Anselm Feuerbach, Self-Portrait, 1873

Salvador Dali, Self-Portrait, 1923

Emile Munier, Little Girl and Cat, 1882

James Tissot,
Tea (1872)

Georges Seurat, A Sunday on La Grande Jatte, 1884

To suffer hardness with good cheer,

In sternest school of warfare bred,
Our youth should learn; let steed and
spear
Make him one day the Parthian's
dread;
Cold skies, keen perils, brace his life.
Methinks I see from rampired town
Horace, Odes
Some battling tyrant's matron wife,
Some maiden, look in terror down,
Ah, my dear lord, untrain'd in war!
O tempt not the infuriate mood
Of that fell lion I see! from far
He plunges through a tide of blood!
What joy, for fatherland to die!
Death's darts e'en flying feet

Jessie Pope, The Call

Philipp Veit, Germania

Whos for the trench

Are you, my laddie?
Wholl follow French
Will you, my laddie?
Whos fretting to begin,
Whos going out to win?
And who wants to save his
skin
Do you, my laddie?
Whos for the khaki suit
Are you, my laddie?
Who longs to charge and
shoot
Do you, my laddie?
Whos keen on getting fit,
Who means to show his grit,
And whod rather wait a bit
Would you, my laddie?
Wholl earn the Empires
thanks
Will you, my laddie?
Wholl swell the victors
ranks
Will you, my laddie?
When that procession
comes,
Banners and rolling drums
Wholl stand and bite his

British Recruitment
Poster, 1916

Horace, Odes
To suffer hardness with good cheer,
In sternest school of warfare bred,
Our youth should learn; let steed and
spear
Make him one day the Parthian's
dread;
Cold skies, keen perils, brace his life.
Methinks I see from rampired town
Some battling tyrant's matron wife,
Some maiden, look in terror down,
Ah, my dear lord, untrain'd in war!
O tempt not the infuriate mood
Of that fell lion I see! from far
He plunges through a tide of blood!
What joy, for fatherland to die!
Death's darts e'en flying feet

Bent double, like old beggars under

sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like
hags, we cursed through sludge, Till
on the haunting flares we turned our
backs And towards our distant rest
began to trudge. Men marched asleep.
Many had lost their boots But limped
on, blood-shod. All went lame; all
blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to
the hoots Of tired, outstripped FiveNines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!An ecstasy of
fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets
just in time; But someone still was
yelling out and stumbling And
floundring like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and
thick green light, As under a green
sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless
sight, He plunges at me, guttering,
choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too
could pace Behind the wagon that we
flung him in, And watch the white
eyes writhing in his face, His hanging
face, like a devils sick of sin; If you
could hear, at every jolt, the blood

The war was a mirror; it reflected

mans every virtue and every vice,
and if you looked closely, like an
artist at his drawings, it showed up
both with unusual clarity.

--George Grosz

Emile Munier, Little Girl and Cat, 1882

Francis Picabia,
Portrait of a Young
American Girl, 1915

rges Seurat, A Sunday on La Grande Jatte, 1884

George Grosz, Beauty Thee I Will Praise, 1919

James Tissot, Tea (1872)

Christian Schad, Count St. Genois

d'Anneaucourt - 1927

Anselm Feuerbach, Self-Portrait, 1873

Salvador Dali, Self-Portrait, 1923