stash of gold a “thunderin big sack of money.”29
Meister Freund,
the local cabinetmaker, offers the newlyweds a wedding gift of a bed crafted with a built-in chamber
pot, a metal fan overhead, and a music box that played “Ach, du lieber Augustin” when activated by
movement on the mattress (right, bottom). He tells the couple, “Now my friendship to you dictates me
to keep you two Balls of Lard, cool, or you melt some hot Night. I have to make you a wedding gift of
the Bedstead, but you got to let me put in a Ventilator overhead, trough the ceiling, out trough the Roof,
and you thank me all your life for it.”30
The Second Memoir
Recolections real and speculativeWorks on Ideas of Friends in for higher Aims “long gone by” second part
dates from December 1898 to April 1900 and is recorded in a twenty-four page dark-green commercially
boundleathersketchbookwiththewords“ScrapBook”embossedonthecover.Itislargelyavisualexplo-
ration of the airship ideas of W. H. Brown merged with those of the Sonora Aero Club members—and thus
labeled Combinations or “fixed up in W. H. Brown Style”—as well as additional illustrations of boarding-
house life.
The Aeros are rendered similarly to those in the first Recolections, in sepia ink, but they are not set
within borders or frames. Some are drawn on one page with the gutter at the top edge, and others span
the spread. Some look like technical illustrations, with labels and legends, while others appear to be
modeled after book illustrations, labeled with a figure number. Pencil underdrawing is more evident, as
is Dellschau’s use of drafting tools for perfect circles and other shapes. Details are embellished with col-
ored ink washes. One drawing, of Eduard Hermsdorf’s Airostant Dooblely (page 113, top), bears loosely
Top: Recolections, Ch. A. von Roemelings Rise and Fall, 1898–1900
(see page 106)
Middle: Recolections, O. Harras End by Mrs Seelich, 1898–1900
(see page 109)
Bottom: Recolections, Freunds Masterpiece Strong comfortable
and Cool whit usefull Atachments, 1898–1900 (see page 108)
Houston Daily Post, December 6, 1898

penciled calculations and corrections—some of the Aero’s wheels are overlaid with an X and the word
No—as though Dellschau revisited his drawings and updated the mechanical details. Most of the Aeros
maintain the technical style seen in Recolections, but another version of Eduard Hermsdorf’s airship
(left, top) in this volume was drawn in a much more illustrious fashion—it’s flying across the spread at
close range—creating a visual link between the Aero drawings and the story illustrations.
Recolections second part also includes the recipe for Peter Mennis’s secret fuel for the Goose, whose
ingredients (left, bottom) he was reluctant to divulge because of the danger of combustion.It was appar-
ently stolen by Professor Diftdell and and Christian Axel von Roemeling, but Dellschau notes “i got my
doubts about it.” The instructions call first for the construction of a Generator Cone made of “dried
Rawhide . . . Hairy Sides outside up and down . . . Fatless Sticking Materia, no resinous or oily Varnish
but simple Flourpaste fine powdered Quick Lime . . . condensed Ochs blood and Gall putrid as possible
all Kneded together slow and troughout stuffed whit Copper and Zink filling formed in suitable Form and
Shade dried on Skin Foundation.” The Generating Fluid, made of soap, lye, sulfuric acid, and water, was
then “dealt out in verry smal droppings on Generator Cone” to transform the liquid into a gas. At the
very bottom, however, Dellschau wrote, “Where ever did P.M. get, or who ever saw him buy the stuff? i
consider it doubtfull.”
The German Memoir
The 240-page German volume, which Dellschau created after the two English volumes, in 1900, was
intended to be “a free translation from the English with supplements.”31
The title of the first part is
Erinnerung vergangener Jahre Zeit und Sittenspiegel niedergeschrieben und illustriert in freien Stunden
Zweiter Theil (Recollection of Years Past of time and a Way of Life Written and Illustrated in Idle Hours).
The second part is titled Erinnerungen über Wahre und Versuchs Arbeiten Gedanken Ideen von Freunden
längst todt, aber nicht vergessen von einem jetzt hier Der bringt sie aufs Papier von den Kerl habt ihr es
nicht erwartet (Recollections of real and experimental work and thoughts and ideas by friends long dead
but not forgotten, put presently to paper by one who knew them, you would not have expected this from
that guy). Both parts are encased in a deep-red leather cover, and many additional pages are loosely
inserted in the middle. The two sections track closely but not exactly to the English volumes—Aero
drawings, lengthy discussions about the merits of designs proposed by Sonora Aero Club members,
vignettes about life in the boardinghouse—but, curiously, the second part precedes the first.
The drawings are framed with more elaborate borders than those in Recolections—some frames
bend to accommodate the contours of the image within, and others, with narrowly spaced hatch strokes
and a red ink wash, take on the appearance of a wooden frame. A few borders even emulate building
blocks. Because Erinnerungen (Recollections) is the artist’s translation of his own work, various scenes
were replicated and they are often quite close compositionally to their predecessors but more fully
realized. For example a portrayal of club member George Newell addressing the group of miners on
the cliff behind the boardinghouse (pages 121 and 161) is much more sketchlike in Recolections second
part, but they are clearly the same scene. Two drawings illustrating the courtship of Madam Glantz and
Christian Axel von Roemeling share the same composition, with interesting similarities and differences
(opposite, top and middle). The later version has obviously been modeled very carefully after the ear-
lier one, but it is more refined and done in colored inks or watercolor. The couple sits in a parlor while
Dellschau himself peers in through a moonlit window. The interior is lavishly detailed—the floorboards,
the cupboards, the wallpaper, the paintings—as are the costumes. In the later work, the figures are
more proportional in the room setting, while the figures in the earlier work have oversized features and
are squeezed awkwardly to fit within the composition.
Erinnerungen also includes thirteen full-figure sepia portraits of various club members, set in pairs
or as solitary figures accompanied by a written profile (right, bottom). Like the figures that appear in the
two English volumes, the men are portrayed with specific likenesses and details of costume or pose that
indicate whether they are a miner (flannel shirt, boots, tools), a gunsmith (apron, at work in a smithy),
or a businessman (three-piece suit, hat, rolled documents, bag of coins).
Dellschau describes his companions as follows:
Some individuals gambled, others liked fast women or dance halls or saloons. . . . There was no
lack of pistols and knives. They were strong, rough men on the outside, but also many, many
good and sometimes well educated men. . . . This was also true for the members of the Sonora
Airship Club. Men of good upbringing, young and old, but most as poor as church mice. This did
not matter, people of the same caliber are generally drawn together. Only they can help each
other to make life more pleasant and they worked hard on this problem; they drank, sang, and
gambled, held speeches and lied to the extent where black had to be taken for white.32
A multidimensional drawing of an Aero called the Multyplus that was created on larger paper and
folded to fit into the back of Erinnerungen serves as an important transitional work between the mem-
oirs and the drawings created after 1908. The airship was first introduced in Recolections as a simple
sepia line drawing (next page, top) and reappears several times throughout the memoirs, evolving
technically and stylistically. In the larger transitional drawing (next page, middle), its three ballons are
boldly striped in blue, red, and violet, and the bottom half of the composition is bordered in alternat-
ing squares of red and blue ink, showing the beginnings of the framing device that becomes one of the
integral elements in Dellschau’s later works. The surface of the drawing has three innovative folding
flaps; two on either side of the Aero’s center and one above. When the side flaps are closed we see an
exterior view of the vessel. When they are open, the interior is revealed, complete with men in sleep-
ing compartments. When the central flap is folded down, the pilot can be seen seated in the basket. In
addition to the checkered border, other elements of this work presage details he would explore in the
later books of drawings, such as the depiction of activities within the airships—sleeping, eating, play-
ing cards—and experimentation with color and line. Dellschau occasionally added folding flaps to later
works, including Plates 2333, 4524, and 4677 (pages 199, 277, and 310). Another version of the airship,
this one labeled “Multiplus Brownyfied” and again oversized, folded, and tucked into the back of Erin-
nerungen (but without the innovative flaps), features the same airship and a variation on the checkered
border, which in this case frames the entire composition (next page, bottom).
Dellschau was evidently drawing while in California—Erinnerungen contains a passage about a
drawing he made for the Von Roemelings as a wedding gift. After confessing that he too was slightly
in love with the bride (evidenced by his presence in the courtship drawings, at right), he drew a pic-
ture of what might have happened had Madam Glantz been present to catch von Roemeling when he
fell from the Goose. “I handed the drawing to the lucky groom as a wedding present. Chris looked at
Top: Recolections second part, Eduard Hermdorfs Doobely,
1899–1900 (see page 114)
Bottom: Recolections second part, Peter Mennis Foundation,
1899–1900 (see page 125)
Top: Recolections, Madame Glantz and Christian Axel von
Roemeling courtship scene, 1898–1900 (see page 107)
Middle: Erinnerungen (Recollections), Madame Glantz
and Christian Axel von Roemeling courtship scene, 1900
(see page 127)
Bottom: Erinnerungen (Recollections), George Newell,
1900 (see page 140)

it, laughed . . . and said ‘Charles you dog, thanks for this caricature. I’ll keep it for ever to remember
you by.’”33
Recolections and Erinnerungen also include details of the artist’s occupation during these
years. After the von Roemelings’ wedding, he reports, he traveled around Northern California for five
months working in various slaughterhouses, among them one owned by a rancher named Sylvester
Moore in Marysville.34
When Moore sold his ranch to the Hoppin brothers of Eureka and Goodyear’s
Bar, Dellschau began working for John Hoppin. He soon grew disenchanted with Hoppin, however, and
returned to Sonora, taking a job with a man named Carl Becht selling meat to miners. Four months later,
when Dellschau received a letter with a job offer from an old friend in Texas, he decided to return home,
traveling the first leg of his journey on the Golden Gate steamer.35
The Yarns
Both Recolections second part and Erinnerungen include two supplemental additions Dellschau called
Yarns. They appear as separate stories appended to the manuscript with brads, each with its own title
page and pagination. The yarns in Erinnerungen replicate those in Recolections second part. The first is
called “George Newells Yarn of Peter Mennis Dream ‘The Rescue’ of Christian Axel von Roemeling, The
Moonskooter, rendered Sumer 1857 after closing Club Transactions of the Sonora Aerial Club” (illustra-
tions opposite). The use of the term “yarn” betrays a self-awareness about the project of storytelling.
Dellschau had a great sense of humor, and, as in the nineteenth-century American tradition of the tall
tale, the purpose of these stories is obviously to entertain.
The action begins with George Newell addressing a group of miners sitting on a cliff behind the
boardinghouse:
To hot in here to enjoy the Evening, let us go back the yard up on the Ledge and tacke it easy, I
sett em up before we go there. . . . So they all went to the Barr first—to trye George’s Veracity
about the Sett em up, they called for their drinks and George planked down the Cash . . . and we
all went outside to the Ledge above the Yard lighened up by the Light of the Moon. A flat rocky
Place whit plenty of Bowlders convingent to use as Chairs, or Sophas, good enough for miners
in conclave, we made us easy in all sorts of atitudes. Sitting, standing or laying on the Rocks and
Bowlders. They all lit their Pipes, and George Newell whissling through his fingers, our Sighn
asking to be heard—Silence—he comanred—
Newell then proceeds to recount Peter Mennis’s dream. He tells the group that he went to Mennis’s
claim and noticed he was out of sorts. Newell gives him a “bottle of good Redeye,” which soon “worked
his Tongue.” Mennis tells him he has had a miserable dream about saving a 385-pound man whose
Airostanthascrashed,strandinghimonthemoon.Themoonispersonifiedasabeautifulwoman,andthe
remaining text is a colorfully written story with vague sexual innuendo about the rescue of von Roemel-
ing, the “Moonskooter.” When the moon realizes that Mennis is there to take the Moonskooter back to
earth, she says “Will all my hopes be lost? Oh, how happily I endured the first man trampling all over me,
even when he sat astride my lower horn. What expectations then arose in me when I saw, heard and felt
the contraption hanging on his side, and then comes the other stranger. Well, I see my mistake. You are
taking the fat one away from me. . . . No, no I keep both of you here.”36
But Mennis assures her that he is
“not that type of man.” The moon releases her gravitational pull and Mennis takes von Roemeling back
to earth. He lands back at camp, right on top of August Schoetler, who has slept through the whole affair.
The second yarn, headed “Peter Mennis get even, whit Geo Newell By The Rescue of Mrs Roemeling
Reality no Dream,” is also set outside behind the boardinghouse. This time, Mrs. von Roemeling has
climbed the stone steps that lead up the cliff to surreptitiously listen in on the club members’ stories
while looking for eggs from her stray chickens. Annoyed by her presence, and to prevent her from eaves-
dropping in the future, the last man down the steps at the end of the evening’s proceedings rolls away
the top stone so that she is stranded on the cliff alone. Mennis then valiantly rescues her in the Goose,
while her husband searches for a ladder in the chicken house below. As with the first yarn, Mennis takes
the starring role as the hero in his Goose.
The 1908–1921 Books of Drawings
Aside from the memoirs, the only other works by Dellschau known to exist are the twelve hand-bound
books of double-sided drawings that date between 1908 and 1921. For the most part they are vivid,
colorful renderings of the airships and bear comparatively scant inscriptional detail; some works incor-
porate press clippings and some don’t include Aeros at all. Each drawing, which he sometimes labeled
“Plate,” is meticulously dated and sequentially numbered, beginning with 1601 and ending with 5235.
Sometimes he included the date on which a particular airship design was proposed to the Sonora Aero
Club in the 1850s, as well as the name of the proposer. Characters introduced in the memoirs recur in
these later works. Because of the gap of eight years after the last pages of Erinnerungen, and because
of the high number of the first known Plate, it is possible that Dellschau created approximately 1,600
drawings prior to 1908, but their whereabouts are unknown. Other gaps in the sequence appear in 1910,
1913, and 1917.
There are significant stylistic differences between the drawings of Aeros in the memoirs and these
later drawings. Dellschau maintained a consistent compositional format that includes elaborately
striped and colored borders, often embedded with inscribed cartouches. The more celebratory borders
correspond to increasingly dense renderings as well. Composition becomes just as important as con-
tent. He lavished attention to decorative details, playing up symmetry, pattern, and ornamentation to
the point that the Aeros and the framing that encases them seemingly pulsate with energy. Whereas the
striping seen in the drawings in the memoirs followed the contours of the airships, in the later works
they are flattened, and tend to follow the contours of the pattern itself. Dellschau also introduces in
these books communication by means of collaged text cut from the pages of newspapers—articles and
photos pertaining to flight as well as the date and dateline (“Houston, Texas”) from the front page. By
contrast, the memoirs have only one single instance of a collaged element (see next page), an image of
a bicycle that has been cleverly incorporated into the lower apparatus of the Aero.
The Press Blooms, or Airo Cutts
Collage became a critical part of Dellschau’s creative process. He incorporated thousands of newspaper
clippings into the later drawings, which he called Press Blooms and Airo Cutts. The articles come from
the Houston Daily Post, the Houston Chronicle, the Houston Press, Scientific American, and at least one
German-language newspaper. The presence of so many Press Blooms in these books invites speculation
Top: Recolections, Dr. Mickael Gorees “Multiplus,”
1898–1900 (see page 99)
Middle: Erinnerungen (Recollections), George Gorres
Multyplus, 1900 (see pages 131–133)
Bottom: Erinnerungen (Recollections), Michael Gorres
Multiplus Brownyfied, 1900 (see page 150)
Top: Erinnerungen (Recollections), George Newell's Yarn, 1900
(see page 161)
Middle: Erinnerungen (Recollections), Rescue of the
Moonskooter scene, 1900 (see page 159)
Bottom: Erinnerungen (Recollections), Rescue of the
Moonskooter scene, 1900 (see page 160)

about the pattern of Dellschau’s reading. The politics of prewar Europe created an atmosphere in which
people craved more information through the relatively new medium of mass-produced publications.
In newspapers, Dellschau was able to find articles about the politics of his homeland as well as ready
access to new information about the technological advancements that fascinated him. Newspapers and
periodicals provided photographic images and illustrations that were highly stimulating and had not
been widely available before.
A systematic comparison of illustrations in the newspaper clippings to Dellschau’s freehand draw-
ings has yet to be done, but there are instances where one can clearly see that the collage sources did
inform some of the technical elements in Dellschau’s work, whether consciously or unconsciously. This
is evident with the Scientific American illustrations he used in the spring and summer of 1912. A May 4
Press Bloom includes a very long article titled “A Flying Machine That Folds Its Wings” (opposite, top);
in subsequent months, Dellschau created numerous airships with retractable lateral wings, such as the
Aero Nix in Plate 2616 (opposite, bottom). Further close examination of the Press Blooms might yield
other similar parallels.
Collaged figures sometimes appear alongside figures that were drawn freehand. They assume vari-
ous occupations within the airship—manning the flight controls, sleeping, lounging in the cabin, even
sitting at a table playing cards—and were usually drawn to scale. The figures that were cut from news-
papers generally appear on the ground and are often out of proportion to the airship, bringing an aspect
of caricature to these works. A humorous and recurring theme Dellschau maintains throughout is the
attempt to get overweight men aloft in a balloon. In addition to the episode in the memoirs involving the
obese Christian Axel von Roemeling’s failure to ascend in Peter Mennis’s Goose, Plate 2559, a drawing
of the Aero Soso inscribed “Doc Tacken a Ride” (page 211) shows the hefty Doc Weisbach up in a bal-
loon, while an inscription on a different drawing reads: “It is difficult to fit the Doctor. . . . A problem hard
to solve. A hard nut to crack. But I want to try it—even if not practical—perhaps in humorous stature.
Doctor Weisbach—now you shall fly too.”37
The theme reemerges in a late Press Bloom that includes a
newspaper article titled “How a Fat Man Feels when Flying Up where angel’s wings flutter.”
The War Press Blooms
Like most Americans, Charles Dellschau was profoundly affected by World War I. Two of the Stelzig boys
served in the military, and one saw combat.38
The Press Blooms Dellschau created between 1908 and
1914 include many references to the prewar political climate of Europe. Newspaper headlines in a July
1909 collage reveal a range of concerns: “French Inspect German Airship,” “Wrights Think They Can Do
It,” and “Britain Trembles Watched by Torpedo Boats.” Dellschau’s identity as a German American and
his obsession with flying come together on this page as America anticipated the war in Europe.
There was a great fear of air wars in the first decade of the century, exemplified by the 1908 H. G.
Wells book The War in the Air, a fictional account of a German zeppelin raid on New York.39
Balloons had
been used for military purposes in both the U.S. Civil War and the Franco-Prussian War, but these earlier
military efforts do not seem to have entered Dellschau’s pictorial consciousness in the memoirs. It was
only after tensions began to increase in Europe that he brought these references to war into his work.
By 1914 some of his War Press Blooms take on a darker quality, such as Plate 3339 (page 223), with its
uniformed pilot bearing a somber expression.
Beginning around the time leading up to the war, Dellschau’s drawings started to include texts
scripted in a coded language. The symbols may reflect Dellschau’s anxiety about the political climate of
Europe or perhaps feelings of split allegiance. He prominently labeled most works from this period with
the symbols ¯DM = XØ, often in a special cartouche at the top or side of the works. The sequence may
represent the name of the Sonora Aero Club—Plate 2550 is inscribed “A ¯DM = XØ Club Debate Studia.”
Significantly, as soon as the war was over, Dellschau dispensed with the ¯DM = XØ label and all coded
inscriptions.
Fact or Fiction: Dellschau’s Characters
There are no census or tax records or other known historical documents that place Charles Dellschau
in California at any time. However, many of the obscure towns he names in his work—Columbia, Shaws
Flat, Knights Ferry—do exist, and several characters can be documented. For example, the Sheriff Stuart
who appears in the memoirs correllates to James Stuart, who was the sheriff of Sonora from 1855 to
1857.40
Dellschau writes of working for John Wolfling and Charley Mannors, and the two men were, in
fact, partners in a ranching and meat business called the Centre Market.41
Meister Freund, who appears
in the story about the marital bed, was well known in Sonora as a cabinetmaker, hotel owner, and
undertaker.42
And four Hoppin brothers (including John) owned a large ranching concern in the areas of
Eureka and Goodyear’s Bar.43
In addition, there are characters with names that hew closely to names in historical records—as
though Dellschau couldn’t quite remember them accurately half a century later. For example, the
Moore’s and McCardy’s corral that appears in the memoirs may actually be the well-known livery stable
run by Daniel O. McCarthy, despite the fact that his partner was a man named Cooper, not Moore.44
Dellschau also refers to a trio of murderers as the Lyon, McHeely, Davis gang, which corresponds closely
to the names of three men—Lyons, McCauley, and Poer—who were executed in a widely attended 1857
triple hanging in Sonora.45
Dellschau may have mixed up Poer with a felon named William V. Davis, who
was hanged earlier that year.46
And finally, the Madam Seelich who shoots O’Hairy the stagecoach rob-
ber and appears in a subplot related to a stolen music box may have been the wife of a Mr. Seeligsohn
who owned a shop in Sonora in the mid-1850s that offered books, cigars, stationery, music, and a wide
variety of musical instruments.47
Unfortunately, the primary members of the Sonora Aero Club—such as Peter Mennis, George New-
ell, August Schoetler, Michael Gorée, and Christian Axel von Roemeling—have not been positively iden-
tified in historical documents in Sonora or other area mining camps during the time the episodes take
place. There are, however, some tantalizing possible matches in records for the years that follow. For
example, a Peter Mennis who served in the Texas Mounted Volunteers during the Mexican War and died
on November 1, 1901, is buried in the Veteran’s Home Cemetery in Napa, California; an August Schottler
was living in San Francisco in 1872 as per the Great Register of Voters; and a George W. Newell was mar-
ried in Stockton on April 28, 1872.48
There are other possible matches, but none of the men can officially
be placed in Sonora in the late 1850s.
Interestingly, Dellschau uses character names in the later books of drawings that are not present in
the memoirs. Some of these names, such as Eduard Hartung and Theodore Giesecke, can be located in
historical sources in the Houston area around 1900.49
This possible inclusion of people Dellschau may
Top: Plate 2554 Press Blooms (A Flying Machine That Folds Its Wings),
May 4, 1912, 151
⁄2 × 14 in., San Antonio Museum of Art
Bottom: Plate 2616 Aero Nix, August 9, 1912 (see page 216)
Erinnerungen (Recollections), No 3 Nit Nit Nitt, 1900 (see page 157)

have known at the time he was creating his drawings suggests that he may have been culling from his
life experiences, even if he may have interwoven memories from different periods in his life.
Reveries in Idle Hours
When Charles Dellschau sat down to write his memoirs near the end of the nineteenth century, he didn’t
recount the details of his childhood in Germany, his immigration to America, or his life as a butcher in
Texas. Instead he focused on a period of only a few years when he was in his mid-twenties. The memoirs
were a kind of reverie for the time in his life when he experienced the freedom of youth. But as Dellschau
continued working on his artistic project, the story of the Sonora Aero Club became a construct through
which he interacted with the activities of the world, allowing him to learn about and comment on new
technologies and news of the day. He used the drawings as a private place to express commentary on
the ideas of others. In written asides he evaluated the merits of certain technological advancements,
judging them “has beens,” “may beees,” and “will beees” and, on Plate 4538, a Press Bloom collaged
with a photo of a dirigible, “Crasey Undertaken” (page 46).
We’ll never know what actually prompted Dellschau to make thousands of paintings and collages of
airships. What started as recollections compiled in a somewhat diaristic fashion became an obsession
that he worked out visually for more than two decades. Roger Cardinal has observed that the “precondi-
tion” of old age and personal trauma can be the catalyst for this type of creative outpouring.50
Perhaps
the trauma Dellschau sustained in the losses of two wives and three children was the impetus for his
creative work. Like many other self-taught visionaries, Dellschau didn’t embark on this project until
he had fully retired and had adequate time on his hands—what the artist himself called “idle hours.”
Or perhaps he was simply stimulated by what he read of scientific and technological advancements
in newspaper and journal articles. As scientists and engineers of his era created labor-saving devices
from the cotton gin to the automobile, Dellschau carefully documented his friends’ innovations, both
serious and humorous—the Sucker Kicker Air Ram, the Rotating Electranden, the Automatic Balancier,
the Falleasy, the Airsplitter Bed. He was constantly exploring ways to advance the technology in his air-
ship designs. His interest in innovations reflects an era of intellectual optimism, when everyday people
invented machines that would change the course of human history.
Dellschau hints at a sense of economic marginalization in frequent references to the members of
the group not having enough money to actually execute their ideas. In Recolections, he wrote: “Peter
Mennis made his litle Airship Goose poor as he was whit matherial he could reach as his Means permited
rough made as the Goose was done things hard to beleave except by seeing whit our Eyes wide open.
Let financial Robers lend their Dollars to rigg the Invention of a poor Man’s Genius, and it is out of his
Gripp.” This theme is repeated throughout his work. Two late inscriptions read “Money cost plenty and
dont pay” (Plate 4605) and, poignantly, “If I had the means” (left).
What is, of course, most likely is that a combination of all these factors led to Dellschau’s outpour-
ing of creativity. The trauma of loss, the opportunity of retirement, an inventive mind, a keen sense of
humor, and a desire to accomplish something before moving on to the next world may have all come
together to influence this remarkable artist in creating a body of work over more than twenty years—a
process of creation that through its evidently pleasurable effect seems to have overtaken him to the
point that he became very nearly, if not completely, immersed in the world of his own imagination.
It is notable that Dellschau insists that his memoirs were real “true happenings,” as he does on
numerous drawings from his earliest to the latest. There is a convincing case that Dellschau went to Cali-
fornia and lived in Sonora among gold miners, and he obviously knew of historically documented people
of the area, but it is still not clear whether the stories are based on reality or fiction. His mixing of time
periods in the later works gives a poignancy to the project. One late work from 1920 (right) is labeled
“Dream and Real,” as though he needed to emphasize the importance of each.Ultimately, the stories of
the Sonora Aero Club seem most likely to represent some combination of truth, memory, and fantasy.
Charles A. A. Dellschau’s watercolors have a distinct place in early twentieth-century art—works
created by a German immigrant with a sense of adventure who had an honest enthusiasm for the cre-
ative intellectual advancements of his time, and was eager “to cross the plains” of the American West.
Plate 4602 No Fier Homer Lower Part Dream and Real, April 27, 1920
(see page 298)
Top: Self-portrait, detail of
Erinnerungen (Recollections),
Madame Glantz and Christian Axel
von Roemeling courtship scene,
1900 (see page 127)
Bottom: Plate 4345b Aero Nix
Down Front or Rear, April 3, 1919
(see page 246)
Notes
1. For more information on the history of E Clampus Vitus,
see Phoenixmasonry, Inc., http://www.phoenixmasonry
.org/masonicmuseum/fraternalism/e_clampus_vitus.
htm (accessed November 26, 2011).
2. For a detailed account of the discovery, see Cynthia
Greenwood, “Secrets of the Sonora Aero Club,” Houston
Press (December 10, 1998); and Dennis Crenshaw and P.
G. Navarro, The Secrets of Dellschau: The Sonora Aero
Club and the Airships of the 1800s, a True Story (San Anto-
nio, TX: Anomalist Books, 2009), 18–22.
3. The artist’s birth certificate, with the date of June 5,
1830, is in the collection of the family, and a copy is in
the files of the Menil Collection, Houston. The record of
his christening at St. Nicholas Church in Berlin, which
was obtained through Mormon Genealogical records, the
Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, also reflect
this date of birth. However, his death record by the State
of Texas and his tombstone both list Dellschau’s birthday
as June 4.
4. Information about Dellschau’s father’s occupation
was obtained through correspondence with the Mormon
Church by staff of the Menil Collection; William Steen,
interview by the author, September 10, 1999.

37. Translation courtesy Christopher Wickham, professor
of German, University of Texas at San Antonio.
38. Leo and Charles Stelzig, conversation with the author,
December 4, 2011.
39. Tom D. Crouch, Lighter Than Air: An Illustrated History
of Balloons and Airships (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Uni-
versity Press, 2009), 90.
40. Carlo M. De Ferrari, “The Twenty Sheriffs of Old
Tuolumne” The Quarterly 8, no. 3 (January–March 1969):
275. The Quarterly is a publication of the Tuolumne County
Historical Society, Sonora, California.
41. Ibid., 1,434. Thanks to Pat Perry of the Tuolumne
County Historical Society for this reference.
42. Pat Perry, “Undertaker Fred Freund Made Sonora Poli-
tics Lively,” Union Democrat (April 10, 2001). Ms. Perry,
Sonora’s city historian, also provided me with a lengthy
biographical sketch of Fred Freund with numerous cita-
tions from the Union Democrat. In addition, an F. A. Freund
is listed on page 372 of the 1881 City and County Direc-
tory of San Joaquin, Stanislaus, Merced, and Tuolumne
counties as a proprietor of the Yosemite Hotel in Sonora.
His advertisement on page 384 says that the hotel was
furnished with “F. A. Freund’s best make of Spring Mat-
tresses, thereby having the most comfortable beds that
can be found in any hotel in the state.”
43. Hubert Howe Bancroft, History of Nevada, Colorado
and Wyoming (San Francisco: History Company Publish-
ers, 1890), 263.
44. McCarthy and Cooper regularly advertised their livery
services in the Union Democrat (vol. 1, no. 52, p. 4, for
example) during the period. Thanks to Pat Perry for this
and several other references.
45. The Lyons, McCauley, and Poer hangings are doc-
umented in De Ferrari, “The Twenty Sheriffs of Old
Tuolumne,” 279.
46. B. F. Alley, A History of Tuolumne County, Califor-
nia (San Francisco, 1882). Transcribed by Kathy Sedler.
This file is part of the California Genealogy and History
Archives. According to this account Lyons, McCauley, and
Poer were executed on December 11, 1857, and the hang-
ings were attended by a crowd of 5,000 people. William
Davis was hung in June of that year.
47. An M. Seeligsohn advertised the opening of his store
in the Union Democrat on June 23, 1855, and is mentioned
as a founder of the Jewish Benevolent Society of Sonora in
Ava F. Kahn, ed., Jewish Voices of the California Gold Rush:
A Documentary History, 1849–1880 (Detroit: Wayne State
University Press, 2002), 337. Two years later Seeligsohn
5. Jamie Van Hook, professor of German history, Trinity
University, San Antonio, TX, interview by the author, Sep-
tember 3, 1999.
6. For a complete discussion of early balloon flight, see
Tom D. Crouch, The Eagle Aloft: Two Centuries of the Bal-
loon in America (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution
Press, 1983).
7. See Wolfram Siemann, The German Revolution of 1848–
49, trans. Christiane Baherji (New York: St. Martin’s Press,
1998).
8. The Emigrant to Texas: A Handbook and Guide, trans.
Otto W. Tetzlaff (1846; reprint, Burnet, TX: Eakins Publica-
tions, 1979), 79.
9. At least two immigration records may belong Dellschau.
One, dated May 13, 1849, lists a Cha. Delschau, age 19, no
occupation, who traveled from Hamburg to New York on
the Dudley Sheldon (U.S. National Archives and Records
Administration, Washington, DC, M237, Roll 79). The
other, dated December 15, 1849, lists a Carl Delechaw,
age 23, occupation butcher, who arrived in Galveston on
the Hamburg-Knollen (Mormon Genealogical Records, 4th
Quarter 1849, Galveston, Microfilm 0830233).
10. His naturalization papers, which are handwritten in
sepia ink on ruled notepaper affixed with a blue seal, are
dated June 28, 1860; private collection. The date of his
Declaration of Intention given on this record is March 28,
1856, in Harris County, Texas. The application for citizen-
ship, however, records that date as March 28, 1850; Harris
County Probate Order Book, vol. B-2, 571–72.
11. They were married on February 21, 1861; Fort Bend
County Marriage Records.
12. Fort Bend County Tax Rolls, 1838–1910, Microfilm Roll
#1.
13. List of Confederate Indigent Families, Texas State
Library and Archives Commission, Austin. The Amnesty
Oath is among the artist’s personal papers; private
collection.
14. Fort Bend County Tax Rolls, 1838–1910, Microfilm
Roll #1.
15. A note that reads “Ma Ma died August the 29 and was
48 years olde and 5 months and 19 days and my little
brother was 6 years and 5 months and 29 days and died
September 1877 the 10,” presumably written by one of
Dellschau’s daughters, was among the artist’s personal
papers; private collection.
16. Thanks to Clint Drake of the George Memorial Library,
Richmond, TX, for finding the marriage record. Below
Dellschau’s entry in the Federal Census of 1880, the ini-
tials T. L., followed by “keeping house,” are scratched out.
A word that appears to be “decd.” is handwritten along-
side this line in the left margin.
17. This information was provided to me by the staff of the
Texas State Library and Archives Commission, Austin, on
June 15, 2009.
18. Carmen King, assistant director of medical records,
Austin State Hospital, interview by the author, August 11,
1999.
19. According to the December 31, 1892, edition of the
Galveston Daily News, an A. Stelzig had traveled to Topo
Chico Springs, Mexico, “for his health,” but he died eight
months later, on August 25, 1893, in Houston. His obitu-
ary ran in the Galveston Daily News on August 26, 1893.
Thanks to Clint Drake of the George Memorial Library for
finding these references.
20. Houston City Directory, 1894. The company is still in
existence today as the Stelzig Ranch Store.
21. The artist’s spelling and punctuation have been
retained throughout.
22. Dellschau used variable spellings for the names of
club members, Aeros, and airship parts throughout his
work.
23. Recolections, 2–3.
24. Houston Daily Post, December 6, 1898, 13; see the
Portal to Texas History, http://texashistory.unt.edu/
ark:/67531/metapth114579/m1/13 (accessed May 31,
2012).
25. Recolections, 48–55.
26. Ibid., 81–82.
27. Ibid., 29.
28. Recolections, Aftermath, 15.
29. Recolections, 48, 67.
30. Ibid., 87.
31. Erinnerungen (Recollections), translation of first part,
2. Translation courtesy the owner.
32. Ibid., 73.
33. Ibid., translation of second part, 11.
34. Ibid., 67–80.
35. The Golden Gate sailed the San Francisco–Panama
route between 1851 and 1862, when it was destroyed in
a fire at sea. See the Maritime Heritage Project, http://
www.maritimeheritage.org/ships/index.html (accessed
May 26, 2012).
36. Erinnerungen (Recollections), translation of Rescue of
the Moonskooter yarn, 96.
placed an ad stating that he was “Selling Off at Cost, to
Close Business” in the Union Democrat 4, no. 5 (July 25,
1857), 3. He may also be the Max Seeligsohn who appears
in the San Francisco, Great Register of Voters in 1867.
48. Mennis: “Headstones Provided for Deceased Union
Civil War Veterans, 1879–1903,” Ancestry.com, http://
www.ancestry.com (accessed May 26, 2012); Schottler:
Great Register of Voters, San Francisco, 1872 (California
State Library, Sacramento, Microfilm Collection, c99, reel
56);Newell:CaliforniaGenWeb,http://www.usgwarchives
.org (accessed May 26, 2012).
49. Hartung is listed in the Houston City Directory begin-
ning in 1889. A baptismal record shows that Anton Stel-
zig sponsored Giesecke’s children; Records of Salem
Lutheran Church—Brenham, Texas, 1850–1940, 58.
50. Roger Cardinal, “Toward An Outsider Aesthetic,” in
Michael D. Hall and Eugene W. Metcalf Jr., eds., The Artist
Outsider: Creativity and the Boundaries of Culture (Wash-
ington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1994), 29.

Roger Cardinal
The Art of Interpolation
Charles A. A. Dellschau’s
Inscriptions and Airo Cutts
3
Plate 4538 Crasey Undertaken, January 1, 1920, 171
/2 × 16 in.,
Courtesy Stephen Romano, New York

49the art of interpolation48cardinal
The morning paper is all I ever need to catch up with my news.
—andré breton, Nadja (1928)
Not least among Charles A. A. Dellschau’s idiosyncrasies as a draftsman is his habit of embellish-
ing his designs with both handwritten inscriptions and segments of newsprint cut out from the local
paper. This essay will consider the impact of these verbal intrusions upon the pictorial domain in the
light of the artist’s apparent desire to align his work to certain recognized models of representation—
principally the technical drawing and the news sheet—in order to claim for it a degree of seriousness
and authenticity.
n n n
Within Western culture, the deliberate twinning of pictorial and verbal material is an expressive practice
dating back to the very origins of writing. Its history is far too long and complex to review here. Suffice to
say that in the first two decades of the twentieth century—at the time when Dellschau was at his most
active—it had became a symptomatic tendency in the productions of such European avant-gardists as
Georges Braque, Pablo Picasso, Filippo Tommaso Marinetti, and Kurt Schwitters. Their experiments
in dual-idiom art bear a striking resemblance to the procedures of the German-American aeronautical
fantast, for, as we shall see, these involve a marked investment in what is known as collage.1
A further context of comparison is also worth considering, namely the annals of twentieth-century
outsider art, which offer several striking examples of word-and-image interplay. The Californian outsider
draftsman Achilles G. Rizzoli (1896–1981) lacked specialist training yet mimicked the technical conven-
tions he had observed as an architect’s clerk to produce a fascinating series of architectural drawings.
In these Rizzoli delineates an imaginary environment of vast cathedrals, monuments, towers, and exhi-
bition halls. His meticulous ground plans and elevations are replete with supplements in the form of
scrolls and cartouches crammed with titles, legends, and mottoes, along with pseudo-technical com-
mentaries and explanations. Furthermore, much like Dellschau, Rizzoli extended his work into discur-
sive writing, producing substantial portfolios of doggerel verse and illuminated texts that are typically
marked by neologisms and opaque acronyms.2
In like fashion, the prolific Swiss outsider Adolf Wölfli (1864–1930) festooned his partly figurative,
partly decorative drawings with lively textual supplements, interpolating isolated capital letters or
numerals, squeezing explanations in old Germanic handwriting into any gaps in the design, and adding
a florid signature alongside details of the place and date of fabrication.3
In his later work, Wölfli made
considerable use of press cuttings, pasting material from advertisements and travel magazines onto his
sheets and thereby manifesting himself as an assured collage maker.4
n n n
Let us now consider the achievements of Charles A. A. Dellschau as a specific case of collagemaking and
word-and-image interplay. I feel that the beguiling pictures of this long-dead and secretive creator bear
scrutiny insofar as they reflect a highly inventive visual and spatial imagination—one that, neverthe-
less, felt the need to draw on various sorts of conceptual and linguistic complement, as though strictly
pictorial expression were never quite adequate to fulfill the artist’s intentions.
Dellschau is credited with the design of more than a hundred aerial conveyances, which he equipped
with a plethora of lift-off mechanisms, motors, fuel canisters, axles, pistons, pulleys, wheels, retractable
landing gear, wings, propellers, vanes, rudders, ballast compartments, observation balconies, canopies,
dining cars, saloons, sleeping cabins, searchlights, parachutes, and other safety devices, not to mention
Lift Chambers, Ballance Stearing Floats, and Electrandes. His skybound dirigibles, or Aeros, incorporate
more or less explicit reminiscences of old-fashioned hot-air balloons and often comprise slightly comical
features reminiscent of stagecoaches, bicycles, and even umbrellas.
As is characteristic of many self-taught artists, Dellschau did not operate in intermittent spurts
but sustained a disciplined and regular output, numbering what he calls his Plates consecutively and
signing and dating them with a keen sense of purpose. For long periods he was producing at the rate
of a drawing every day or two. There is about his work an air of serial coordination, whereby a finite
repertoire of motifs generates a rich supply of permutations within a fixed representational schema.
While we can only guess as to what training (if any) Dellschau had as a draftsman, I take it as axi-
omatic that his renderings of fanciful aeronautical vehicles are consciously modeled upon the technical
drawing or engineering blueprint and embrace most conventions of that established genre. Each of his
successive designs bears the name of an individual invention and is intended to make visible the struc-
ture and dimensions of the contraption, along with any special components and novel gadgetry. The
artist was frequently concerned to point out whether an Aero was being depicted from above or below,
or again from the front, the back, or the side (the favorite “Flanck” view, as he calls it). Several machines
appear in cross section, thereby revealing their interior, an engineering convention invoked in the very
inscription “Long Anna Long Cross Cutt” (Plate 2573, opposite).
The consistency of Dellschau’s approach strongly suggests an accurate and objective methodology
whose validity rests upon its dependence on a factual, three-dimensional reality. His whole style of pre-
sentation seems to ask us to treat these images not as fictions but as portrayals of real machines or, at
the very least, possible machines. They are, after all, guaranteed designs emanating from what he calls
the Sonora Aero Club, and the artist’s demeanor is calculated to confirm his reliability as a painstaking
technical draftsman. We can say that each diagram testifies to the plausibility of an invention and is
equivalent to the formal registration of an industrial patent.
A typical example of Dellschau’s strategy of documentary persuasion is his double image of the
airship Goose, “comming down” and “at Rest” (Plate 2200, right). In a passage from his memoirs,
Dellschau attributes this contraption to Peter Mennis, a venerable member of the Sonora Aero Club.
Mennis had demonstrated his invention many times and had even piloted it solo from Sonora to nearby
Columbia and back. The Goose was able to leave the ground thanks to the chemical reaction of drops
of Lifting Fluid, or Soupe, which fell onto an Electrande (a set of three rotating black-coated metal
plates) and generated a chain of explosions within a sealed chamber. Dellschau’s colored drawing
portrays the vehicle at two separate stages in its progress. On the left we see it airborne, above a
vaguely drawn landscape. The various working parts are folded outward, so that the vessel’s profile
becomes a complex symmetrical array of canopies, containers, and wheels. The pilot can be seen within
the bowl-shaped cabin at the center. On the right, the Goose is shown after landing on rocky terrain.
Now it is folded in upon itself to become a neat, compact unit somewhat in the shape of a tent or hut.
However, part of its outer shell has been removed so as to lay bare the various moveable components,
Plate 2573 Long Anna Long Cross Cutt, June 10, 1912 (see page 213)
Plate 2200 Goosey comming down Goosey at Rest, March 27, 1910
(see page 195)

tucked inside beneath the watchful eye of a bearded pilot. We might suppose that the latter is included
in the twofold image as an indicator of scale, except that he appears taller in his second incarna-
tion than in the first. On the other hand, we can say that the two versions of the Goose are broadly
consistent, and that Dellschau is going through all the motions of handling objective technical facts
with accuracy.
Now and again Dellschau relaxes his customary earnestness by inserting a few flying birds into his
aerial scenes. These casual extras encourage a secondary way of looking that may be said to shift the
focus from the scientific to the poetic. In semiotic terms, the birds inform us that we are to view the
drawings not simply as flat diagrams but also as mimetic or perspectival images that show vehicles
actually journeying through the upper air. Frequently the birds seem startled to find such large objects
invading their ethereal province: this may be a running joke on Dellschau’s part, although we may
surmise that he was perfectly serious about convincing us of the buoyancy of his heavier-than-air con-
veyances. One such bird occurs on the left of the drawing of Long Anna (Plate 2573). That same image
includes passengers aboard the airship, notably a black cat and a man in a blue blazer relaxing on
a couch. In Plate 2647 (left, top), another unruffled traveler is introduced in the form of an elegant,
dark-haired lady. I have already mentioned Dellschau’s bearded pilot, who is usually to be seen at the
controls. The inclusion of figures such as these within the technical diagram certainly provides a confir-
mation of scale. At the same time, they reassure us that Dellschau’s machines have no trouble coping
with their passengers’ body weight.
Elsewhere in Plate 2573 we find a notice written upon the central shaft of the machine: “No smok-
ing.” Such an inscription may be said to be mimetic in so far as we assume that it shows an actual visible
detail of the object, thereby sharing the same semiotic status as Dellschau’s birds.5
However, we can
also find words inserted within the figurative space that have no mimetic function: instead, they have
been put there to explain the workings of the machinery. Thus in Plate 4579, Dellschau designates the
separate arcs of his swiveling vanes as “fallin” and “at rest.” These words must surely be understood
as captions: verbal interpolations that remedy the insufficiency of the picture proper. Further, they are
accompanied by curved, dotted lines ending in arrows. These are not something we are meant literally
to see but are diagrammatic indicators of the orbits of the vanes, once set in motion. As such, they cor-
respond to another well-known convention of the informative blueprint.
On occasion, short phrases are positioned next to the mouths of Dellschau’s airborne travelers.
These, of course, imply yet another expressive convention, this time borrowed from the popular car-
toon strip: namely the representation of spoken utterances. Thus a passenger skulking with a lighted
cigarette in the hold of one airship provokes the pilot’s exclamation, “No smocking there,” in Plate 2450
(page 207). Further humor creeps in when the two cuttings pasted on this same page are embellished
with banners and strings. This allows the pasted elements to be read as kites being flown by two droll
male figures, one of whom skids comically as he doffs his hat while the other sports a beard and smokes
a pipe. Taken as a whole, this drawing emerges as a quite complex instance of a dispassionate diagram
modulating into a comic tableau and suggests that Dellschau’s quasi-scientific stance was not unwav-
ering. There is, as it were, always a storyteller, if not a comedian, lurking behind the earnest engineer.
The art lover will, of course, be aware that Dellschau’s diagrams also cater to a quite different order
of appreciation, namely the aesthetic. The simple reason for our immediate attraction to the drawings
is that they offer the non-intellectual pleasure of gazing at agreeable shapes and visual textures. An
example of a successful decorative design is an outside view of the Aero Mina (Plate 3238, opposite,
bottom), in which a black-hatted pilot can be glimpsed at the very center of a pattern that is otherwise
almost entirely ornamental and symmetrical. This striking composition is built up of tricolor stripes
using black / blue / red, or blue / red / white, with such bicolor variants as red / white, yellow / black, and
blue /black. These pleasing permutations bring to mind certain pictures of Adolf Wölfli, who similarly
loved to position a face at the midpoint of a highly colorful and symmetrical composition.
By now it seems clear that Dellschau not only aspired to technological credibility but also wanted
to convey the awesomeness and beauty of air travel: his interpolations are informative but are also an
index of emotionality. Once we focus upon them, we find they are not restricted to the figurative areas
of the drawings but extend to such typical marginalia as the draftsman’s name, the four-figure plate
number he allocates to each sheet, the name of the airship portrayed, occasionally the name of an inven-
tor (such as Peter Mennis or Max Miser), incidental numerals and devices, and, finally, the enigmatic
motto ¯DM = XØ.
These inscriptions are typically set within carefully outlined containers, capsules, or banners and
positioned in the corners, down the sides, or along the top and bottom of the drawing. As often rather
fussy addenda, they behave exactly like the more elaborated scrolls, cartouches, tags, and inserts
that enliven the architectural drawings of Achilles Rizzoli. The surrounds of Dellschau’s legends nearly
always take the form of stripes of alternating dark and light tones, whose slight curves are suggestive
not of flat ribbons but of raised and rounded frames, fashioned to emphasize the value of their contents.
Occasional checker patterns or rows of squares also occur. Here we may see an analogy with Adolf
Wölfli’s ubiquitous decorative device of the “ring of bells.”6
Early on in his production, Dellschau’s annotations took the form of simple handwriting in an old-
fashioned Germanic script that may also remind us of Wölfli’s practice. Later on, the interpolations are
rendered in ornate capital letters, with a hint of three-dimensionality. Generally, Dellschau’s lettering
is slightly uneven, and his numerals are often subjected to capricious distortions. Here and there let-
ters are laid one over another, as in Plate 2552, (right, top), in which the elaborate two-color “Hous-
ton” includes a red S stuck over a white T. In Plate 2599 (right, bottom), Dellschau’s legible signature,
“C. A. A. Dellschau,” is positioned beneath a cryptic sigil that carries over into a few drawings. This
seems designed to transmit a sense of magical potency. The bizarre cipher bears some slight resem-
blance to the cursive hieratic script of late Egyptian writing; it may also remind us of the semi-abstract
pictograms improvised by Paul Klee. (The last component of the formula resembles the astrological
sign for Saturn, set on its side.) Amusingly, Dellschau’s cipher and signature are rimmed by a margin
that creates a trapezoid, which then attains the third dimension once we notice that a bearded man,
smoking a pipe and wearing a hat and a red jacket, has squatted down on it. By now we may be won-
dering whether this bearded figure is Charles Dellschau himself—or his hero, Peter Mennis—although
what intrigues me most about this configuration is its nonchalant shifting between different textual and
pictorial codes.
There seems always to be something idiosyncratic, a little perverse, and above all catchy about
Dellschau’s inscriptions. They tend to exhibit the same swagger as those handmade signs that market
stallholders daub to advertise their produce. They amuse us, yet they also transmit an urgency that
Top: Plate 2647 Dora Compair Front Rear, September 19, 1912 (see
page 219)
Bottom: Plate 3238 Outside of Aero Mina War, December 30, 1914
(see page 220)
Top: Plate 2552 Buster from Below, May 1, 1912 (see page 210)
Bottom: Plate 2599 Sicher, July 15, 1912 (see page 215)

re-injects seriousness into the occasion of our looking. In short, Dellschau’s interventions both embel-
lish and admonish. They show him to be not only a modest artisan but also an ebullient showman.
Let us consider that most insistent of ciphers, ¯DM = XØ, which appears prominently in works
between 1908 and 1916. Set horizontally (and sometimes vertically), it manifests itself in large capitals
or, occasionally, as a more modest rider to the draftsman’s signature. The UFOlogist Pete Navarro, who
studied all twelve of Dellschau’s books of drawings quite intently and had eight of the books in his pos-
session, has claimed to have cracked the code and that the five symbols are a reference to a secret soci-
ety that he believes controlled the Sonora Aero Club in the late 1850s.7
If we accept this reading, then
it would follow that Dellschau labeled his drawings as documentary records originating in a particular
institutional context. Whereupon we might suppose that ¯DM = XØ is a formal logo embodying his pride
in having belonged to an illustrious (if highly secret) organization. On the other hand, we could infer a
certain reticence, for the use of a logo could also mean that Dellschau is deflecting full responsibility
from himself, the mere delineator. However, looking afresh at the cipher, we may feel dissatisfied with
Navarro’s mystifying half-revelations and choose to read it as Dellschau’s highly personal monogram, as
it were, his private seal of authentication—in which case, the message of ¯DM = XØ could be construed
along the lines of: “Here I am showing you yet another of those grandiose works whose authenticity I
declare while hoping to protect them from wider exposure.”
Taken in their totality, the artist’s handwritten interpolations are essentially evidence of the drafts-
man’s ultra-attentive monitoring, a concern that implies a curious awareness of an audience. Clearly
Dellschau is not prepared to risk releasing his drawings for others to misread; rather, he insists on tying
his imagery to explicit themes and concepts. Moreover, nearly all his verbal tabulations are calculated
to emphasize novelty and grandeur. He seems obsessed with the idea of convincing us of his fertile
aeronautical genius—so much so indeed that we are inclined to disregard the attribution of his Aeros
to named individuals (Peter Mennis, Otto Krause, Michael Gorée, Karl Diftdell, Joe Cheney, and the rest).
On the contrary, as we probably realize, these alleged colleagues could be in turn inventions, so that the
entire spectacle adumbrated in the notebooks redounds to the credit of a single man, the authoritative
scribe and draftsman himself.
n n n
Let us now turn to those textual and pictorial borrowings that Dellschau has taken so much trouble
to snip out and paste onto his sheets. They consist, almost without exception, of press items, taken
from such contemporary sources as the magazine Scientific American and three local newspapers,
the Houston Daily Post, the Houston Chronicle, and the Houston Press. We may note that the last-
named describes itself as “an honest, independent newspaper for the people,” as seen in Plate 4529
(plate 279). Here and there are to be found texts in German, printed in the old Gothic typeface known
as Fraktur. These probably came from issues of the New Orleans German Gazette, to which Dellschau
is thought to have subscribed.8
The artist variously refers to these cuttings as Press Blooms, Cuts, and
Airo Cutts—apparently Dellschau’s private shorthand for “aeronautical press cuttings.”
Now, Dellschau’s 1908–1921 books of drawings were all homemade, and newsprint was imple-
mented as a backing along the spine of each sheet of paper to facilitate its threading within a sheaf.
Sometimes the sheets (which are now mostly separated for exhibition purposes) bear flanges of news-
print whose original messages remain legible. These comprise fragments of advertisements and miscel-
laneous news stories and are, in the main, of incidental interest: that is to say these marginalia do not
appear to correspond to any deliberate communication on Dellschau’s part.
On the other hand, there are a good many privileged cuttings that clearly play a part within an inten-
tional scheme. First, we may consider the pictorial items that Dellschau appropriates. In a Flanck view
of the Aero Soso inscribed “Doc Tacken a Ride” (Plate 2559, right, top), we see on the right a man with
mustache and derby hat holding a stick and waving what looks to be a sheet of blank paper. Dellschau
has manifestly drawn this figure. But to the left there is a collaged element, scissored from the fashion
page of the local paper and showing a woman in a stylish dress and hat. Evidently the details of this
image attracted Dellschau but were too difficult for him to transfer with pencil and ink, thus the pasted
fragment constitutes an isolated trophy. In a drawing of the Aero Buster (Plate 2549, right, bottom), we
find a variant procedure: on the left is a newsprint photo of a man in suit and hat, standing erect and
proud, while on the right there is an illustrated drawing of a fat man with a stick. This time both items
are collaged.
These pictorial appropriations are in fact relatively uncommon, given that the vast bulk of the pasted
fragments consists of textual material (though it is true that this often involves photogravure illustra-
tions). Typically, Dellschau sticks these cuttings onto his sheets and then, just as he does with his
handwritten inscriptions, outlines them with two or three marginal bands, usually in alternating hues.
These surrounds elevate the cuttings to the status of significant documents, as it were, distinguished
visitors from the world outside the artwork.
In considering these interpolations, we may begin to discern a ritual of celebration.9
We may imag-
ine with what glee the artist, scanning his daily paper, would suddenly pounce upon a choice item,
identifying its relevance to his project. He would then scissor it out from the page, discard the rest of
the newspaper, take out some glue, and transfer the cutting to its new context. It is conceivable that he
kept a number of clippings in a box as a reserve, to be exploited once the time was right. On the other
hand, the indications are that he didn’t hoard them for all that long, for there are few anachronisms:
in principle, Dellschau preferred his cuttings fresh. This is demonstrated in the composition inscribed
“Wind 1845 Muehl Berg” (Plate 4714, page 319), which is dated October 18, 1920, and groups no less
then seven press items, three of which converge upon the same historical event, namely the Interna-
tional Air Race held at Étampes, in France, in late September 1920. Three other clippings on this same
sheet refer to unrelated aerial deaths occurring in the same September–October period. (The undated
seventh one is devoted to the less relevant topic of industrial air conditioning, as if the word air alone
had caught Dellschau’s eye.) The implication is that the collage maker has consciously identified his
elective theme—the thrills and risks of modern aviation—and sees it as his vocation to document its
development, tying his data to an explicit time frame.
Similarly, a sheet bearing the significant heading “Airo Cutts” (Plate 4554) devotes its entire compo-
sitional space to items from seven printed sources. Arrayed across the page beneath the date of January
24, 1920, the items are set quite neatly in vertical columns, as if to recreate the layout of a newspaper’s
front page. This sheet, I would contend, is intended to invoke the newspaper as a paradigm of veracity
and objectivity, along lines consistent with the attributes of the technical diagram. Reading is believing.
As ever, the artist has improved on dull newsprint by inserting around the edges of the pasted material
Top: Plate 2559 Aero Soso Flanck Doc Tacken a Ride, May 11, 1912
(see page 211)
Bottom: Detail of Plate 2549 Max Misers Aero Buster Front or Rear,
April 25, 1912 (see page 209)

a striped ribbon that at times breaks into ornamental zigzags. As the viewer draws closer and starts to
decipher the actual words, the diversity of their content and tone begins to emerge, even though each
item earns its place by virtue of an explicit aeronautical reference. Here is a list of the topics dealt with
in this Airo Cutt:
1. A mail plane in a life-and-death race to transport serum from Chicago to New York
2. The invention of a color-signaling system for aircraft
3. The U.S. air force’s newly formulated rules of flying
4. A jocular speech made by the president emeritus of the University of California, who opines
that women should marry aviators since they can be relied upon to have plenty of nerve
5. The death of Sir John William Alcock, the first nonstop transatlantic aviator, in a crash in
Normandy10
6. A rich father’s vow that he will undertake a monthly twelve-hour flight in his own Curtiss plane
in order to visit his daughter at her school in Tennessee
7. A wind-tunnel for testing aerodynamics on scale models
What this miscellany reveals is Dellschau’s somewhat compulsive tendency to conserve any odds and
ends relating to his pet subject, for whereas the report of Alcock’s tragic death cries out to be preserved,
chitchat about aviator-husbands or doting fathers seems hardly worth the trouble. (Given that, by the
winter of 1919–1920, Dellschau was almost ninety years old and living with his stepdaughter, Elizabeth
Stelzig, it is at least a possibility that she or one of her children saved certain news items to humor the
old man’s passion—in which case he might have adopted them more out of courtesy than discernment.)
In Plate 4605, a sheet dedicated to the Italian aircraft designer and pioneering manufacturer Gianni
Caproni, we can identify a more concerted effort to enshrine a cherished hero, integrating separate
components within a dignified commemorative ensemble. The central clipping shows a color drawing
of Caproni’s head, captioned with his name and the phrase “A Little Man of Big Ideas.” Beside him
hovers an airplane from which dangles a world globe, an allusion that a secondary cutting spells out
in terms of the man’s genius for designing planes capable of lifting very heavy weights. To either side
of this primary material are pasted the two halves of an independent cutting: it deals with Germany’s
pioneering production of airplanes made of metal rather than canvas and wood. Here a reporter signing
himself George Gaulois mentions that a giant aluminum flying boat is currently being manufactured at
Wilhelmshaven, and warns America that, despite the progress it made during the war, it may now be
falling behind in the race to produce a powerful air fleet. The sheet carries Dellschau’s own homespun
comment, “Money cost plenty and dont pay,” so that the composition as a whole appears to voice the
artist’s concern with the economic downside of the race for mastery of the skies.
Another drawing, of the Aero Jake (Plate 2317, page 197, top), is described by its author as “A free
Studia after foreward Worck.” It shows the airship in full flight with vanes swinging to either side.
Dellschau has sketched three passengers aboard the vessel and two startled birds flapping beneath
it. Of the several Airo Cutts positioned symmetrically about the sheet, the one placed directly above
the Aero Jake is the most telling. Extracted from a German-language source, it shows a biplane piloted
by the French aviator Louis Charles Bréguet.11
A printed caption informs us that this single-engine craft
had managed to lift ten passengers—a total weight of 637 kilos—on a demonstration flight at Douai
aerodrome. It would seem that Dellschau is trying to tell us that his own contraption is every bit as
airworthy as Bréguet’s. On the other hand, two of the other cuttings refer to aviation mishaps, so that it
would be more accurate to say that Dellschau’s outlook on flight is tinged with ambivalence, temerity
being offset by timidity.
Plate 4714 (right, top) which brings us up to date on the International Air Race that I mention earlier,
shows how Dellschau monitored the unfolding of various press stories across time. We learn that the
race is indeed now over and that the winner, the French ace Sadi Lecointe, was the only pilot to complete
the course. We further learn that the American participants harbor grievances about their treatment by
the French, while a plane known as the Texas Wildcat came to grief on the very eve of the race and had
to be retired. Unrelated cuttings on the same sheet refer to three separate fatal accidents involving stunt
flyers. As if responding to this evidence of hubris, Dellschau appends his own little drawing of a male
figure flying a modest kite. The artist’s initials are set alongside the figure, so it is tempting to see this
as a self-portrait and perhaps a reminiscence of adolescence. Given the clippings’ general emphasis
upon the perils of the skies, the drawing may be telling us that Dellschau is rather pleased to have kept
his own feet on terra firma.
A certain schadenfreude may be detected in the way Dellschau repeatedly seizes upon reports of
aerial disasters. Plate 2549 (right, bottom) shows a crashed airplane sinking beneath the waves. Else-
where, we read of the lone pilot of a mail plane lost somewhere in the Utah desert (Plate 4695, page
316). In a Long Center Cut drawing of the Baby Myn, we read of the “slight accident” that befell ace
pilot Hugh Robinson at Antibes, France, on February 10, 1912, when he recklessly took off in a Curtiss
hydroaeroplane in a 35-mile-an-hour gale. Having stayed aloft for twenty minutes, the plane came down
on the sea with the wind behind it and toppled over; luckily Robinson was unhurt, but the plane was
smashed, as we see from a photo of the hapless machine capsizing. Hovering above his clippings,
Dellschau’s own hand-drawn Baby Myn is displayed in cross section in all its ungainly glory, complete
with vanes, wheels, pulleys, and two brave crew members. Again it is hard to resist the inference that
Dellschau envisaged aviation as a dangerous activity, for it is not clear that the exploits of the Sonora
Aero Club were any less foolhardy than those of Hugh Robinson.
Above all, Dellschau’s carefully preserved Airo Cutts are proof not only that he kept a close eye upon
contemporary aviation but that he was keen to juxtapose his private imaginings with real-life events. We
may suppose that each authentic news flash had the effect of adding a little ballast of realism to his airy
inventions. Most noticeable is Dellschau’s concern to tie his borrowings to a temporal scheme. For, of
all the elements in his collage repertoire, the most insistent is the strip he regularly cut out from the top
margin of the local Houston paper, citing the place and date. Early on, he used to enter these details by
hand, but sometime in the spring of 1912 he opted for printed typography and stuck to it thereafter. We
may want to muse upon the compulsion that made Dellschau fiddle with scissors and paste in this way,
and ask why he often tinted the sliver of newsprint with blue watercolor. Would it not have been easier to
sign and date his work by hand, as did Wölfli?12
I suggest that the simple answer is that the information
in a neat typeface struck him as more authoritative, more “official.” This would be consistent with the
notion that Dellschau was obsessed with defending the credibility of his project: the newspaper date is
of a piece with the technical diagram as a marker of authenticity.
Top: Plate 4714 Wind 1845 Muehl Berg, October 18, 1920
(see page 319)
Bottom: Plate 2549 Max Misers Aero Buster Front or Rear,
April 25, 1912 (see page 209)

As a German-born immigrant, Dellschau was always sensitive to aviation news from his homeland,
and most especially to the development of the zeppelin. Pioneered in at the turn of the century by
Ferdinand von Zeppelin, the zeppelin was almost exclusively a German specialty in the lead-up to the
Great War. The quintessence of aeronautical progress, it greatly excited the popular imagination and
was a recurrent preoccupation in the American press, which spontaneously equated it with the Kaiser’s
imperialist ambitions. In his fantasy novel of 1908, The War in the Air, the English author H. G. Wells
imagines a German air fleet zooming across the Atlantic to capture New York. In 1915, during the war,
zeppelins actually did drop bombs on Paris and London, albeit their efficacy was soon countered by
incendiary countermeasures.13
It is intriguing to speculate on Dellschau’s political sympathies at this time. Plate 2616 (page 216),
a quartet of German-language cuttings dated 1912, refers to experiments with airships and makes spe-
cific and laudatory mention of the German zeppelin Viktoria Luise, which had landed in Frankfurt during
Jubilee festivities. Plate 2450 (page 207) bears the date November 11, 1911 (this time entered by hand)
and includes two small cuttings in Fraktur lettering. One of these speaks of an uneventful zeppelin flight
over Berlin undertaken by the two sons of the German emperor and an entourage of courtiers. The other
announces the successful completion of a piloting test at a German airstrip by a German-American pilot
called Edelmann. We may surmise that Dellschau, himself a German-American, identified with this ref-
erence. The two cuttings are set to either side of Dellschau’s florid drawing of a wheeled craft with two
large turbines and carrying four passengers.
Once war broke out in Europe, Dellschau followed events in Britain. In one of his War Press Blooms
(Plate 3339, page 223), the three clippings are taken from a German newspaper and are manifestly anti-
British. Translated, their headlines read “Against British Secretiveness,” “Blaze in Portsmouth Docks,”
and “English Perfidy.” A month later, Dellschau would solemnly dedicate an entire drawing to a spread
of cuttings entitled—and here we are directly reading the collaged newspaper headline—“Eight Mem-
bers of the New British War Cabinet” (Plate 3352, page 224, top). The eight faces, captioned with well-
known names such as those of Secretary of State for War Lord Kitchener, Foreign Secretary Sir Edward
Grey, Prime Minister David Lloyd George, and Attorney-General Sir Edward Carson, are set in a dramatic
fanlike circle, somewhat like a layout of cards in fortune telling. There are additional cuttings nearby,
four of them in German and one in English with the heading “Sanitation Battle On in Britain.” It is hard
to gauge Dellschau’s exact sympathies here, although elsewhere one may detect a definite touch of
Teutonic triumphalism, as in the cutting in Plate 3240 (left), with its headline “Down Goes Another Ship!”
heralding a list of eight vessels recently destroyed by the German navy.14
If the bulk of Dellschau’s press cuttings reflects a fairly benign sensibility, at least one seems excep-
tional and even provocative. Into a design dated for the first day of 1920 (Plate 4538, page 46), he chose
to integrate an uncaptioned press photo of the Russian revolutionary leader Leon Trotsky. Following the
Bolshevik coup of 1917, Trotsky had become commissar for military and naval affairs, and was the suc-
cessful commander of the Red Army during the Russian Civil War. An outstanding orator and political
strategist, he became a founding member of the Politburo in 1919 and by early 1920 was being tipped
abroad as the most likely successor to Lenin. Should we see a sign of hero-worship in this iconic clip-
ping? I somewhat doubt it, for, notwithstanding its celebratory look, it is altogether dwarfed by another
image about ten times as large—a spectacular newspaper drawing boldly titled “Sky Lubrication.” It
depicts several biplanes above an American city watched over (or menaced?) by an immense, cigar-
shaped zeppelin. Ought we to take Dellschau’s obscure comment “Crasey Undertaken” (presumably
“crazy undertaking”) to refer to the Russian Revolution, or to the risky business of conquering the skies?
In the end, I think it safe to say that it was the heroic drama of aviation that enthralled Dellschau rather
than the complex struggles of international politics.
n n n
I shall close this investigation with a supplement of my own, drawing a parallel with a rather differ-
ent artist, Pablo Picasso. It happens that the great avant-garde innovator produced his Cubist papiers
collés in the years 1912–1914, at a time when both he and Dellschau were peculiarly receptive to news
stories.15
In her monograph Re-Ordering the Universe, the critic Patricia Leighten examines Picasso’s
specific choice of contemporary press extracts and maintains that he deliberately introduced them into
his pictures so as to give voice to his leftist and anti-militarist sympathies.16
Of course, in times of crisis,
popular dailies such as the Paris-based Le Journal, which Picasso often used, are bound to prioritize
striking international events, so that an arbitrary recourse to newsprint could not help but include a pre-
ponderance of dramatic items. What Leighten argues, however, is that Picasso singled out his cuttings
with conscious intent, in effect compiling a journalistic diary.17
She calculates that, during 1912–1913
alone, he completed more than fifty papiers collés involving newsprint, more than half of which deal
with the two Balkan Wars of 1912 and 1913 and the deteriorating economic and political state of Europe.
Many of the rest are devoted to accounts of murders, suicides, and unrest, and confirm the vision of a
collapsing social order.18
Leighten’s interpretation of the collagemaking is that, by dint of appropriating
fragments of objective circumstance, Picasso was seeking to add historical ballast to his pictorial inven-
tions. That is to say, belying the purism normally attributed to the Cubist project, his art in fact remained
porous to reality. “No more concrete way could be imagined of pulling Cubism back from the brink of
total abstraction,” observes Leighten.19
It will be obvious that this reading of Picasso’s papiers collés supports the case for seeing
Dellschau’s efforts in similar terms, as an attempt to pull back pictorial invention from the brink of
total fantasmagoria. Certainly we should accept that the intrusion of real-life news stories invigorates
the fictive drawings, and that their designer’s investment in codes of technical veracity is backed up by
up-to-the-minute knowledge of contemporary developments in aviation. The function of those pasted
tokens of modernity is to lend Dellschau’s splendid images a potent aura of immediacy and plausibility.
Plate 3240 Mina from Below War, January 4, 1915 (see page 221, bottom)

Notes
1. It is notable that the terminology pertaining to the prac-
tice of cutting and pasting is as diverse as its history—for
we speak of the papier collé (pasted paper) of the Cubists,
the Merzzeichnungen (Merz drawings) of Kurt Schwitters,
the photomontages of the Berlin Dadaists, the collages
of the Surrealists, the découpages of Henri Matisse, the
assemblages d’empreintes (assembled imprints) of Jean
Dubuffet, and so forth. I would want to differentiate two
fundamental instances of collage practice, identified
according to the outcome of the maneuver. In either case,
paper components are delivered to the surface of an exist-
ing visual scheme and glued down. However, in the first
instance, the alien element is so scrupulously integrated
as to create the illusion of having always belonged there:
the typical surrealist compilations of Max Ernst foster this
impression of seamless unity. Conversely, in the second
instance, the alien element tends to be snipped out in a
relatively careless way, so that the fact of its late arrival
remains obvious: we immediately recognize it as a supple-
ment whose prior existence in a different context teases
our curiosity. The papiers collés of Picasso are a good
example of this latter tendency, and I turn to them at the
end of this essay as an instructive parallel to Dellschau’s
collages. For discussions of collage practice in the twenti-
eth century, see Katherine Hoffman, ed., Collage: Critical
Views (Ann Arbor, MI: UMI Research Press, 1989); Chris-
tine Poggi, In Defiance of Painting: Cubism, Futurism, and
the Invention of Collage (New Haven, CT: Yale University
Press, 1992); and Diane Waldman, Collage, Assemblage,
and the Found Object (London: Phaidon, 1992).
2. For more on the artist, see Jo Farb Hernandez, John
Beardsley, and Roger Cardinal, A. G. Rizzoli: Architect of
Magnificent Visions (New York: Harry N. Abrams in asso-
ciation with San Diego Museum of Art, 1997).
3. For more on Adolf Wölfli, see Roger Cardinal, “Image
and Word in Schizophrenic Creation,” in Literature and
the Plastic Arts, 1880–1930: Seven Essays, ed. I. Higgins
(Edinburgh and London: Scottish Academic Press, 1973),
103–20; and Elka Spoerri and Daniel Baumann, The Art
of Adolf Wölfli: St. Adolf-Giant-Creation (Princeton, NJ:
Princeton University Press in association with American
Folk Art Museum, 2003).
4. Among several other instances of outsider collage-
making may be cited the startling large-scale displays of
William L. Hawkins (1895–1990); see Mason Klein, “Wil-
liam L. Hawkins,” in Self-Taught Artists of the 20th Cen-
tury: An American Anthology, by Elsa Longhauser and
Harald Szeemann (San Franciso: Chronicle Books in asso-
ciation with Museum of American Folk Art, 1998), 170–73.
Another impressive collagist is C. T. McClusky (act. c.
1940–1950), whose circus scenes combine cut-out imag-
ery and color drawing; see John Turner, “The Collages of
C. T. McClusky,” Folk Art 25, no. 2 (Summer 2000): 30–37.
5. In another drawing, Plate 2316, there is a significant
oddity tipped into an otherwise realistic ensemble—a
funny disembodied face, floating in the sky and resem-
bling a crescent moon smoking a curved black pipe. Set
above the swaggering pilot, who dangles one-handed
from his flying machine, this manifestly unreal face
conjures up an atmosphere of mischief and nonchalant
bravado. Needless to say, these are not attributes of an
orthodox technical drawing.
6. See Cardinal, “Image and Word in Schizophrenic
Creation.”
7. See Cynthia Greenwood, “Secrets of the Sonora Aero
Club,” Houston Press (December 10, 1998).
8. Ibid.
9. In an article on the procedures of Kurt Schwitters, I
speculate on the fetishistic pleasure the Hanover collage-
maker might have derived from converting humble pieces
of litter into precious works of art; see Roger Cardinal,
“Collecting and Collage-Making: The Case of Kurt Schwit-
ters,” in The Cultures of Collecting, eds. John Elsner and
Roger Cardinal (London: Reaktion Books, 1994), 68–96.
10. Sir John William Alcock (1892–1919) became an air
force ace in World War I, and completed the first nonstop
transatlantic flight with Arthur Whitten Brown in June
1919. His death in an amphibian occurred on December
18, 1919, so this cutting must have been a few weeks old
when Dellschau made use of it.
11. We can safely assume that Louis Charles Bréguet
(1880–1955) was one of Dellschau’s real-life heroes.
Bréguet constructed his first airplane in 1909 and his
first hydroplane in 1912, and in 1917 he built an experi-
mental gyroplane, an early type of helicopter. By 1919 he
had founded an air company that would later become Air
France.
12. Among several date-conscious outsiders we may also
cite Chicago self-taught artist Joseph Yoakum, who spe-
cialized in exotic landscapes and delighted in imprinting
each of his named scenes with a rubber date-stamp. The
gesture exactly echoes Dellschau’s, a ceremonious asser-
tion that rebuffs any hint of arbitrariness. For more infor-
mation on Yoakum, see Derrel B. DePasse, Traveling the
Rainbow: The Life and Art of Joseph E. Yoakum (Jackson:
University Press of Mississippi, 2000).
13. See Robert Wohl, A Passion for Wings: Aviation and
the Western Imagination, 1908–1918 (New Haven, CT: Yale
University Press, 1994). Dellschau would die too early to
hear of that most dire of aeronautical catastrophes, the
conflagration that destroyed the great Hindenburg on
May 6, 1937, just as the 804-foot-long dirigible reached
America after crossing the Atlantic. Nonetheless, one is
tempted to see that catastrophe as having been foreshad-
owed in Dellschau’s meditations on the grandeur and folly
of aviation.
14. Given that Dellschau’s Press Blooms are usually con-
fined to themes of aviation or war, it would be interest-
ing to know which other items he might have enjoyed
yet elected to discard. One might, for instance, have
supposed him interested in the feats of the escapologist
Harry Houdini, several of whose stunts involved daredevil
aerial acrobatics. We do know that, from time to time,
he preserved quite extraneous items, such as a report
on three black convicts escaping from a Texas jail (Plate
4558). However, this item follows two aviation items in
the same column, so it may have been snipped in error.
There are also a few stories of little relevance to aviation
proper, such as the item on the same sheet concerning
“aerial anglers”—members of the Igorot tribe who fish for
bats at dusk with baited hooks dangling from kites.
15. A further parallel might be drawn with the Merzzeich-
nungen that Kurt Schwitters produced in the immediate
postwar years, collage works in which newsprint occasion-
ally draws attention to contemporary political and social
crises; see Cardinal, “Collecting and Collage-Making.”
16. See Patricia D. Leighten, “The Insurrectionary Painter:
Anarchism and the Collages, 1912–1914,” in Re-Ordering
the Universe: Picasso and Anarchism, 1897–1914 (Prince-
ton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1989), 121–42.
17. Whereas it is true that Picasso sometimes stuck his
clippings upside down on the page, he nearly always pre-
served their legibility by respecting their textual integrity.
By contrast, Patricia Leighten observes of Picasso’s Cub-
ist partner Georges Braque (whose collage experiments
began slightly later) that he made use of press cuttings
less frequently and more arbitrarily. Braque tended to
slice columns down the middle, or to pencil over them
once they were pasted down. This robbed the printed
elements of their legibility and accentuated their purely
visual and aesthetic import.
18. As it happens, Picasso made a single oblique gesture
toward Dellschau’s favorite thematics insofar as three of
his canvases, produced in spring 1912, bear the (painted)
inscription Notre Avenir est dans l’Air (“Our Future lies in
the Air”). The slogan was taken from the title of an anony-
mous contemporary pamphlet that advocated the prompt
development of a French air force; see Leighten, “The
Insurrectionary Painter,” 129.
19. Ibid., 125.

Tom D. Crouch
and the Dream of Flight
4
Plate 2008 Somers Rondo Deck, October 19, 1909, 161
/2 × 183
/8 in.,
The Witte Museum, San Antonio

63THE DREAM OF FLIGHT62crouch
In the last week of July 1899, Wilbur Wright, a thirty-two-year-old resident of Dayton, Ohio, flew an odd-
looking biplane kite from the grounds of the Union Theological Seminary, ten or twelve blocks from
the bicycle shop that he operated with his younger brother Orville at 22 South Williams Street. While a
small group of boys looked on, he manipulated the kite lines, causing the little craft to climb, dive, and
bank on command. The Wright brothers had taken their first step down a path that would lead to the
invention of the airplane.1
At some point the previous year, Charles August Albert Dellschau, a German immigrant, began to
work on his memoirs, which offer an account of time spent among gold miners in Sonora, California,
between 1854 and 1859. He initially wrote two volumes in English, which are known as Recolections
and Recolections second part, and subsequently transcribed them both into a third volume in Ger-
man, known as Erinnerungen (Recollections). The ink drawings of fanciful airships that accompany the
texts look for all the world as if they had flown off the pages of a Jules Verne novel. The airships were,
Dellschau insisted, machines that had been discussed, if not actually constructed (with the exception of
two), by the members of an aeronautical society to which he had belonged in the California goldfields.
The Sonora Aero Club
According to the memoirs, the Sonora Aero Club was established in 1856–1857, inspired by the work
of Peter Mennis, whom Dellschau refers to as a “California Miner, a German up in the fourthies, a plain
yes a rough Man, whit as kind a hearth as to be found in verry few living beengs.” Although “adicted to
strong drink,” and “for ever out of Means, ‘Flat brocke,’” his friends regarded him as a man blessed as
“a genius in getting Up useful contrivances.”2
Working in secret, and borrowing “nails, Screws, Wire and other articles” from his friends, Mennis
constructed the Goose (or Goosey), an airship consisting of two balloons with a basket fitted out with a
pilot’s seat and steering wheel. Dellschau explained that the inventor generated lift by mixing a secret
Lifting Fluid with water in a special apparatus inside the two balloons. One Sunday he invited his friends
along Woods Creek to watch his takeoff on a test flight to Sonora and back. “[U]p he went, allone & how
manny bigmouthed man oppened their Eyes, telling he would never come back allive, he break his Neck
coming down if he ever could turn back. Yes and he did come back whitin ten feet of his Cabin, and as
easy as a Bird alighting,” Dellschau noted.3
Members of the Sonora Aero Club, who met every Friday evening at the saloon of the boarding-
house where a number of them resided, were required to take the podium at least once a quarter, “and
thoroughly exercise their jaws” describing their own plans for an airship.Half a century later, Dellschau
illustrated his reminiscences with watercolor paintings of the fantastic aerial craft that he claimed were
discussed on these occasions.
But that was not the end of the matter. Beginning, presumably, around the time he completed his
memoirs and continuing until 1921, Dellschau filled one large book after another with thousands of
drawings illustrating scores of additional airships. The airships are complicated craft, sporting lovely
striped envelopes that were illustrated both empty and inflated. Dellschau drew many versions of
the same craft, offering side, top, and cut-away views. As a result, the paintings often have the feel
of lively technical illustrations as drawn by a cartoonist. The artist’s draftsmanship, and the marvel-
ous sense of whimsy so apparent in the names of his aircraft, is exercised in his renderings of the
members of the club, shown gazing at the aircraft, climbing aboard, or comfortably ensconced in the
operator’s position.
The airship drawings in later books are accompanied by pages of news clippings chronicling the
progress of flight technology, which Dellschau referred to as Press Blooms. These pages are bordered,
dated, and presented in the same fashion as the drawings. Some pages contain both drawings and clip-
pings, but those prepared during World War I are often simply pages of clippings.
How are we to fathom the enigma of Charles Dellschau within the context of the history of flight? In
a nutshell—Why airships? Why would a retired butcher and saddlery clerk in Houston devote the final
two decades of his life to filling page after page with drawings of imaginative airships and news clip-
pings relating to flight? One answer is to be found in the fact that the newspapers and magazines of the
period were filled with stories of flying machines.
California Ballooning in the 1850s
First, it is important to determine whether Dellschau’s airships were based on real machines or figments
of what was clearly a very active imagination. The artist goes a long way toward answering this question
in his memoirs by explaining that “only the Goose and the Dove really functioned, the others were of no
more value than the idle dreams that they were built on.”4
If the Goose really did leave the ground, we can only assume that it was a primitive balloon. Balloon-
ists of the period used sulfuric acid, which Dellschau identifies as one of the ingredients of Mennis’s
fuel, to generate the hydrogen gas that filled their envelopes. Even if the Goose did fly, it would not have
earned Mennis laurels for having made the first flight in California. That honor goes to a sixteen-year-old
fruit vender named Joseph “Ready” Gates, who ascended from Oakland on August 28, 1853, aboard a
balloon owned by a Mr. S. Kelly.
Kelly had ordered his “splendid silk balloon” from John Wise, of Lancaster, Pennsylvania, the
nation’s most experienced aeronaut, and announced in a local newspaper that he would ascend with
a friend on the Fourth of July, assuring readers that “no expense would be spared to have the whole
affair of California magnificence.”5
The appointed day came and went without a flight, however, as did
a second announced date of July 30. He was finally ready to go on Sunday, August 28. The yellow bal-
loon, measuring eighteen feet in diameter, was to launch from a spot near the Oakland wharf at 1 p.m.
When that hour arrived, however, the balloon was only one-third full. Two hours later, it was still not
completely inflated, and the crowd was growing restless. The craft refused to rise with Kelly, who was
described as a heavy man, on board. One after another, a series of lighter-weight men took his place in
the basket, but the balloon did nothing more than bump across the ground.
Desperate, Kelly was finally reduced to asking for volunteers from the crowd of young boys gathered
at the launch site. Eager to ensure success, Kelly removed the basket and all that it contained, fastened
a single board to the load ring, and helped young Joseph Gates climb into place. After some shouted
instructions to pull the valve line to return to earth and drop a bit of sand to slow his descent, the bal-
loon rose a thousand feet into the sky and sailed out of sight into the clouds eight or ten miles from the
launch site, with the crowd threatening Kelly for sending the boy to what seemed certain doom.6
Fortunately for Kelly, Gates stepped off a steamer at the Oakland docks the next morning.7
He had
traveled fifty miles to a landing in the Suisun Valley, fifteen miles from Benicia. Having lost his grip on

the valve line soon after takeoff, the youngster had left his perch on the board and clambered up the
netting a short distance to cut a small hole in the envelope with his knife, allowing just enough gas to
escape to bring the balloon slowly back to earth. For a young fruit vender, Ready Gates, the first person
to fly in California, had demonstrated the cool composure of a veteran aeronaut.
Between 1855 and 1857, roughly the period to which Dellschau dates the foundation of the Sonora
Aero Club, “Professor” Samuel Wilson attempted, “by lecture and experiment,” to convince California
investors to finance the creation of a “balloon line” connecting the San Francisco Bay area to the Atlantic
Coast. On one occasion in the spring of 1856, Wilson’s giant balloon, measuring a hundred feet tall and
ninety feet in diameter, exploded during an inflation in Placerville, California. When the “professor” was
reported to have made a successful ascent from Mexico City in June 1857, Californians seemed both
surprised and delighted.8
In the fall of 1859, a Sacramento paper reported that Wilson was none other than Thaddeus S. C.
Lowe, who was then exhibiting a giant balloon in New York and Philadelphia with plans to fly the
Atlantic.9
That is certainly not the case, however. Lowe, who acquired his first balloon in 1856, operated
east of the Mississippi until after the Civil War and makes no mention of antebellum trips to California
or Mexico during the 1850s in any of his extensive autobiographical accounts. If “Professor” Wilson was
an experienced aeronaut, Samuel Wilson, an itinerant balloonist operating in the Middle West and South
during 1850s, seems a far more likely candidate.10
California newspapers of the 1850s were also filled with stories of balloon flights in Europe. John
Wise, the most experienced American airman at the time, announced that he was considering flying from
San Francisco to New York before continuing on to Europe. Whatever the truth of Dellschau’s claims for
the Goose, it is by no means difficult to imagine a loosely knit group of friends who gathered for a lively
discussion of the possibility of building a flying machine that would enable them, as the artist inscribed
on Plate 2554, “to cross the plains—and avoid Indian—or White mans stares.” Certainly aerial naviga-
tion was very much a topic of conversation elsewhere during the era of the California Gold Rush.
Rufus Porter, a New England–born artist and mechanic and the founder of the Scientific American,
had opened the discussion with a pamphlet published in 1849, the year the Gold Rush began—Aerial
Navigation: The Practicability of Travelling Pleasantly and Safely from New York to California in Three
Days. . . . A second pamphlet followed the next year.11
Porter explains that he was “making active prog-
ress in the construction of an Aerial Transport, for the express purpose of carrying passengers between
New York and California.” The cigar-shaped, hydrogen-filled airship would, he assures readers, carry
fifty to one hundred passengers on a nonstop journey across the continent at a speed of sixty to a hun-
dred miles per hour.
Powered by two steam engines, the envelope of the airship, or Aeroport, would be eight hundred
feet long and fifty feet in diameter. A salon, or combination passenger cabin and crew compartment,
would be suspended beneath the gasbag. Porter announced that transcontinental flights would begin
on or about April 1, 1850. The cost of a one-way ticket to California on the first six flights would be fifty
dollars. After that, the fare would increase to two hundred dollars. Two hundred tickets, Porter noted,
had already been sold.12
The inventor had a long-standing interest in flight. He constructed his first model airship in 1833,
and he published plans for two different airships in 1834 and 1835 issues of Mechanic’s Magazine. By
the 1840s, Porter was selling stock in the Aerial Navigation Company and had built and flown two model
Aeroports filled with hydrogen and powered by clockwork.
The California Gold Rush offered the perfect opportunity for Porter to realize his dream. The dis-
covery of gold near Sutter’s Mill in 1848 guaranteed that California would become an integral part of
the nation and underscored the enormous difficulties faced by the thousands who sought to reach the
goldfields. Inland gold seekers swarmed to St. Louis or St. Joseph, Missouri, where they swelled the
ranks of what had been a mere trickle of overland emigrants only a few months before. Residents of the
eastern cities often preferred to book passage around Cape Horn. Those of a more adventurous, or less
patient, temperament faced the threat of tropical disease and other hardships involved in a trek across
the Isthmus of Panama, shortcutting the four- to six-month, 18,000-mile ocean voyage around the Horn.
Small wonder that Porter’s promise of a three-day, 3,000-mile scenic aerial cruise over prairies,
mountains, American Indians, and grizzly bears caught the attention of the press and public. Across
the nation people read of his plan in their newspapers and magazines; subscribed to his newslet-
ter, the Aerial Reporter; and flocked to the theaters and lecture halls where Porter demonstrated his
models of the Aeroport.
Intriguing as they might sound, however, schemes involving the dream of aerial navigation were still
fair game for skeptics and humorists, as indicated by a satirical Nathaniel Currier print of 1849. Would-
be miners crowd a dock, attempting to recall a departing fleet of California-bound ships, while one of
Porter’s Aeroports cruises serenely overhead, accompanied by a man riding an “Aerial Steam Horse,” a
one-man rocket of the sort patented by the Englishman Charles Golightly in 1841.13
For Rufus Porter, as for Charles Dellschau and the other members of the Sonora Aero Club, flight
remained only a dream. Unable to convince the Congress to provide him with a $5,000 grant that would
enable him “to extend his experiments, and apply his invention on a practical scale,” Porter launched a
new stock issue. He continued to attract large audiences to demonstration flights of his model airships,
including the steam-powered Pioneer, which measured twenty-two feet long and featured the painted
faces of happy passengers peering out of the windows of the salon, but the enormous sums required to
continue his work failed to materialize. By the mid-1850s the project was fading away.
Porter’s dream was shared by others. In 1859 California newspapers reported that John Steiner, a
German immigrant and experienced long-distance aeronaut, had plans for an airship capable of flying
the Atlantic in sixty hours. Cigar-shaped and measuring three hundred feet long and eighty feet in diam-
eter, the craft was to carry twenty-one tons of payload and could be built for a cost of $40,000.14
Steiner,
a veteran of Thaddeus S. C. Lowe’s Union Army balloon corps, was operating as a traveling aerial show-
man in St. Paul, Minnesota, when he encountered a young German officer—Ferdinand von Zeppelin—on
a grand tour of the United States following service with the Union cavalry. Zeppelin left the ground for
the first time as a passenger in Steiner’s balloon in 1863 and was fascinated by the aeronaut’s descrip-
tion of his plan for a long, thin powered airship with a strong rudder. “While I was above St. Paul I had my
first idea of aerial navigation strongly impressed on me,” Zeppelin recalled many years later, “and it was
here that the first idea of my Zeppelins came to me.”15
And in 1864, Solomon Andrews, the Civil War–era
mayor of Perth Amboy, New Jersey, demonstrated large models of his Aereon, featuring three cigar-
shaped envelopes tied side by side, in the Smithsonian Institution’s famous castle in Washington, DC.

The honor of building and flying the first (barely) navigable airship went to the Frenchman Henri
Giffard in 1852. Powered by a five-horsepower steam engine that drove it at a top speed of fewer than
seven miles per hour, Giffard’s airship would have taken far longer than three days to reach California,
but, unlike the dream ships of the Sonora Aero Club, Rufus Porter, John Steiner, and others, it flew!
So did the Avitor, a large model airship measuring eight feet in diameter by perhaps thirty feet in
length flown by the immigrant English experimenter Frederick Marriott at Shellmound Park, near San
Jose, California, on July 2, 1869. A light wooden frame surrounding the spindle-shaped gasbag sup-
ported a pair of wings, a tail, and a lightweight steam engine and boiler-driving propellers. Operated
by tether lines connecting it to ground handlers, the craft made a number of flights, was granted a U.S.
patent, and attracted international attention. The London Dispatch took note of “the wonderful Califor-
nia flying machine” that would “soon wing its way across the Rocky Mountains from San Francisco to
New York.”16
Perhaps the combination of actual balloon flights in the Bay area and the excitement engendered by
dreams of aerial navigation did inspire the residents of a California mining town to form an aeronauti-
cal discussion group that conducted some experiments. It is important to note, however, that Charles
Dellschau would spend his life surrounded by aeronautical activity.
Aeronautics in the Lone Star State
Whatever the impact of balloon flights and discussions of navigating the air had on a group of friends
in the gold camps of California, Dellschau would hear plenty of talk of flying machines following his
return to Texas. While there is no evidence to suggest that Dellschau ever met Jacob Friedrich Brodbeck
(1821–1910), or was in any way aware of his work, the two men had a great deal in common. A native
of Plattenhardt, Württemberg, Brodbeck immigrated to Texas in August 1846 with his younger brother
Johann Georg. A graduate of a prestigious teacher’s college in the old country, he settled in Fredericks-
burg, a predominantly German community north of San Antonio, where he worked as a teacher and
school administrator.
Always fascinated by mechanical problems, Brodbeck experimented with an ice-making machine
and assured his students that human beings would one day fly like the birds. “For more than twenty
years I have labored to construct a machine that should enable a man to use like a bird the atmosphere
region as a medium of travel,” he explained many years later. Like so many other aeronautical enthu-
siasts over the years, Brodbeck began by studying birds in flight and proceeded to an investigation of
the “mechanical laws governing these wonderful structures.”17
Having concluded his observations, the
inventor claimed to have built his first model flying machine in 1863. Powered by a clock spring, the craft
featured “a system of wings, both movable and fixed . . . entirely different from the sails of vessels.” His
call for investors, published in local newspapers in 1865, raised sufficient cash to enable him to build a
machine large enough to carry a pilot, whose duties included keeping the massive spring wound.
The first test flight was conducted on September 20, 1865. “The plane [rose] . . . as high as the trees,
[and] sailed around for several minutes,” one supposed witness explained to a San Antonio reporter in
1937. Legend has it that the flight ended in a crash from which Brodbeck escaped with minor injuries.
He tried again in 1874. “My ship took off and I sailed around until the power of the coil spring gave out,”
Brodbeck explained. “Then down into the corn field I crashed, but I was not badly injured, only bruised
from head to toe.”18
By some accounts, Brodbeck was still experimenting as late as 1894. Interviewed by a Fredericks-
burg reporter in 1973, octogenarian Richard Brehmer claimed to have seen Brodbeck in the air as late
as that year. “The airplane was about twelve feet wide, maybe fourteen feet—about as wide as a good-
sized wood gate,” Brehmer reported. “Jacob positioned himself between two fabric-covered wings in
the middle of the craft and wound up a spring that was about four inches wide. Jacob would stop from
time to time to catch his breath while winding up the spring. Below the lower wing there were two
wheels, and a sort of skid plate was attached underneath the tail section. The coiled spring was held
in place by a sturdy locking mechanism. When Jacob released the lock, the airplane took off. The crude
craft rose gently and quickly. It went about 50 yards, rising over a tree about twelve feet high and then
gradually coming down about another 50 yards away on the other side of the tree for a total flight of
around 100 yards.”19
Eyewitness claims like this one from an individual more than eighty years of age regarding an event
that he had witnessed when he was only seven years old have also been made on behalf of other pre-
Wright flight claimants. In the absence of any solid supporting evidence, the claims made for Brod-
beck and many other experimenters like him must be regarded a something more akin to folklore than
to history.
While Brodbeck may not have actually left the ground, his work was fairly well publicized. Announce-
ments of his stock issues were carried in San Antonio newspapers and picked up by other newspapers
around the state. His airship was apparently exhibited at the Gillespie County Fair during the decade
following the Civil War, and in Illinois in 1874 during a fund-raising campaign. If Dellschau, then living
in Richmond, just southwest of Houston, was paying as much attention to aeronautical matters during
these decades as he did at the turn of the century, he probably knew something of Brodbeck’s work.
Jacob Brodbeck was not the only flying-machine experimenter active in Texas. W. D. Custead earned
his living as a ticket agent and telegrapher for the Missouri–Kansas–Texas Railroad, manning the little
station at Tokio, Texas. At the time of the McLennan County Centennial in 1949, old-timers described a
five-mile aerial voyage that Custead is said to have made in or about 1897 with a passenger-carrying
ornithopter. Former neighbors and Custead’s son, interviewed in the 1940s and ’50s, described addi-
tional flights with what may have been a second machine in 1901. The craft may have been powered by
an engine produced by Gustave Whitehead, of Bridgeport, Connecticut, perhaps the best known of all
pre-Wright flight claimants.20
Many of the good people living in and around Pittsburg, Texas, in 1902 were convinced that Reverend
Burrell Cannon, pastor of the local Baptist church, had flown sixty feet over a local pasture at an altitude
of ten feet. He named his craft the Ezekiel Flying Machine, naturally enough—the design was based on
the biblical description of the heavenly aerial craft seen by the Prophet Ezekiel. Cannon sold stock in
his Ezekiel Airship Manufacturing Company, and, in 1904, shipped his machine to St. Louis for display
at the Louisiana Purchase Exposition. When the original craft was destroyed in a train wreck, Cannon
built a second machine in Chicago, where he is said to have made a brief hop. At the time of his death, at
the age of seventy-four, he was hard at work on a mechanical cotton picker and boll weevil destroyer.21

Some of the airships making headlines in late nineteenth-century Texas, and elsewhere, were more
mysterious than others. One of the most puzzling stories of the decade began on the evening of Novem-
ber 17, 1896, when some one hundred citizens of Sacramento, California, saw three bright lights moving
slowly across the night sky at an altitude of 1,000 feet. The craft returned to Sacramento five days later
and visited San Francisco that evening, as well. Over the next few days, strange lights were seen in the
skies over Washington State and western Canada. Early the next year, the airship seemed to be moving
east. In February, March, and April 1897, strange lights were seen in the skies over Nebraska, Kansas,
Texas, Missouri, Iowa, Illinois, and Michigan.22
On April 15, 1897, newspapers across the nation carried a report that the “airship,” as it was now
identified, had exploded and crashed near Kalamazoo, Michigan. The noise, it was said, had been like
that of “heavy ordnance,” followed by “the distant sound of projectiles flying through the air.” Four
days later, the Dallas Morning News published an even more intriguing report of the demise of the
strange craft, or one like it. Early on the morning of April 17 witnesses noticed an airship slowly “settling
to earth” as it moved toward the little North Texas town of Aurora. Passing over the town square at a
speed estimated at only ten to twelve miles per hour, it struck a windmill on the north edge of Aurora
and “went to pieces with a terrific explosion.” Citizens combing through the wreckage were stunned to
discover the badly disfigured body of an individual who was obviously “not an inhabitant of this world.”
S. E. Haydon, the local businessman who filed the story, closed his account with a note that the body
would be buried in the town cemetery the next day.23
There can be no doubt that the single article describing the episode was a deliberate hoax of a sort
that was relatively common in the nineteenth century and almost unknown today. According to the Texas
State Historical Association, Haydon was attempting to increase the visibility of his dying community.
Rediscovered by a Dallas Morning News reporter seventy years later, the case was, for a time, a favorite
of flying-saucer enthusiasts.24
Dellschau and the Development of the International Air Age
By the time Dellschau was working on his reminiscences, the great airship hoax had given way to sto-
ries of genuine achievement in the air. The first zeppelin airship flew in 1900. At 420 feet long, it would
have impressed even Rufus Porter. Alberto Santos-Dumont, a Brazilian living in Paris, became the toast
of the continent when he flew from the Paris suburb of St. Cloud to the Eiffel Tower and back in his
one-man airship the following year. Since the mid-1890s newspapers and magazines in Europe and
America had been headlining the efforts of heavier-than-air flying machine experimenters like the Ger-
man Otto Lilienthal, the Englishman Percy Pilcher, and the Americans Samuel Pierpont Langley and
Octave Chanute, who were laying the foundation for the invention of the airplane.
Dellschau was fully aware of the latest developments in aeronautical technology, and he was per-
fectly willing to pass judgment on the increasing number of aeronautical schemes described in the
newspapers. In December 1898 the Houston Daily Post published a letter to the editor by a W. H. Brown
of Burton, Texas, describing his invention of “A Perfect Air Ship.” “The man,” Dellschau wrote in his
memoirs, “don’t know what he is writing about” (see pages 34 and 95). Brown’s perfect airship was
most probably modeled after an aircraft designed by the Austrian engineer David Schwarz, the only
all-aluminum airship that had been built and flown up to that time. Completed by the widow Schwarz
following her husband’s death, the 156-foot-long Metallballon consisted of a tubular aluminum frame-
work covered with thin plates of the same material. The craft rose into the air from Berlin on November
3, 1897, but at an altitude of perhaps a hundred feet the belt driving the propellers began to slip. The
soldier who had been drafted to serve as pilot panicked and began energetically valving hydrogen. He
survived the ensuing crash landing, but ground winds and an excited crowd damaged the world’s first
rigid airship beyond repair.
Dellschau, like Brown, was especially interested in aircraft propulsion, and he devotes a significant
portion of his memoirs debating the validity of Brown’s theories. “The Balloon if ever built,” he noted,
“should be composed of Aluminum Cigar shaped, such Balloons have been constructed, filled whit Gas,
and made to ascend” (see page 94).He discusses ways to improve upon propeller placement and blade
turbines. These prescient notions, which would serve as the basis for turbojets and high bypass fan-jets,
had a direct impact on his art, as well. Turbines abound in Dellschau’s works.
Whatever the obsession that drove Dellschau to create imaginary airships, day after day, for approxi-
mately twenty-three years, the project clearly derived from his deep interest in aviation technology. The
artist’s intention is complex, juxtaposing fanciful watercolor portraits of the airships with Press Blooms
reporting the latest events in aviation. Dellschau clipped articles from Houston newspapers, including
the Houston Daily Post; Scientific American, the historic journal founded by Rufus Porter; various illus-
trated magazines and journals; and German-language newspapers. He was not only very widely read
but extraordinarily articulate, as evidenced by the often wry and humorous commentary on the paintings
and Press Blooms.25
The books of drawings created after 1908 give the impression of a dialogue between the “creative”
products of Dellschau’s imagination and the Press Blooms describing the reality of a world that was tak-
ing to the air at long last. The links between the past and the present, the dream and the reality, were
often underscored. In response to a series of articles on the latest wonders of the air age, Dellschau
commented “Goosey beats you all in 1857”; elsewhere, he wonders what he and his friends might have
accomplished if they were still working together.
Clearly, however, Dellschau applauded the achievements of the first generation of airmen. The Press
Blooms contain dozens of articles on the Wright brothers, Octave Chanute, Glenn Curtiss, and the oth-
ers who were pioneering aviation in the United States. The technical papers and the German-language
newspapers yielded a wealth of clippings covering events in Europe, from Wilbur Wright’s first public
flights near Le Mans, France, in 1908, to Louis Blériot’s historic first flight across the English Channel in
July 1909 and the great flying meet at Reims a few weeks later.
Dellschau’s drawings are a particularly rich source of information on local aeronautical history. The
Press Blooms chronicle the events surrounding the touring French aviator Louis Paulhan’s visit to Hous-
ton, where he made the first airplane flight in the state on February 18, 1910. We have no way of knowing
whether the artist saw Paulhan fly. Given the level of enthusiasm indicated by the extensive clippings,
however, it is difficult to believe that he would have missed the opportunity.
Dellschau also followed the aeronautical controversies of the era with great interest. The artist
clipped a series of articles describing the progress of the lawsuits that the Wright brothers had brought
for patent infringement in Europe and America. It was a particularly big story in Houston. On February 17,
1910, the day before Paulhan made his flight, U.S. Circuit Court Judge Learned Hand issued a temporary

injunction restraining Paulhan from flying his Henry Farman biplane, which was said to infringe upon
the Wright patent. The defendant was required to post a $25,000 bond in order to meet his commit-
ments and continue his tour for another month. The details of the story are recorded in Dellschau’s
Press Blooms.
Since the discovery of his art in Houston in the late 1960s, Dellschau has emerged as a figure of
genuine interest to art historians. Just as interesting, from a cultural point of view, is the extent to which
the artist has attracted the attention of individuals interested in esoteric mysteries. Could the airships
that graced the pages of the books of drawings actually have soared through the night sky over the
Gold Rush country? Was there a relationship between the Sonora Aero Club and the wave of mysteri-
ous airship sightings in the West and Midwest almost half a century later? And how do you explain that
extraterrestrial body buried in Dellschau’s home state of Texas? Those questions, and others, have been
explored in books, in magazines, and on various websites. There is not a scintilla of evidence to indicate
that any of that might be the case. It is, however, proof that the rich imagination of Charles Dellschau
still has the power to inspire the wildest of dreams.26
Dellschau’s reputation as an extraordinary creative talent is well established. The obscure butcher
who kept to his room and painted obsessively has been accorded an honored place among American
outsider artists. On quite another level, his work is evidence of the American love affair with the notion
of flight. While the wondrous machines illustrated in Dellschau’s books of drawings would never have
left the ground, it is not difficult to imagine the artist and his friends gathering on occasion to raise a
glass and describe the flying machines that they dreamed of building. The work to which he devoted the
last two decades of his life is proof that Dellschau pursued that dream to the end of his days.
Notes
1. For more details on this event, see Tom D. Crouch, “Wil-
bur and Orville Wright Fly a Kite: The Crucial Early Experi-
ments of 1899,” The Drachen Journal 3 (Fall 1999): 12–19.
2. Recollections, 5.
3. Ibid., 6. Woods Creek is in Columbia, CA, another mining
town near Sonora.
4. Erinnerungen (Recollections), 74.
5. “Local Matters,” Daily Alta California (May 17, 1853).
For more information on early ballooning and the events
described in this essay, see Tom D. Crouch, Eagle Aloft:
Two Centuries of the Balloon in America (Washington, DC:
Smithsonian Institution Press, 1983).
6. “Balloon Ascension at Contra Costa, Probable Loss
of the Boy Aeronaut,” Daily Alta California, (August 29,
1853).
7. “Safe Return of the Boy Aeronaut,” Daily Alta California
(August 30, 1853).
8. Gary F. Kurutz, “An Informal History of California Bal-
looning,” The Californians (July–August 1988): 18–19;
“The Balloon Explosion,” Sacramento Daily Union
(May 27, 1856); “News of the Morning,” Sacramento Daily
Union (October 29, 1856); and “Ballooning in Mexico,”
Daily Alta California (June 25, 1857).
9. “Aerial Navigation,” Daily Alta California (November 2,
1859).
10. Ibid.
11. Rufus Porter, Aerial Navigation: The Practicability of
Travelling Pleasantly and Safely from New York to Cali-
fornia in Three Days. . . . (New York: H. Smith, 1849). The
pamphlet is reprinted in Rhoda R. Gilman, ed., A Yankee
Inventor’s Flying Ship: Two Pamphlets by Rufus Porter
(St. Paul: Minnesota Historical Society, 1969). The second
pamphlet included is Porter’s An Aerial Steamer, or Flying
Ship. Invented by Rufus Porter (Washington, DC: W. Greer,
1850).
12. For a full account of the aeronautical work of Rufus
Porter, see Tom D. Crouch, The Eagle Aloft: Two Centuries
of the Balloon in America (Washington, DC: Smithsonian
Institution Press, 1983).
13. The print appears as an illustration in Ralph K. Andrist,
The California Gold Rush (New York: American Heritage,
1961), 59.
14. “Across Atlantic in Sixty Hours,” Sacramento Daily
Union (February 18, 1859).
15. Rhoda R. Gilman, “Zeppelin in Minnesota: A Study in
Fact and Fable,” Minnesota History (Fall 1965): 285.
16. Daily Alta California (September 29, 1869).
17. Jacob Brodbeck quoted in Edwin W. Gibson, “First
Airplane Flight,” Enchanted Rock Magazine (April 1996):
15. For additional information on Brodbeck, see Michael
Brockway, “People and Planes,” Aviation History (January
1995): 8; and Anita Tatsch, ed., Jacob Brodbeck “Reached
for the Sky” in Texas (Fredericksburg, TX: Dietel and Son
Printing, 1986), a copy of which is in Pioneer Memorial
Library, Fredericksburg, TX.
18. Brockway, “People and Planes,” 22.
19. Ibid.
20. See Stella Randolph, Before the Wrights Flew: The
Story of Gustave Whitehead (Washington, DC: Places, Inc.,
1937), 94, 123.
21. Mike Elswick, “Pittsburg’s Ezekiel Airship to come to
life,” Longview [Texas] Morning Journal (September 22,
1985); and “Airship Built by a Minister,” Sunday Compan-
ion (November 16, 1901), 307.
22. For a full account of the subject, see Daniel Cohen,
The Great Airship Mystery: A UFO of the 1890s (New York:
Dodd, Mead, 1981).
23. S. E. Haydon, “A Windmill Demolished It!” Dallas Morn-
ing News (April 19, 1897), reprinted in Melba Goodwin,
Chasing Graveyard Ghosts: Investigations of Haunted and
Hallowed Ground (Woodbury, MN: Llewellyn Publications,
2011), 88–89; see also Lee Krystek, “The Mystery Airship
of 1896,” The Museum of UnNatural History, http://www
.unmuseum.org/airship.htm (accessed November 28,
2011).
24. “Author Attempts to Jump-start Town with Fictional
UFO Story (April 18, 1897),” Texas Day by Day, http://www
.tshaonline.org/day-by-day/30332 (accessed Novem-
ber 28, 2011).
25. The term “Press Bloom” was an expression of
Dellschau’s wry humor. “Bloom” is apparently drawn from
the German Blumen, or flowers. The specially decorated
pages of news clippings are thus “pressed flowers.”
26. The fringe literature identifying Dellschau as the
answer to the great airship mystery of the 1890s continues
to grow. See, for example, Jerome Clark and Loren Cole-
man, “Mystery Airships of the 1800s, Part 1,” Fate (May
1973); Dennis Crenshaw and P. G. Navarro, The Secrets of
Dellschau: The Sonora Aero Club and the Airships of the
1800s, a True Story (San Antonio, TX: Anomalist Books,
2009); and Michael Busby, Solving the 1897 Airship Mys-
tery (Gretna, LA: Pelican Publishing, 2004). A search of
Dellschau’s name on the Internet will produce any num-
ber of sites linking him to the airship mystery. See, for
example, the reprint of “Mystery Airships of the 1800s”
on KeelyNet, http://keelynet.com/gravity/aero1.htm
(accessed November 26, 2011). Dellschau has been woven
into the broader fabric of what can only be regarded as the
fringe area of American historical paranoia.

Barbara Safarova
The Art of
Tell the Modern Experience
from Exile
5
Plate 3257 War Press Blooms, January 25, 1915, 163
/4 × 191
/4 in.,
San Antonio Museum of Art

75tell the modern experience74safarova
End of the nineteenth century: the sky is filled successively with balloons—the first attempts of the
Montgolfier brothers date from 1782—airships (the steam-powered airship of Henri Giffard from 1852)
and aeroplanes (the exploits of the Wright Brothers from 1903). It is the golden age blending magic and
technique: technological desire powered by the supreme fantasy to master heaven and earth, in imita-
tion of the original act of Creation. Everything happens as if a dream has come out of books to invent
reality. This is also true of other inventions in the course of the nineteenth century: the telegraph, the
telephone, radio, photography, film, the X-ray, the first automobiles, locomotives, and so on. In turn,
collective imagination appropriates the new models of emerging physics, with energies that remain
yet to be better defined. It is both “high” literature as well as popular culture—novel, comics, film (A
Trip to the Moon, 1902, by Georges Méliès, in which we see scientists wear pointed hats and stellar
dresses, disguised as Nostradamus or Merlin). The symbolic framework of the ancient folklore is thus
transformed in a huge mass of science fiction fantasies: the “Flying Dutchman” becomes the wonderful
scientist, the divine light turns into electricity, chariots drawn by wild geese become the first air vessels
in a baroque fusion of sailing boats and Wild West locomotives.
In Houston, Charles A. A. Dellschau, retired butcher and saddlery clerk, follows closely the early
aeronautical adventures thanks to his subscriptions to several magazines and newspapers of the time:
Scientific American, the Houston Daily Post, the Houston Chronicle, and the Houston Press. From 1898 to
1921 he would describe and draw the story of a club of aeronauts that would have existed in California in
the 1850s. Are his drawings and writings based on real memories, is it an “autofiction”—a literary work
in which a writer invents a new personality and existence, while keeping his real identity—or simply a
story inspired by the discoveries of the time? We do not know because the existence of the Sonora Aero
Club has not been proved thus far.
Dellschau is not the only creator inspired by the stories of ghost airships driven by mad scientists.
Already in 1886, Jules Verne published Robur the Conqueror, in which he anticipated the American UFO
wave of 1896–1897, when thousands of Americans observed large flying machines of baroque design
in the sky. Fiction and reality become indistinguishable and sometimes echo each other in the most
incongruous details: Jules Verne’s heroes throw down messages to signal their position—this is also
confirmed by a farmer in Wisconsin, a witness of a passing airship.1
The newspapers circulate rumors as
to the possible tests of a paranoid scientist. Today, more than one hundred years after that first Ameri-
can wave of sightings, others have been trying to prove that the appearance of the mysterious aircraft
flying over Texas and other states in the West and Midwest testifies to the existence and continuous
activity of a secret society, of which Dellschau would have been a member during his youth.2
Strange
short circuits, in which imagination, symbolic configurations inscribed in our culture, and unexplained
phenomena mix, elusive, ready to be reinterpreted by each new generation.
The belief in technological progress thanks to the flying machines, with a privilege of certain
naivety, is permanently lost after the break represented by the First World War. From the start of the
war, airplanes and zeppelins are used to drop explosives on the enemy. It is the beginning of strate-
gic bombing with specialized aircraft whose goal is to hit the vital sources of the opponent. April 22,
1915, has entered history as the date of the first use of chlorine gas on a large scale by the German
army as a means of fighting the French-Canadian positions near Ypres. An aerial photograph shows the
deployment of the first cloud of military poison causing severe damage to the airways and lungs. The
death toll varies according to the sources; the German reports state 15,000 people poisoned and 5,000
dead.3
The First World War equals from then on the invention of the “gas war” and “aerial war,” the
discovery of the “environment,” the beginning of “atmo-terrorism” employed by the states: “As it is no
longer possible to liquidate the enemy’s body by hitting him directly, the attacker now has the oppor-
tunity to make the extension of his existence impossible by plunging him long enough in an unlivable
environment.”4
The disasters of the Great War can be characterized by words such as “collapse” and “destruc-
tion”—as if the explosion of knowledge in the course of the nineteenth century, its proliferation, had to
result in auto-destruction, with scientific dreams transformed into war machines. This is what Dellschau
seems to show us, through his selection of press clippings introduced in his collage books from 1914.
The blazing color drawings with the striped Aeros recalling the Barnum & Bailey canvas circus tent,
inspired by the almanacs or even the Kalender Bilder of the time, darken and become more dramatic,
even disruptive. Press clippings describing the war alternate with collaged images of a civilian army,
inscribed with the words “War” and “Hell” (Plate 3214, right, bottom), soldiers in trenches equipped
with gas masks (Plate 3256, right, top), and destroyed zeppelins (Plate 4520, page 275). One of the
War Press Blooms collages (Plate 3257, page 72) shows a soldier in a deep-sea diving suit; one cannot
help but think about the failed performance of Salvador Dalí at the New Burlington Galleries in London
in 1936, during which, to convey to his audience that he was speaking as a representative of a radically
different world, he chose to wear a diving suit. As he was not connected to an air distribution system, he
almost suffocated at the same time as he was shouting the principles of his “paranoiac-critical method.”
A prophetic accident, an awareness of the danger of annihilation because of military “atmo-terrorism.”
Dellschau possesses a certain kind of lucidity, perhaps due to his exile. It is not only a geographical
exile—he left his native Prussia at the age of nineteen—but a more radical break. His first and second
wives have both died, as have his three biological children. During the war, with part of his family still
in Berlin, his situation as a German seems rather difficult compared to that of his fellow Americans fully
committed to the cause of the Allies from 1917. But perhaps it is because of this gap with the rest of his
contemporaries that he manages to give us such a fascinating image of his time; through his drawings
and collages Dellschau captures the historical background—rather than creates a historical narrative.
According to Bertolt Brecht, who spent a great part of his life in exile (1933–1949), “the finest dialecti-
cians are the exiled. They have been forced into exile by changes that have therefore become their only
interest. They can deduce from the most imperceptible signs, provided they are able to think, the most
fantastic events. If their opponents were to win, they would calculate the price they had to pay for their
victory, and they have a great eye for contradictions. Long live the dialectic!”5
Along with Dellschau, in
his small room in Houston, we can also think about another great artist, Adolf Wölfli, who succeeded in
transforming the tomb that was the psychiatric hospital of the Waldau into the heart of the universe.6
This seems to confirm the thesis of the Italian philosopher Giorgio Agamben, for whom the real con-
temporary, one who can discern the notable darknesses of one’s own time, must be, paradoxically,
always distanced from it: “Those who are truly contemporary, who truly belong to their time, are those
who neither perfectly coincide with it nor adjust themselves to its demands. They are thus in this sense
irrelevant [inattuale]. But precisely because of this condition, precisely through this rejection and this
anachronism, they are more capable than others of perceiving and grasping their own time.”7
Top: Plate 3256 War Press Blooms, January 26, 1915 (see page
222)
Bottom: Plate 3214 War Hell, November 19, 1914 (see page 221)

77tell the modern experience76safarova
The newspaper photos and articles Dellschau glued onto his works thus gain real epic power; their
narrative power is increased by the interweaving between the world’s history—clippings concerning
memorable events, mostly aeronautic exploits or disasters—and his “autofiction.” The artist blurs the
status of various documents, he shatters the boundaries between science and art, between document
and fiction. Like an editor working at his table, Dellschau pastes one image to another, on one or more
pages, revealing analogies, tensions, sometimes contrasts or contradictions. The assembly of these het-
erogeneous images, their juxtaposition in a completely different context, puts them in motion, exposing
aspects previously imperceptible. This type of composition—or rather decomposition—has an evident
cinematic quality, creating associative chains rather than signification. By this method, Dellschau joins
other modern artists who have used the technique of montage to question contradictions—one can
think again of Bertolt Brecht and his War Primer, a series of sixty-nine photographs accompanied with
four-line epigrams—to reflect on the gaps opened by the confrontation of heterogeneous images.
According to the French philosopher and art historian Georges Didi-Huberman, the montage as “dis-
location and reorganization of all things” is primarily a method of knowledge related to the modern
experience: “Montage is a method of knowledge and a formal process born out of war, transcribing the
‘disorder of the world.’ It characterizes our perception of time since the first conflicts of the twentieth
century: it has become the quintessential modern method.”8
However, Dellschau appears to be less concerned with the interrogation of the political and social
realities than in a personal search for truth, based on his own history. The drawings and collages bound
in his books function not so much as a Tageblatt—a daily newspaper—than as a Tagebuch, a kind of
a diary. It is a diary in its dimension of a montage, “as imaginative montages—documentary elements
mixed with lyrical movements,” which “correspond precisely to this dual dimension, this perpetual
rhythm back and forth: systole or contraction of seeing . . . diastole or dilation of the vision.”9
Montage
as a tool that breaks up the smooth barrier of surfaces and focuses on the background, the depths?
Montage as an opening of a “visual unconscious” of the world and its history?
Dellschau is not looking for visual coherence—indeed, his books do not resemble each other; it’s
more about composing from debris, scraps, flashes of truth. An organization of elements for private use,
destined to play rather than to teach, almost naïve. Nevertheless, his point of view is not simplistic but
opens to complexity. It is the montage in the sense of “grafting”: transplanting, destroying the cohesion
of the surface, creating a new body, a new object. Each page is mounted on a thumbnail cut-out from
the newspaper, bound together to form the books. It is thus through the newspaper, literally, that the
artist connects and articulates the diverse events that are the subject of his drawings and collages—as
if the thread of his life depended only on the news reports.
The tactile quality of his books becomes very prominent, especially in the case of the last one, pre-
served at the abcd collection, Paris. Dellschau uses very different kinds of paper, including Kraft paper
bags, playing on its fragile texture. His drawings and collages become less smooth, more “expression-
ist.” The accuracy of the represented Aeros disappears in favor of a freer and sensual gesture, introduc-
ing a set of contrasts between colors. Most often it is black or dark blue, which sets the rhythm of the
drawing and punctuates the harmonies of softer colors. Here the Aeros emerge from the background
affected by the support variations, recalling a ghostly face on a starry sky or in a dark window. Their
plasticity is strengthened by the insistence of the gesture spreading the color—we have an impression
that the artist uses his fingers or the palm of his hand—and makes us experience the heat, vibrations,
and whirring emanating from them. One could wonder if the artist sought—by reinventing these won-
derful Aeros attributed to a visionary group—to create order in the disorder of the world, to take on
the position of the artist “shaman,” the “master of disorder.” Or, on the contrary, if he completely lost
interest in the outside world, preoccupied only with the creation of his autofiction, whose hero-inventor
would be the young Dellschau, a.k.a. all names of the—imaginary or real—collaborators. In the first
case, Dellschau would join the ranks of artists as varied as Joseph Beuys or Kris Kuksi; we think of the
latter’s heterogeneous 2008 assemblages Caravan Assault Apparatus or Sub-Sonic Dissidence Propul-
sion Device.
In the second case, one could compare Dellschau’s collages and their particular link to his personal
history to that of the world of Adolf Wölfli’s Funeral March. By this particular way of integrating various
fragments of world history in his work and of treating the advertising photography of the time as if it
were a direct trace of his psychic reality, Dellschau succeeds in transforming those pictures into almost
personal photographs, having nothing to do with the original intention of the advertiser or publisher.
It is as if photography became a sort of hologram, an illusionary tie between a photogram—an image
obtained without the camera, just by placing objects on photosensitive surfaces—and an engram—
according to the dictionary “an organic trace left in the brain by a past event, which functions as the
material support of memory”—exerting a direct influence on the viewer. He thus manages, at least in
part and without his knowledge, to restitute photography’s “aura” in the sense that Walter Benjamin
gives to this term in his essay in The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction.10
If we interpret this process of arrangement of images as a practice that allows the author to
“rearrange” his own life—to relive it, recreate it by means of this almost “animist” ritual—we could
also find in it a certain resemblance to the Mnemosyne Atlas by the German art historian Aby Warburg.
In his own way, Warburg also seems to have been driven by the desire to experience the traces of the
past, by juxtaposing heterogeneous images through which he expressed his view of the history of forms
in motion.
It is no coincidence that at the end of the Atlas project Warburg placed the winged figure of Hope. It
is positioned next to the image of Mussolini and an anti-Semitic engraving of the Renaissance, express-
ing the tragic contrast between art striving toward the ideal and its inability to rise above the ground
of history. An implicit comment on Walter Benjamin’s phrase “Thanks only to the desperate, we will be
granted hope.” Outside Dellschau, another German artist seems to express the impossibility of rising
above history, reflecting on memory and mourning through his artistic production: we think of Anselm
Kiefer and, for example, his Book with Wings, made of lead (1992).
A private ritual, resulting in the creation of a charged object—when we observe the binding of
Dellschau’s last book, the notion of secrecy inevitably comes to our mind. Dellschau stiches together
not only the back of his “book” but also its sides, thus preventing its opening. We are faced with a radi-
cally foreign object, a kind of will or a reliquary, enigmatic, similar to the unidentified flying objects that
some of us might spot in the night sky.

78safarova
Notes
1. Bertrand Méheust, Science-fiction et soucoupes volantes:
Une réalité mythico-physique (Rennes: Terre de Brume,
2007), 224–33.
2. Michael Busby, Solving the 1897 Airship Mystery (Gretna:
Pelican Publishing, 2004).
3. Peter Sloterdijk, Écumes: Sphérologie plurielle (Paris:
Maren Sell Editeurs, 2005), 82; for the English translation,
see Bubbles: Spheres Volume I: Microspherology, trans.
Wieland Hoban (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press in association
with Semiotext(e)/Foreign Agents, 2011.
4. Ibid., 85.
5. Bertolt Brecht, Dialogues d’exilés: Suivi de fragments
(Paris: L’Arche, 1972).
6. Adolf Wölfli was confined to the asylum in Waldau, Swit-
zerland, from 1895 until his death, in 1930. The only access
to the outside world Wölfli had was through magazines
and newspapers that the hospital made available to the
inmates, sometimes with several years’ delay.
7. Giorgio Agamben, “Qu’est-ce que le contemporain?”
in Nudités (Paris: Bibliothèque Rivages, 2009), 24; for the
English translation, see Nudities, trans. David Kishik and
Stefan Pedatella (Palo Alto, CA: Stanford University Press,
2010).
8. Georges Didi-Huberman, Quand les images prennent
position: L’œil de l’histoire, 1 (Paris: Les Editions de Minuit,
2009), 86; for the English translation, see Confronting
Images: Questioning the Ends of a Certain History of Art,
trans. John Goodman (University Park: Pennsylvania State
University Press, 2009).
9. Ibid., 246.
10. Walter Benjamin, “A Small History of Photography”
(1931): “What is aura, actually? A strange weave of space
and time; the unique appearance or semblance of distance,
no matter how close the object may be.” According to
Benjamin, with the development of photography through
modern technology (a lens opening resulting in a brighter
image), the work of art has lost its uniqueness and has
become part of an illustrated journal. This change—des-
ecration of the work of art—corresponds to the appearance
of the masses, who desire to possess the object, remove all
distance, and reproduce its image. See Jean-Michel Palm-
ier, Walter Benjamin: Le chiffonnier, l’ange et le petit bossu
(Paris: Klincksieck, 2006).

Randall Morris
Enigma in Plain Sight
6
Plate 4790 Bomba, January 25, 1921, 111
/2 × 161
/2 in.,

83Enigma in Plain Sight82Morris
There was a time in this country when the unknown was sensually attracted to the known, when the
occult was daily found in bed with science (in fact, the relationship seemed taken for granted and
headed for marriage), when the possibilities of discovering and rediscovering the secrets of the Universe
were potentially in the notebooks of Everyman, and the idea that the individual could rearrange the
way life was perceived by the masses and gain riches and fame in the process was seen as the truest
manifestation of the American Dream.
Charles A. A. Dellschau was one among many in this gold rush to the intangible frontiers of improv-
ing the world. The everyday vagaries of his career and details of his drawings have been and will be
examined elsewhere, but it has been seen that the more information gleaned, the more mysterious his
oeuvre becomes. Though he is an icon of art brut he has few of the attributes that we find in other artists
of his ilk. There is evidence, perhaps, of an extreme obsession but none empirically provable of delu-
sion, depression, or visions of alternate universes, though perhaps in the latter there is at least some
evidence of a desire to use his inventions to discover them. His dreams are overt rather than hidden;
his restlessness is of his time.
And what a time that was. It cannot be overemphasized what it is to think that with the mere tools
of brain and pencil one can change the course of mankind. Society allowed theory to be speculative.
No one but no one would deny that it was the machine that would change us, that it was metal and
chemicals and gases and electricity and the complete domination of the forces of nature that would
provide a panacea to man’s limitations. Indeed, dragons were replaced by airships and magic shackled
to science, and because this world was pretty much mapped and discovered there were obviously other
worlds out there that could be owned, could be taken, could be had merely by the invention of the right
machine. To do this the Inventor was the Soldier of the Light, and his duty was almost Old Testament, the
domination of natural forces by man. Dominion, indeed. There was a machine for everything, from flight
to orgasm . . . humankind could extend itself physically into every domain there was. This then was the
context for Dellschau’s airships. They were the archangels, fitted out for war and healing, ready to lend
credence to man’s ultimate God-given superiority.
I believe there was a transitional point in Dellschau’s life as an artist. To me it no longer matters
whether the Sonora Aero Club really existed. It did in his hands. And whether or not it existed on this
plane of existence, he developed his ideas as if it did. Dellschau’s earlier works were functional dia-
grams that he saw as charts for the actual recording and creation of his airships. If we follow them as
near to chronological order as we can, we can sense him testing out the limitations of his own need for
exactitude and detail. We should take into our thinking the possibility that if these airships had never
been built then Dellschau was seeing them and discovering them for himself for the first time on paper.
As he went along the shapes and forms and details became familiar to him, allowing him to take some
liberties in the artistic shorthand devised for his later collages and drawings.
We must grant the artist a healthy amount of suspension of disbelief. If we regard the line of thought
that puts the actual Aero Club in the past, then the earliest drawings may have been done as keys to
memory or in hopes that the Aero Club would once again suck air into its conceptual lungs and live again
in a new incarnation. The drawings then would be the spine of it . . . the permission granted to make
those machines once again live. Following this thought then it is not unreasonable to believe that at
some point Dellschau himself understood that the club and thus his ideas were no longer in his present
but had somehow become a huge and important part of his past.
This can change the way we perceive the later drawings. It makes them not artifacts of the past
but rather works of a different valence for the future. During the course of a career every creative artist
achieves a personal vocabulary of his own making, a lexicon for his own use. Some invent languages. A
good case in point would be the artist Martín Ramírez, whose idiosyncratic vision caused him to invent
trope after trope, a visual language of his own that he could then employ and with which he could jux-
tapose various elements as words to put together in glorious sentences unmistakably his own. Adolf
Wölfli did the same. There are many artists in the art brut world and in the contemporary art world who
do this to varying degrees of solipsism.
Some artists do not reinvent art. Their language is cultural or else not entirely relevant to their mes-
sage. This is true in, say, Bill Traylor’s drawings when he used an existing cultural vocabulary culled
from his immediate surroundings to tell stories in his immediate vernacular, understood by others in the
same culture. We can say the same thing about Dellschau, whose earliest works served the function of
illuminated blueprints to document, like advertisements document, the airships and their capabilities.
His drawings were slaves to the ideas they portrayed. But as he got older the means and the end shifted
on him. The function and uses of the drawings changed along with his own meaning and relevance to
the world around him.
There were two major factors at play with the later drawings; one was the immediacy of their appli-
cation and the other was the advancing age of Dellschau himself. It is common for an aging artist to
take life in review in his last works, and in Dellschau’s case there was no letup in the urgency of his
note-taking and documentation of the aeronautic and scientific events in the world that had seemingly
left him socially behind. This is evidenced in the newspaper collages, and because of this urgency,
combined with his no longer needing to invent things for the first time, he was able to change and shift
his mode of expression. It evolved.
Encroaching age affects an artist in that the window of time once open so wide through which one
could convey one’s messages begins to close. The body begins to send subtle and less subtle warn-
ings, and the need to elaborate every detail once seeming so necessary begins to lessen. The formal
needs or excesses of the work begin to accede to the driven demands of the soul. It is a doorway to
natural abstraction, an alternative to reiterating the entire message over and over again. The artist—and
I am very much positing Dellschau here—invokes the core essence of his message, his vocabulary is
still inevitably his own, his cadence, his rhythm, his style, his colors, his intentions remain constant,
but he is no longer focused on the minutiae of shading and cross-hatching and miniscule marks in his
burning drive to make the major points. It is his own voice, yes, cracked and crackled with the patina
of age perhaps, but he is less apt to explain every aspect of his trajectory. He speaks in a shorthand of
urgency. In many ways we could say he has become more of an artist as his command is such that less
now conveys so much more.
We know what it is that Dellschau did. His mysteries are less in his actual art than in the gaps in his
biography. I do not think appreciation of his work would do anything but grow if the blanks were actually
filled in. He is the opposite of many other self-taught artists both then and now. We know everything

85Enigma in Plain Sight84Morris
about Emery Blagdon’s life, for example, in all its simplicity, its pain, and its joys, but it explains so
very little of the magnitude and profound enigma of his art. We know a lot about Jon Serl’s life as well
in its complexity and almost cinematic plot, but the work he made is evermore soulfully encompass-
ing than mundane daily events. Look at Martín Ramírez, about whom little or nothing was known; in
fact, even what tiny bit was known—for example, his Mexican identity—was denied or ignored by art
historians. But now his life has been pieced together in the last few years by recent research. The
irony is that despite what we know about the bathos of his picaresque tale through the Americas, it
has not really opened the cryptic meanings of most of his drawings and vocabulary, Madonnas and
Cristeros aside.
Knowing the missing details of Dellschau’s life, if indeed those details truly exist, would open up the
context of his work, but the truth is the drawings are very much exactly what they are. The codes, the
secret keys, the dates, the immediate intentions of the artist would build the contexts by which we might
better label the work, but essentially we can see exactly what they are already, despite the eccentricity
of their formalisms. They are not depictions of spiritual or personal malaise, not Henry Darger’s Catholic
battle between good and evil, not a dreamworld or an alternate universe, not Melvin Edward Nelson’s
capturing of planetary events or Eugene von Bruenchenhein’s depictions of evil incarnate. They are not
the mediumistic communications of Augustin Lesage or Madge Gill or Raphaël Lonné. They are embel-
lished blueprints for miraculous airships, and their creator, their recordist, their obsessive archivist has
clothed them in a veil of actuality that increases their power by making us wonder if we should believe
him or not that they—and the people who did or did not build them, and who may be merely memo-
rialized in their conception—actually lived. Often in ancient art exposure to the elements adds patina
and filigree to an object that renders it not only the conception of the original artist but a collaboration
among time, weather, and circumstance. We still view the result as great art. In a sense we can see the
unanswered questions in our knowledge of Dellschau as the same sort of patina. We can chemically
analyze it, but the result will still be great art in our eyes.
He launched these drawings into this world and as artworks we do not need to know anything about
from whence they came. As drawings the late ones grow on different points of vitality than the earliest
ones. We could say that the earliest ones depend on the Dellschau biography more than the late ones.
The late ones are summations, recollections hazed by the vagaries of time. Seen without the earlier
ones they are vast treasures, made even more so by their weathered demeanors, faded colors, rough
collages. This work became more expressionist over time as he rushed not to complete it but to empha-
size his legacy with an almost serial desire. A word repeated over and over becomes a mantra, to quote
Dr. Robert Farris Thompson, a fetish in its singular obsession. I would daresay the function was to make
an old man believe in himself as much as to make the world believe. At some point the dividing line of
veracity and mythomania breaks down, and it no longer matters to the artist whether he is believed. In
this case perhaps only the artist could answer that now.
In the world of great music performance two types interest us. Let me call up Jimi Hendrix playing
“Machine Gun,” or John Coltrane playing A Love Supreme, both genre-breaking, almost uncategoriz-
able pieces of music. Neither depended on technique, though technique was there in great strength.
We could include Miles Davis here as well, as there was a point in all three of the artists’ careers when
technique transmuted into something else. No longer were they just playing music; they had stepped
through the membrane into a new kind of art/life differentiation that had never been seen here before in
music. Was it new? Not necessarily. Perhaps it was really ancient. When Hendrix played “Machine Gun”
at the Fillmore East we were shocked because he was living it rather than merely performing it. We were
held in thrall because the music was suddenly dangerous, and we did not know what would happen to
either the musician or to us in the audience by the end of the concert. The musicians were serial in the
moment. Pieces made by all three of those artists could last more than an hour. Coltrane would play till
his breathing changed, till his heartbeat synched with a spiritual sense of completion. But Dellschau, in
a funny way, comes closer to Miles Davis in his late work. Davis no longer cared about intricate chord
changes and running down long cool bop lines. He threw out everything extraneous as he got older, and
he let fewer notes imply many others. He expressed rather than calculatedly delineated.
Much of the work of self-taught artists is like that music described above. It pertains to the ancient
because there is little or no differentiation made between art and life. It serves a function. It is ephemer-
ally utilitarian, not made for the white cube of the art world but made to fulfill the intricate intentionali-
ties of its makers in much the same way an nkisi is made in the Kongo tradition or a divination pouch
is filled with objects in Angola or a complicated painting is made on the ground with colored sands by
a Navajo healer. Are there aesthetics involved? Of course there are. But its identity as art spills way
outside the lines of our narrow Western conceptions of what art is. We freely admit that art brut is not
about art made for the sake of the art world or as part of high art culture, but we then drop the ball and,
after declaring some of the so-called outsiders good enough to be on museum walls, we shamefully lose
all interest in the real reasons they made the work in the first place. Dellschau had a reason for making
his work. That it became art in the process of his inventing it is something that is really only of interest
to us. This is almost a universality in the field of art brut and self-taught artists.
Charles A. A. Dellschau built his last drawings as pure experience. They were made in obscurity and
found by accident. As he went on he gave in to his own impulses and abstracted his own visions. There
is nothing we know about the work of Charles Dellschau that leads us to believe he was fabricating the
machines and thus making the drawings as conscious works of fiction. We may come to that conclusion
on our own, or time may prove it eventually, but it is not there in the drawings. We have three choices,
really; to believe he knew what he was doing in creating this history, or to believe he was merely a vessel
receiving commands from his muses, or to believe that he was faithfully documenting a very secret event
in the underground history of world aeronautics. It is a credit to the artist, then, and to his presenta-
tion of the work, that they come to us—like James Castle’s bundles and books, like Darger’s books—as
power objects, as books bound and drawn in the very mysterious skin of time itself. What these draw-
ings actually are will never really be changed by finding out why and how they were made, because what
they very much succeed in doing already is capturing our need and desire to believe in magic.

Selected Works
Plate 4575 Broad Cutt Up, March 17, 1920, 17 × 171
⁄2 in.,
American Folk Art Museum, New York, Blanchard-Hill Collection, gift of M. Anne Hill and Edward V. Blanchard Jr., 1998.10.16a

88 8988
Illustrated memoirs: Erinnerungen (Recollections),
1900 (left); and Recolections second part, 1899–1900
(right)
Private collection
Book 8 (Plates 4301–4490), 1919
Books of drawings, clockwise from top: Book 7
(Plates 3601–3685), 1916; Book 11 (Plates 4741–
4785), 1920–1921; Book 1 (Plates 1601–1899), 1908–
1909; and Book 5 (Plates 2405–2511), 1911–1912
The Menil Collection, Houston Book 9 (Plates 4491–4737), 1919–1920

90 91Book 10 (Plates 4610–4811), 1920–1921, closed and open
Book 12 (Plates 4527–5235), 1921
abcd collection, Paris

93
Recolections, cover page, 1898–1900, 91
/4 × 71
/2 in.
Private collection

94 95
Recolections, Lather Propospitions W.H. Browns Sucker Kicker
Principles, 1898–1900, 71
⁄2 × 91
⁄4 in.
Private collection
Recolections, Lather Proposition W.H. Brown Sucker Kicker,
1898–1900, 71
⁄2 × 91
⁄4 in.
Private collection

96 97
Recolections, “Goose,” 1898–1900, 71
⁄2 × 91
⁄4 in.
Private collection
Recolections, Now Mike you call heir Eagle, 1898–1900,
71
⁄2 × 91
⁄4 in.
Private collection
Recolections, Aftermath, Thoughts on WH Browns Sucker
Kicker layd down in Lines, 1898–1900, 71
⁄2 × 91
⁄4 in.
Private collection

98 99
Recolections, Aftermath, Joe Cheneys Saturnus, 1898–1900,
71
⁄2 × 91
⁄4 in.
Private collection
Recolections, Dr Mickael Gorees “Multyplus,” 1898–1900,
71
⁄2 × 91
⁄4 in.
Private collection

100 101
Recolections, Aftermath, Joe Cheneys Endless Liftpower
Generator and WH Browns Sucker Kicker combined, 1898–1900,
71
⁄2 × 91
⁄4 in.
Private collection
Recolections, Aftermath, Geo Newells Idea Propper, 1898–1900,
71
⁄2 × 91
⁄4 in.
Private collection

102 103
Recolections, Aftermath, Geo Newells Idea propper, 1898–1900,
91
⁄4 × 71
⁄2 in.
Private collection
Recolections, Professor Karl Nitschkes Airostant “Rideme,”
1898–1900, 91
⁄4 × 71
⁄2 in.
Private collection

104 105
Recolections, ‘Move able,’ 1898–1900, 91
⁄4 × 71
⁄2 in.
Private collection
Recolections, Mr Jonas Rockstraws Airostant “Move
able,” 1898–1900, 91
⁄4 × 71
⁄2 in.
Private collection
Recolections, Ch. Diftdell and Ch. A v Roemeling Airostant
“Habicht,” 1898–1900, 71
⁄2 × 91
⁄4 in.
Private collection

106 107
Recolections, Ch. A. von Roemelings Rise and Fall, 1898–1900,
71
⁄2 × 91
⁄4 in.
Private collection
Recolections, Madame Glantz and Christian Axel von Roemeling
courtship scene, 1898–1900, 71
⁄2 × 91
⁄4 in.
Private collection

108 109
Recolections, Freunds Masterpiece Strong comfortable and Cool
whit usefull Atachments, 1898–1900, 71
⁄2 × 91
⁄4 in.
Private collection
Recolections, O. Harras End by Mrs Seelich, 1898–1900,
71
⁄2 × 91
⁄4 in.
Private collection

110 111
Recolections second part, title page, 1899, 11 × 8 in.
Private collection
Recolections second part, Geo Newell WH Brown Combination
Airostant “Stickfast,” 1899–1900, 11 × 16 in.
Private collection

112 113
Recolections second part, Trible Lift Spere to Geo Newells
Airsostant Stickfast/Partere Britch and Weather and Worklodge
“Stickfast,” 1899–1900, 8 × 11 in.
Private collection
Recolections second part, Eduard Hermsdorfs
Airostant Doobely as arainged stricktly by himself,
1899–1900, 8 × 11 in.
Private collection
Recolections second part, Browny Doobely, 1900,
8 × 11 in.
Private collection

114 115
Recolections second part, Eduard Hermsdorfs Doobely,
1899–1900, 11 × 16 in.
Private collection
Recolections second part, Otto Krause Idea, 1900, 8 × 11 in.
Private collection

116 117
Recolections second part, Prof Carolus on Otto Krause,
1899–1900, 8 × 11 in.
Private collection
Recolections second part, Otto Krause & Carl Nitschke
combination Weather Lodge Type, 1899–1900, 11 × 8 in.
Private collection

118 119
Recolections second part, Heinrich Baumans “Dove,” 1899–1900,
8 × 11 in.
Private collection
Recolections second part, Heinrich Baumann Dove, 1899–1900,
11 × 16 in.
Private collection

120 121
Recolections second part, Geo Newells Satyre “The Rescue of
the Moonskooter as given before The Sonora Airostat Club Vait
a leetle i come and get you Fatty” and The Moonskooter Rescue,
1899–1900, 16 × 11 in.
Private collection
Recolections second part, Peters Awackin to Life in Reality
and Geo Newells Yarn, 1899–1900, 16 × 11 in.
Private collection

122 123
Recolections second part, Illustration to Peter Mennis Revenge,
1899–1900, 8 × 11 in.
Private collection
Recolections second part, P Mennis Revenge, 1899–1900,
11 × 8 in.
Private collection

124 125
Recolections second part, George Newells “We goe it allone,”
1899–1900, 8 × 11 in.
Private collection
Recolections second part, Peter Mennis Foundation,
1899–1900, 8 × 11 in.
Private collection

126 127
Erinnerungen (Recollections), title page, 1900, 71
⁄2 × 91
⁄2 in.
Private collection
Erinnerungen (Recollections), Madame Glantz and Christian Axel
von Roemeling courtship scene, 1900, 71
⁄2 × 91
⁄2 in.
Private collection

128 129
Erinnerungen (Recollections), von Roemeling marital bed prank
scenes, 1900, 71
⁄2 × 91
⁄2 in.
Private collection
Erinnerungen (Recollections), Franz Mergel, 1900,
91
⁄2 × 71
⁄2 in.
Private collection
Erinnerungen (Recollections), Gans, 1900,
91
⁄2 × 71
⁄2 in.
Private collection

130 131
Erinnerungen (Recollections), Peter Mennis/Dr Michael Gorree,
1900, 71
⁄2 × 91
⁄2 in.
Private collection
Erinnerungen (Recollections), Dr Mickael Gorees
Multiplus, 1900, 71
⁄2 × 91
⁄2 in.
Private collection
Erinnerungen (Recollections), folded insert, George Gorres
Multyplus, 1900, 101
⁄2 × 121
⁄2 in., flaps closed showing exterior
Private collection

132 133
Erinnerungen (Recollections), folded insert, George Gorres Multyplus, 1900,
101
⁄2 × 121
⁄2 in., flaps folded revealing interior
Private collection
Erinnerungen (Recollections), folded insert, George Gorres
Multyplus, 1900, 101
⁄2 × 121
⁄2 in., top flap down revealing pilot
Private collection

134 135
Erinnerungen (Recollections), Michael Gorees Multiplus, 1900,
71
⁄2 × 91
⁄2 in.
Private collection
Erinnerungen (Recollections), Maybugg, 1900, 91
⁄2 × 71
⁄2 in.
Private collection

136 137
Erinnerungen (Recollections), Dr Michael Gorrees
Maikaefer, 1900, 71
⁄2 × 91
⁄2 in.
Private collection
Erinnerungen (Recollections), August Schoetlers
Trebla, 1900, 71
⁄2 × 91
⁄2 in.
Private collection
Erinnerungen (Recollections), August Schoetlers Trebla B,
1900, 71
⁄2 × 91
⁄2 in.
Private collection

138 139
Erinnerungen (Recollections), Aug Schoetlers Auguar, 1900,
91
⁄2 × 71
⁄2 in.
Private collection
Erinnerungen (Recollections), “Habicht,” 1900, 91
⁄2 × 71
⁄2 in.
Private collection
Erinnerungen (Recollections), Jonathan Rockstroh
Mooveabel, 1900, 91
⁄2 × 71
⁄2 in.
Private collection

140 141
Erinnerungen (Recollections), George Newell, 1900, 71
⁄2 × 91
⁄2 in.
Private collection
Erinnerungen (Recollections), H. Baumanns Taube, 1900,
71
⁄2 × 91
⁄2 in.
Private collection

142 143
Erinnerungen (Recollections), Ed. Hermsdorph, 1900,
71
⁄2 × 91
⁄2 in.
Private collection
Erinnerungen (Recollections), Eduard Hermsdorph, 1900,
71
⁄2 × 91
⁄2 in.
Private collection

144 145
Erinnerungen (Recollections), Eduard Hermsdorph, 1900,
71
⁄2 × 91
⁄2 in.
Private collection
Erinnerungen (Recollections), Otto Krause, 1900, 71
⁄2 × 91
⁄2 in.
Private collection

146 147
Erinnerungen (Recollections), Otto Krause, 1900, 71
⁄2 × 91
⁄2 in.
Private collection
Erinnerungen (Recollections), Joe Cheneys Saturnus, 1900,
71
⁄2 × 91
⁄2 in.
Private collection

148 149
Erinnerungen (Recollections), Jonathan Rockstroh, 1900,
71
⁄2 × 91
⁄2 in.
Private collection
Erinnerungen (Recollections), Illus 51, 1900,
71
⁄2 × 91
⁄2 in.
Private collection
Erinnerungen (Recollections), Jonatan Rockstrohs
Moveable, 1900, 71
⁄2 × 91
⁄2 in.
Private collection

150 151
Erinnerungen (Recollections), Michael Gorres Multiplus
Brownyfied, 1900, 8 × 111
⁄2 in.
Private collection
Erinnerungen (Recollections), WH Browns Sucker Kicker, 1900,
73
⁄4 × 101
⁄4 in.
Private collection

152 153
Erinnerungen (Recollections), 1900, 73
⁄4 × 101
⁄4 in.
Private collection
Erinnerungen (Recollections), “Airostat Gondleur”
Honore Laurence splined to WH Brown, 1900,
73
⁄4 × 101
⁄4 in.
Private collection
Erinnerungen (Recollections), Doobeline Parrot
Castle, 1900, 73
⁄4 × 101
⁄4 in.
Private collection
Erinnerungen (Recollections), Honore Laurence
WH Browne Combination Airostat Gondleur, 1900,
73
⁄4 × 101
⁄4 in.
Private collection

154 155
Erinnerungen (Recollections), New Trebla, 1900, 101
⁄4 × 73
⁄4 in.
Private collection
Erinnerungen (Recollections), New Trebla Modern Automobile
Peter Mennis Honore Laurence Combination, 1900, 101
⁄4 × 73
⁄4 in.
Private collection

156 157
Erinnerungen (Recollections), Airostat Combina Reflection, 1900,
101
⁄4 × 73
⁄4 in.
Private collection
Erinnerungen (Recollections), No 3 Nit Nit Nitt, 1900,
101
⁄4 × 73
⁄4 in.
Private collection

158 159
Erinnerungen (Recollections), Rescue of the Moonskooter scene,
1900, 73
⁄4 × 93
⁄4 in.
Private collection
1900, 73
⁄4 × 93
⁄4 in.
Private collection

160 161
Erinnerungen (Recollections), George Newell’s Yarn scene, 1900,
73
⁄4 × 93
⁄4 in.
Private collection
1900, 93
⁄4 × 73
⁄4 in.
Private collection

162 163
Erinnerungen (Recollections), Peter Mennis’s Revenge scene,
1900, 73
⁄4 × 93
⁄4 in.
Private collection
Erinnerungen (Recollections), Peter Mennis’s Revenge scene,
1900, 73
⁄4 × 93
⁄4 in.
Private collection

164 165
Erinnerungen (Recollections), Haupt Thema, 1900, 101
⁄4 × 73
⁄4 in.
Private collection
Plate 1607 Peter Mennis Goose Aero Humbug, January 3, 1908,
111
⁄2 × 153
⁄4 in.
The Menil Collection, Houston

166 167
Plate 1621 Hidden Wings, February 23, 1908, 15 × 19 in.
Plate 1631 Peter Mennis Ende, March 9, 1908, 151
⁄2 × 19 in.

168 169
Plate 1632 Goosey, March 11, 1908, 151
⁄2 × 19 in.
Plate 1635 Axel, March 16, 1908, 15 × 181
⁄2 in.
Plate 1637 Axel Decklay, March 19, 1908, 15 × 181
⁄2 in.

170 171
Plate 1767 Aero Dora Cloudstepp, September 22, 1908,
15 × 19 in.
Plate 1855 Peter Menis Gouse, February 11, 1909, 15 × 19 in.
Plate 1856 Louis Caro Jeht Nich, February 13, 1909, 16 × 19 in.

172 173
Plate 1902 Aero Honeymoon Flanck, April 11, 1909,
141
⁄2 × 181
⁄4 in.
Plate 1903 Aero Honeymoon Front or Rear, April 12, 1909,
141
⁄2 × 181
⁄4 in.

174 175
Plate 1907 Aero Honeymoon Compair, April 20, 1909,
19 × 163
⁄8 in.
Plate 1911 War Aero B Long Cut, May 3, 1909, 16 × 271
⁄8 in.

176 177
Plate 1917 Aero Honeymoon Aviatora, May 7, 1909, 161
⁄2 × 191
⁄8 in.
Plate 1952 Aero Axel Compair, July 6, 1909, 131
⁄4 × 19 in.
Collection of Michael Burke, New York

178 179
Plate 1953 Aiar Pressure Motor, July 10, 1909, 131
⁄4 × 19 in.
Plate 1969 Aero Condor Flanck, August 4, 1909, 16 × 191
⁄2 in.
Collection of Stephanie Smither, Texas

180 181
Plate 1972 Aero Condor Long Cross Cut, August 17, 1909,
163
⁄4 × 191
⁄8 in.
Plate 1977 Aero Condor from Below from Above, August 22, 1909,
163
⁄4 × 191
⁄8 in.

182 183
Plate 1984 Jourdan Condor from Below from Above, September 6, 1909,
165
⁄8 × 19 in.
Plate 1985 Aero Condor Deck, September 8, 1909, 165
⁄8 × 19 in.

184 185
Plate 1993 Doobeleen Peter Front or Rear,
September 19, 1909, 171
⁄2 × 19 in.
Collection of John and Susan Jerit
Plate 1992 Doobeleen Peter Long Center Cut,
September 16, 1909, 171
⁄2 × 19 in.
Collection of John and Susan Jerit
Plate 2004 Somers Rondo Front or Rear, October 10, 1909, 17 × 20 in.
Collection of George Morton and Karol Howard, Texas

186 187
Plate 2005 Somers Rondo Flank, October 12, 1909, 17 × 20 in.
Plate 2009 Rondo Compair, October 21, 1909, 161
⁄2 × 183
⁄8 in.

188 189
Plate 2017 Long Stay Rondo Home Rondos on Land on Wather
and in the Clouds, November 4, 1909, 161
⁄2 × 19 in.
Plate 2031 Aero Jourdan, December 6, 1909, 161
⁄2 × 19 in.

190 191
Plate 2028 Aero Jourdan, November 28, 1909, 161
⁄2 × 27 in.
Plate 2054 Aero Huray Front, January 19, 1910,
17 × 20 in.
Plate 2055 Jacks Aero Hunter Long Cross Cut,
January 20, 1910, 17 × 20 in.

192 193
Plate 2064 Aero Hunter from Above, February 3, 1910, 161
⁄2 × 19 in.
Plate 2068 Mio from Above from Below, February 7, 1910, 155
⁄8 × 19 in.

194 195
Plate 2075 Long Distance Aero Mio Flank Down,
February 17, 1910, 161
⁄4 × 19 in.
Plate 2200 Goosey comming down Goosey at Rest,
March 27, 1910, 165
⁄8 × 19 in.

196 197
Plate 2302 Long Center Cutt, March 23, 1911, 17 × 191
⁄2 in.
Collection of Stephanie Smither, Texas
Plate 2317 Aero Jake, March 22, 1911, 171
⁄2 × 19 in.
Collection of Joan and Michael Salke
Plate 2316 Aero Goeit and Goosey Compair, April 20, 1911,
171
⁄2 × 19 in.
Collection of Joan and Michael Salke

198 199
Plate 2332 Rudder Compair Up Down, May 12, 1911, 19 × 131
⁄4 in.
Collection of J. Kevin O’Rourke, Maryland
Plate 2333 Long Cross Cut on Wather on Land and up to the
Clouds, May 15, 1911, 131
⁄4 × 19 in.

200 201
Plate 2360 Broad Cut, June 20, 1911, 183
⁄4 × 161
⁄2 in.
Collection of Dr. Siri Von Reis, New York
Plate 2366 Compair, July 1, 1911, 161
⁄2 × 183
⁄4 in.

202 203
Plate 2364 Deck, June 26, 1911, 161
⁄2 × 183
⁄4 in.
Plate 2365 From Below, June 28, 1911, 161
⁄2 × 183
⁄4 in.

204 205
Plate 2378 Inside Outside, July 17, 1911, 161
⁄2 × 183
⁄4 in.
Collection of Cecily Horton, Texas
Plate 2380 Deck, July 20, 1911, 161
⁄2 × 281
⁄2 in.

206 207
Plate 2392 Aero Warior Flanck, August 11, 1911,
151
⁄2 × 183
⁄4 in.
Plate 2393 Aero Warior Front Rear,
August 14, 1911, 151
⁄2 × 183
⁄4 in.
Plate 2450 Areo Doobey Broad Cutt, November 11, 1911,
191
⁄8 × 161
⁄2 in.

208 209
Plate 2519 Babymyn Above from Below, March 15, 1912, 163
⁄4 × 19 in.
Plate 2549 Max Misers Aero Buster Front or Rear, April 25, 1912, 17 × 191
⁄8 in.

210 211
Plate 2552 Buster from Below, May 1, 1912, 165
⁄8 × 191
⁄4 in.
Plate 2559 Aero Soso Flanck Doc Tacken a Ride, May 11, 1912, 177
⁄8 × 191
⁄4 in.

212 213
Plate 2566 Soso Compair, May 22, 1912, 123
⁄8 × 181
⁄8 in.
Plate 2573 Long Anna Long Cross Cutt, June 10, 1912, 13 × 191
⁄8 in.

214 215
Plate 2586 August Schoetler Eduard Hartung, June 20, 1912,
19 1
⁄8 × 157
⁄8 × in.
Plate 2599 Sicher, July 15, 1912, 157
⁄8 × 191
⁄8 in.

216 217
Plate 2616 Aero Nix, August 9, 1912, 201
⁄8 × 161
⁄4 in.
Plate 2627 Guarda, August 21, 1912, 16 × 191
⁄2 in.

218 219
Plate 2630 Robert Nixon Compair, August 25, 1912, 161
⁄2 × 183
⁄4 in.
Plate 2647 Dora Compair Front Rear, September 19, 1912, 163
⁄4 × 19 in.

220 221
Plate 3238 Outside of Aero Mina War, December 30, 1914,
16 × 191
⁄4 in.
Plate 3214 War Hell, November 19, 1914,
141
⁄2 × 181
⁄2 in.
Plate 3240 Mina from Below War, January 4, 1915,
163
⁄8 × 19 in.

222 223
Plate 3256 War Press Blooms, January 26, 1915, 191
⁄4 × 141
⁄2 in.
Plate 3339 War Press Blooms, April 28, 1915, 191
⁄8 × 163
⁄4 in.

224 225
Plate 3352 War Press Blooms (Eight Members of
the New British War Cabinet), May 27, 1915,
163
⁄4 × 193
⁄16 in.
Plate 3612 Men at Deck, September 6, 1916,
161
⁄4 × 181
⁄4 in.
Plate 3602 Aero Gander from Below, August 25, 1916,
16 × 183
⁄4 in.
Plate 3603 Aero Miooo Flanck Press Blooms, April 26, 1916,
16 × 26 in.

226 227
Plate 3635 Gus Baumans Aero Norma from Below from Above,
June 2, 1916, 161
⁄4 × 18 in.
Plate 3634 What Would Become of Norma, June 2, 1916, 163
⁄4 × 18 in.

228 229
Plate 3638 Baumanss Norma Central Inside, June 8, 1916,
183
⁄4 × 17 in.
Plate 3640 Goosey Up Flanck Front on Land on Wather, June 9, 1916, 151
⁄2 × 183
⁄4 in.

230 231
Plate 3641 War Press Blooms, June 11, 1916, 161
⁄4 × 18 in.
Plate 4301 Cutting 2 Aero EEE, February 6, 1919, 17 × 161
⁄2 in.

232 233
Plate 4302 War Trial Aero, February 1, 1919,
17 × 161
⁄2 in.
Plate 4304 Maybe, n.d. (February 1919),
17 × 161
⁄2 in.
Plate 4315 Aeroy, February 26, 1919, 161
⁄2 × 15 in.
Plate 4322 Bosh Nonsense, March 4, 1919, 17 × 161
⁄2 in.

234 235
Plate 4317 Press Blooms (Washington’s Birthday is Celebrated),
February 27, 1919, 15 × 161
⁄2 in.
Plate 4318 Press Blooms (France’s Rôle in the World War),
February 28, 1919, 16 × 161
⁄2 in.

236 237
Plate 4319 Press Blooms (Ellington Men Promised Good Treats
by “Y”), March 1, 1919, 17 × 161
⁄2 in.
Plate 4329 Long Tour Aero Cod, March 12, 1919,
17 × 161
⁄4 in.
Plate 4327 Codrige Cod, March 10, 1919,
17 × 161
⁄4 in.
Collection of Tom Duncan, New York

238 239
Plate 4330 Cod Ridge Bosh May Beee Will Beee, March 13, 1919,
17 × 161
⁄2 in.
Plate 4332 Has Bin, March 17, 1919, 17 × 161
⁄2 in.

240 241
Plate 4334 Cod Codridges Fallease, March 20, 1919, 17 × 161
⁄2 in.
Plate 4335 Self Lob Absurd, March 21, 1919, 17 × 161
⁄2 in.
Plate 4339 Vicory A, March 26, 1919, 17 × 161
⁄2 in.

242 243
Plate 4340 Goeit Maybe Monee, March 27, 1919,
17 × 161
⁄2 in.
Plate 4341 Jenai Pa, March 28, 1919,
161
⁄2 × 161
⁄2 in.
Plate 4342 Aero Nix Flanck Callifornia, n.d. (March 1919), 161
⁄2 × 161
⁄2 in.

244 245
Plate 4344 Below Risen Above Falling, April 1, 1919, 161
⁄2 × 161
⁄2 in.
Plate 4345(a) Press Blooms (More Training Curtis Planes at
Ellington), April 2, 1919, 17 × 16 in.

246 247
Plate 4345(b) Aero Nix Down Front or Rear, April 3, 1919, 16 × 17 in.
Plate 4347 Nix Down, April 7, 1919, 16 × 16 in.

248 249
Plate 4358 Aero Mir Long Trip, April 22, 1919, 161
⁄2 × 161
⁄2 in.
Plate 4373 Will Serve Maybe Hadleef, n.d. (May 1919), 161
⁄2 × 161
⁄2 in.
Collection of Larry Dumont, Pennsylvania

250 251
Plate 4374 Press Blooms (Government To Buy 500 Planes of
Seven Types), May 13, 1919, 161
⁄2 × 161
⁄2 in.
Collection of Larry Dumont, Pennsylvania
Plate 4376 Press Blooms (Navy Balloon Ends Day and Night
Trip), n.d. (May 1919), 17 × 161
⁄2 in.

252 253
Plate 4393 Nixson Down Fallen, June 9, 1919, 161
⁄2 × 161
⁄2 in.
Plate 4410 June 30, 1919, 161
⁄2 × 161
⁄2 in.

254 255
Plate 4426 Press Blooms (The Spark of Life), July 18, 1919,
16 1
⁄2 × 161
⁄2 in.
Plate 4441 Press Blooms (Attacking Forest Fires with Gas
Bombs), August 6, 1919, 161
⁄2 × 161
⁄2 in.

256 257
Plate 4437 Airo Nix, July 31, 1919, 161
⁄2 × 161
⁄2 in.
Plate 4438 Nix Nixson 63 Years Ago, August 6, 1919,
161
⁄2 × 161
⁄2 in.
Collection of Phil Allocco
Plate 4427 Mira, n.d. (July 1919), 161
⁄2 × 161
⁄2 in.

258 259
Plate 4459 Gander Boddy Alive Shutoff, August 29, 1919,
161
⁄2 × 16 in.
Plate 4463 Press Blooms (Delivering Mail to Steamer After It
Has Sailed), August 30, 1919, 14 × 16 in.

260 261
Plate 4474 September 17, 1919, 17 × 161
⁄2 in.
Collection of Stephen Romano, New York
Plate 4487 Myos Deck, October 7, 1919, 161
⁄2 × 161
⁄2 in.
Plate 4488 Central Broad Aero Myo, October 11, 1919,
161
⁄2 × 161
⁄2 in.

262 263
Plate 4489 Long Center Myo, October 12, 1919, 161
⁄2 × 161
⁄2 in.
Plate 4490 Aero Mio, October 14, 1919, 161
⁄2 × 161
⁄2 in.

264 265
Plate 4499 Aero Gander on Land Clouds and Sea,
October 29, 1919, 17 × 161
⁄2 in.
Collection of Selig and Angela Sacks, New York
Plate 4501 Aero Gander from Below,
November 1, 1919, 17 × 161
⁄2 in.
Private collection
Plate 4504 Press Blooms (Giant Airplane on “Round the Rim”
Trip), November 4, 1919, 17 × 161
⁄2 in.

266 267
Plate 4506 Goosey Air Press Motor,
November 5, 1919, 17 × 161
⁄2 in.
Collection of Flora and Adam Hanft, New York
Plate 4507 Aero Gander, November 8, 1919, 17 × 161
⁄2 in.
Collection of Flora and Adam Hanft, New York

268 269
Plate 4509 Olds, November 10, 1919, 171
⁄2 × 17 in.
Plate 4510 Aero Gander Above, November 13, 1919, 171
⁄2 × 17 in.

270 271
Plate 4511 Aero Gander Up from Below, November 11, 1919,
17 × 17 in.
Plate 4513 What May Happn Wont Pay, November 17, 1919, 17 × 17 in.

272 273
Plate 4514 Troae Sexion Bomber, November 19, 1919, 17 × 17 in.
Plate 4515 Gander Center Up, November 22, 1919, 19 × 17 in.
High Museum of Art, Atlanta, Georgia, Norfolk Southern Collection of
Self-Taught Art

274 275
Plate 4516 Slip Quarter, November 23, 1919, 19 × 17 in.
High Museum of Art, Atlanta, Georgia, Norfolk Southern Collection of
Self-Taught Art
Plate 4520 Maybe, December 3, 1919, 17 × 17 in.

276 277
Plate 4523 Self Acting Fall Ease, December 8, 1919, 17 × 17 in.
Plate 4524 Press Blooms (A Seventy-Mile Hydrodrome),
December 12, 1919, 161
⁄2 × 31 in. (open)
Plate 4527 Gander Up, December 12, 1919,
161
⁄2 × 31 in. (verso flap open)

278 279
Plate 4528 Danedr Landin Body Front or Rear,
December 13, 1919, 17 × 161
⁄2 in.
Collection of Thomas Isenberg, New York
Plate 4529 Below Above, December 15, 1919, 16 × 17 in.

280 281
Plate 4533 Rondo Flanck, December 23, 1919, 17 × 17 in.
Collection of Carole Kraus, New York
Plate 4534 Webers Rex Club Worck Dooble Deck, December 24, 1919, 17 × 17 in.

282 283
Plate 4547 Aro Homer Eurika, January 10, 1920,
16 × 17 in.
Plate 4549 Homer Flank Outside, January 14, 1920,
155
⁄8 × 167
⁄8 in.
Private collection
Plate 4552 Motor Center on Wather Land and Clouds, January 23, 1920, 17 × 17 in.

284 285
Plate 4553 Centers Deck, January 31, 1920, 17 × 17 in.
Plate 4557 Centras Iner Center, n.d. (February 1920), 151
⁄4 × 20 in.

286 287
Plate 4559 Centra Caibn, February 19, 1920, 17 × 16 in.
Plate 4560 Centra Below, January 30, 1920, 171
⁄2 × 161
⁄2 in.
Private collection

288 289
Plate 4562 Grand Nonsense Press Cutts, February 7, 1920,
183
⁄4 × 15 in.
Collection of Francois Meyer, Switzerland
Plate 4563 Aro Centra Left Flanck, February 9, 1920, 183
⁄4 × 15 in.

290 291
Plate 4567 Short Centralia Outside Flanck, March 4, 1920, 18 × 17 in.
Plate 4568 Hope, March 7, 1920, 18 × 17 in.

292 293
Plate 4569 Old Iron Maybs Has Binn Greath Mechans, n.d.
(March 1920), 17 × 161
⁄2 in.
Collection of Scott and Susan Glazer, Chicago
Plate 4570 Burnt Mike Mik Goré, March 10, 1920, 17 × 161
⁄2 in.
Collection of Scott and Susan Glazer, Chicago

294 295
Plate 4577 Press Blooms (Men Who Did),
March 20, 1920, 17 × 161
⁄2 in.
Plate 4578 Air Press Motor Lought At Soon Needed,
n.d. (March 1920), 17 × 161
⁄2 in.
Plate 4586 Aero Trump, March 29, 1920, 191
⁄2 × 161
⁄2 in.
Collection of Audrey Heckler, New York

296 297
Plate 4566 Motor Stearen, March 1, 1920,
17 × 17 in.
Collection of Jay and Victoria Wehnert, Houston
Plate 4589 Aero Trump Below, April 9, 1920,
181
⁄2 × 161
⁄2 in.
Plate 4599 Trump Flanck, April 24, 1920, 16 × 26 in.

298 299
Plate 4602 No Fier Homer Lower Part Dream and Real,
April 27, 1920, 17 × 161
⁄2 in.
Private collection
Plate 4603 Doobely, April 28, 1920, 171
⁄2 × 16 in.
Private collection
Plate 4604 Seria 4, May 1, 1920, 171
⁄2 × 16 in.
Private collection

300 301
Plate 4610 On Land Sea and Clouds, May 9, 1920, 171
⁄2 × 16 in.
Collection of Michael J. Levinthal, Utah
Plate 4614 Aero Gander Central Motors Michael Goré, May 15, 1920, 171
⁄2 × 16 in.

302 303
Plate 4615 Gander Flanck Central Motors, n.d. (May 1920),
171
⁄2 × 16 in.
Plate 4616 Flyers on Paper, May 18, 1920, 171
⁄2 × 16 in.

304 305
Plate 4619 Homer Flanck Sonora Callifornia
Cross the Plans, May 24, 1920, 171
⁄2 × 16 in.
Plate 4623 Long Inside, June 3, 1920, 18 × 161
⁄2 in.
Private collection
Plate 4630 Cos Danger and Expeses Weigth Goods, June 13, 1920, 17 × 161
⁄2 in.
Private collection

306 307
Plate 4643 Weater Proof Nix Self, July 3, 1920, 17 × 161
⁄2 in.
Plate 4651 Airo Swallo Fall Easey Top Short, July 15, 1920, 171
⁄2 × 17 in.

308 309
Plate 4652 Press Blooms (Navy Sale of Seaplanes),
July 16, 1920, 171
⁄2 × 17 in.
Plate 4653 Aero Mose, July 18, 1920, 171
⁄2 × 17 in.
Collection of Lael and Eugenie Johnson, Chicago

310 311
Plate 4677 Has Ben Will Be, August 20, 1920, 19 × 171
⁄2 in.
(flap closed and open)
Plate 4670 Below Fall, August 10, 1920, 19 × 151
⁄4 in.

312 313
Plate 4671 LWF Ol Rye, August 12, 1920, 18 × 151
⁄4 in.
Plate 4693 Club Differ, September 13, 1920, 18 × 161
⁄2 in.

314 315
Plate 4694 Goosay, September 14, 1920, 18 × 161
⁄2 in.
Plate 4685 Mina Front Rear, September 9, 1920, 18 × 161
⁄2 in.
Collection of Stuart and René Zweibel, New York

316 317
Plate 4695 Press Blooms (Flies Across Channel), September 17, 1920,
17 × 17 in.
Plate 4696 Airo Mina Flanck, September 19, 1920, 17 × 17 in.

318 319
Plate 4697 Press Blooms (First Photos Wall-St
Explosion), September 6, 1920, 17 × 17 in.
Plate 4699 Enter, September 22, 1920, 17 × 17 in.
Plate 4714 Wind 1845 Muehl Berg, October 18, 1920, 17 × 17 in.

320 321
Plate 4720 London Flanck How She Do Today,
October 29, 1920, 17 × 17 in.
Plate 4729 Clubworck If i had the M,
November 13, 1920, 18 × 17 in.
Plate 4734 Below, November 23, 1920, 15 × 17 in.
Collection of Cheryl Rivers and Steven Simons, Brooklyn

322 323
Plate 4753 Snaobel, December 15, 1920, 12 × 161
⁄2 in.
Plate 4795 Fall Acten, January 30, 1921, 12 × 161
⁄2 in.

324 325
Plate 4805 Homer, February 10, 1921, 14 × 161
⁄2 in.
Plate 4807 February 12, 1921, 12 × 17 in.
Plate 5062 Ferdinant Meier, May 27, 1921, 17 × 12 in.

326 327
Plate 5019 Press Blooms (Aviator Woos Maid By Airplane),
April 11, 1921, 17 × 12 in.
Plate 5118(a) July 4, 1921, 17 × 12 in.

328 329
Plate 5120 July 5, 1921, 17 × 12 in.
Plate 5123 Ease Fall, July 7, 1921, 17 × 12 in.

330
Plate 5118(b) July 9, 1921, 17 × 17 in.

332 333
James Brett, whose background includes film, media, art, design, and architecture, is the founder of
The Museum of Everything, in London—Britain’s first and only institution dedicated to the untrained,
unintentional, and undiscovered artists of the modern era.
Stephen Romano is a private art dealer in New York specializing in the field of self-taught and
visionary art.
Thomas McEvilley is an art critic, novelist, curator, editor, and professor. He lives in New York City and
in the Catskill Mountains region of upstate New York. He has held appointments at Rice University, Yale
University, the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, the School of Visual Arts, and elsewhere. He holds
a Ph.D. in classical philology and has taught numerous courses in philosophy, art history, the Greek
and Latin languages, Greek and Indian culture and philosophy, history of religions, and film studies.
Dozens of his monographs have appeared in a variety of journals, and a major work of interdisciplinary
scholarship, The Shape of Ancient Thought: Comparative Studies in Greek and Indian Philosophies, was
published in 2001. For his writings as an art critic he has received a Fulbright grant, a National Endow-
ment for the Arts grant, and the Frank Jewett Mather Award for Distinction in Art Criticism, given by the
College Art Association. Major works in art criticism include The Triumph of Anti-Art: Conceptual and
Performance Art in the Formation of Post-Modernism (2012), Art, Love, Friendship: Marina Abramovic
and Ulay, Together & Apart (2010), Yves the Provocateur: Yves Klein and Twentieth-Century Art (2010),
Sculpture in the Age of Doubt (2001), The Exile’s Return: Toward a Redefinition of Painting for the Post-
Modern Era (1994), Fusion: West African Artists at the Venice Biennale (1993), as well as essays on
Anselm Kiefer, Paul McCarthy, and Dennis Oppenheim.
Tracy Baker-White worked for twenty years as a curator of education and an arts administrator at the
San Antonio Museum of Art, the Southwest School of Art and Craft, in San Antonio, and the Corcoran
College of Art and Design, in Washington, DC. In 1999, while at the San Antonio Museum of Art, she
served as project director for a grant from the National Endowment for the Humanities to study the
works of Charles A. A. Dellschau. Her research resulted in the exhibition “Flight or Fancy: The Secret Life
of Charles A. A. Dellschau,” which traveled to the Mennello Museum of American Art, in Orlando, Florida.
She published an article of the same name in Folk Art 25, no. 3 (Fall 2000).
Roger Cardinal wrote the pioneering Outsider Art in 1972, and has published widely on individual out-
sider artists, including Ilija Bosilj, Madge Gill, Ted Gordon, Karl Junker, Michel Nedjar, Guillaume Pujolle,
and Clarence Schmidt. He has also produced essays on such topics as outsider architecture, prison art,
autistic artists, and memory painting. A contributing editor of Raw Vision magazine, he has organized
exhibitions in Britain, France, Greece, Slovakia, Switzerland, and the United States.
Tom D. Crouch serves as senior curator of aeronautics at the National Air and Space Museum, in Wash-
ington, DC. A Smithsonian employee for thirty-eight years, he holds a Ph.D. in history from the Ohio
State University and is the award-winning author or editor of some twenty books—including Wings:
Contributors
A History of Aviation from Kites to the Space Age (2003), Military Ballooning During the Early Civil War
(2000, with F. Stansbury Haydon), and The Eagle Aloft: Two Centuries of the Balloon in America (1983)—
and many articles for magazines and journals.
Barbara Safarova is the president of abcd—art brut connaissance & diffusion—a Paris-based non-profit
organization working with the collection of art brut formed by the French filmmaker Bruno Decharme.
Her Ph.D. thesis has been devoted to the artistic productions of Achilles G. Rizzoli and Unica Zürn. A
professor of aesthetics, she has taught the subject of art brut since 2010 at the Collège International
de Philosophie, in Paris, exploring this concept from an interdisciplinary point of view by focusing on
its meaning in different geographical and historical contexts, collections, and its signification within
the field of modern and contemporary art. She has written a number of essays on artists whose work
has been linked to art brut—A.C.M. (Alfred Corinne Marié), Zdenek Kosek, Lubos Plny, and Unica Zürn.
Randall Morris is a writer and curator and the co-owner of Cavin-Morris Gallery, New York, which mounts
more than a dozen exhibitions each year. He taught the first in-depth classes in the United States on art
brut and self-taught artists for the education department of the American Folk Art Museum, New York,
and has organized exhibitions of the work of Jamaican intuitive artists and Justin McCarthy. He is the
author of numerous articles and catalog essays on ethnographic art, contemporary ceramics, basketry
sculpture, and non-mainstream artists from the United States, the Caribbean, Europe, Africa, Asia, Aus-
tralia, and New Guinea, including African American artists, Emery Blagdon, Martín Ramírez, and Joseph
Yoakum. He is also a contributor to the forthcoming catalog for a 2013 exhibition of the work of Jon Serl
at the Natalie & James Thompson Art Gallery at San Jose State University School of Art & Design, San
Jose, California.

334
René Pierre Allain: Book 8; Plates 1952, 1953, 2332, 2360, 2364, 2378, 2392, 2393, 2586, 4301, 4302,
4304, 4306, 4315, 4317, 4318, 4319, 4322, 4329, 4332, 4335, 4339, 4340, 4341, 4342, 4344, 4347,
4358, 4373, 4374, 4376, 4393, 4410, 4426, 4427, 4437, 4438, 4441, 4459, 4463, 4474, 4487, 4488,
4489, 4490, 4504, 4509, 4510, 4511, 4513, 4514, 4523, 4524, 4527, 4538, 4567, 4568, 4589, 4599,
4670, 4671, 4677, 4714, 4805
Charles Bechtold (courtesy Ricco/Maresca Gallery, New York): Books 9, 10; Plates 1992, 1993, 2316,
2317, 4499, 4501, 4506, 4507, 4515, 4516, 4520, 4528, 4529, 4533, 4534, 4547, 4549, 4552, 4553,
4557, 4559, 4560, 4562, 4563, 4566, 4575, 4577, 4578, 4586, 4602, 4603, 4604, 4614, 4615, 4616,
4619, 4623, 4630, 4643, 4651, 4652, 4653, 4685, 4693, 4694, 4695, 4696, 4697, 4699, 4720, 4729,
4734, 4753, 4790, 4795, 4807
William Bengston: Plates 4569, 4570
John Berens: Cover, Plate 2333
Sylvain Deleu: Plate 2630
Patrick Goetelen: Book 12; Plates 5019, 5062, 5118 (a, b), 5120, 5123
Paul Hester: Plates 1607, 1621, 1631, 1632, 1635, 1637, 1767, 1855, 1856, 3634, 3635, 3638, 3640,
3641
Hickey-Robertson: Group of four books; Plates 2450, 3602, 3603, 3612
Rick Gardner: 1969, 2302
Madelaine Johnson: Plates 4610
David Plakke: Plate 4327
P. G. Navarro: page 9
Stephen Romano: all images from Recolections, Recolections second part, and Erinnerungen (Recol-
lections)
Dimitris Skliris: Plates 2004, 2005, 2054, 2055, 2365, 2366
Peggy Tenison: Plates 2200, 2549, 2552, 2554, 2559, 2573, 2599, 2616, 2627, 2647, 3214, 3238,
3240, 3256, 3257, 3339, 3352
Todd White: Plates 4330, 4334, 4345 (a, b), 4558
The Witte Museum, San Antonio: Plates 1902, 1903, 1907, 1911, 1917, 1972, 1977, 1984, 1985, 2008,
2009, 2017, 2028, 2031, 2064, 2068, 2075, 2380, 2519, 2566
Photography Credits

Image, page 2: Plate 4306 Auto Fallease, February 13, 1919, 17 × 161/2 in., courtesy Stephen Romano,
New York
Copyright © 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval
system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Charles A.A. Dellschau, 1830–1923 / James Brett, Thomas McEvilley, Tracy Baker-White, Roger Cardinal,
Tom D. Crouch, Barbara Safarova, Randall Morris.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-935202-90-5 (alk. paper)
1. Dellschau, Charles A. A., 1830–1923—Criticism and interpretation. I. McEvilley, Thomas, 1939– Charles
A.A. Dellschau’s aporetic archive. II. Dellschau, Charles A. A., 1830–1923. Works. Selections.
N6537.D4387C49 2013
709.2—dc23 2012041462
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Charles dellschau

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