Joseph Beuys with students, Kunstakademie Dusseldorf, June 22, 1967. From left: Johannes Stuttgen, Chris Reinecke, and Beuys. Photo: Ute Klophaus.

ON THE AFTERNOON OF JUNE 22, 1967, Joseph Beuys called a surprise press conference at the Düsseldorf art academy, where he announced the founding of the German Student Party (DSP). It was only twenty days after a policeman had killed student Benno Ohnesorg during a demonstration against the shah of Iran’s visit to Berlin—a pivotal moment in the political mobilization of students in West Germany and one that would culminate in the protests of 1968. Amid this turmoil, a photograph from the meeting shows Beuys and his students sitting and looking down with a deliberate air of circumspection at chalk diagrams the professor had drawn on the floor: lines and circles with the words LEGISLATIVE, JUDIKATIVE, and EXEKUTIVE written around the circumference of one of them—as if to underscore beyond any doubt that this public gesture was surrounded by contemporary crises of didactics, democracy, and the separation of powers. Indeed, it was from the sphere of education that so many models for revolutionary art and politics would spring in the 1960s. Learning led to failure, in many respects, yet this history is anything but a closed file.

Just five months after Beuys’s press conference, the signing of the new student party’s charter was documented in another photograph (both were taken by Ute Klophaus, legendary visual chronicler of Fluxus and Happenings): Beuys, Johannes Stüttgen (one of Beuys’s students at the time and a close ally), Fluxus composer Henning Christiansen, and the poet-critic-educator Bazon Brock are standing behind an improvised escritoire in Beuys’s classroom. The symbolic piece of furniture has been painted with the letters DSP, and the quartet is solemnly performing the rituals of launching a political organization. With such actions, Beuys and his DSP collaborators mimicked the photo ops and pseudo-events of mass-media politics, deploying a visual rhetoric of officialdom that lampooned the self-aggrandizing rituals of democracy. Yet these parodies also invoked the violence of Western democracy—the most famous example being the 1973 Demokratie ist lustig (Democracy Is Fun) poster, which depicted police expelling an amused Beuys from the Düsseldorf academy in 1972 and which sardonically resonated with the protest movements of the ’60s, police brutality, and the rise of leftist terrorism in West Germany during the ’70s. Throughout these years, Beuys perpetuated his own image as a laughing enemy of the police state—part of his repertoire of roles that included the radical democrat and the revolutionary, the healer and the shaman, the nomad and the gangster, the rebel and the fighter.

But perhaps the most insurgent part he played was that of the teacher. Beuys was the quintessential artist-educator of postwar European art, aiming for nothing less than revolution through edification. Launching the German Student Party in 1967 was not just a gesture directed against parliamentary politics and the state. Even more acutely, it addressed the domination of the radical political landscape by the student groups of the Extra-Parliamentary Opposition (APO) and the Socialist German Students’ Union (SDS). By refusing and ridiculing the ideological framework of existing student organizations, Beuys went beyond prevailing countercultural options. His student party renounced any alignment with a “socialist” or “Marxist” agenda, at least in name, aiming to make the realm of art education a means of political agitation. “Every man is a student, i.e., a learner,” as Beuys explained to the journalists who attended the founding of the DSP.

Beuys’s antiauthoritarianism was certainly debatable, his teaching practice often including quasi-tantric intrusions into his students’ psyches. Yet he promoted a collective process of instruction that aimed at a truly equal relationship between teachers and students, organized by what he termed an “educational party.” The DSP’s founding charter accordingly called for the “education of all people to spiritual maturity” and “new perspectives on education, teaching, research”—as well as for a weaponless world, a unified Europe, and the end to cold-war divisions of East and West.¹

The body of student Benno Ohnesorg after he was killed by German police during a demonstration against a visit by the shah of Iran, Berlin, June 2, 1967. Photo: Herr/Associated Press.

THESE AMBITIONS WERE HARDLY ISOLATED. Like-minded ventures linking education with politics and aesthetics were ubiquitous in the political culture and cultural politics of the ’60s and ’70s. The importance of the “learning process” pervaded the period of revolt and reform in West Germany: Instruction, agitation, and teaching dominated the discourse. Student leader Rudi Dutschke introduced the notion of the “counteruniversity” in 1967, arguing for self-organized knowledge that was to be disseminated beyond traditional institutions. Such an academy of the people would then have the weighty task of “shaping the consciousness” of workers.² For the New Left, this promotion of education was a doubly strategic move: It mobilized against conservatives, who since the late ’50s had argued that radical pedagogical reforms threatened the traditional educational realm of the family with an industrialized and alienating mode of “pedagogism”; but it also went hand in hand with the logic of scientific-capitalist modernization.³

In the introduction to his 1973 collection of short stories Lernprozesse mit tödlichem Ausgang (Learning Processes with a Deadly Outcome), Alexander Kluge describes the need for new didactic models in order to resist a contemporary “withdrawal of sense and meaning,”a “social situation in which the collective program of human living decays more quickly than people are able to produce new programs for living.”⁴ Such pressure to overwrite continuously one’s program for living seems even more inevitable today than in 1973. In 2008, when “lifelong learning” (a term itself introduced in the ’70s) is a stronghold of post-Fordism, the pedagogical enthusiasm of ’68 appears awkward, fatuous—yet ultimately fascinating.

Indeed, the contradiction between postwar art’s suspicion of didacticism (always on the threshold of manipulation or control) and its utopian embrace of pedagogy (as a possibility of liberation) remains unresolved. Educational debates of the ’60s and ’70s have resurfaced in the art world, often in the search for alternatives to a market-based system of production and presentation. Documenta 12 curator Roger M. Buergel, for example, recently suggested a reconsideration of education as a “viable alternative to the devil (didacticism, academia) and the deep blue sea (commodity fetishism).”⁵ But is it possible to wrest education from economic privatization, from lifelong learning? The imperative to update constantly one’s program for living implies a frictionless synchronization of subjectivity, technology, and economy. Culture simply provides aesthetic incentives for this ongoing work of self-improvement. And it must be said that the endeavors of ’68—redefining art’s role as a pivotal factor in shaping nonalienated “experience” (to use a term championed by Kluge and Oskar Negt in their 1972 tract Public Sphere and Experience: Toward an Analysis of the Bourgeois and Proletarian Public Sphere)—paved the way for the consciousness industry to appropriate art’s promises of creativity and autonomy.

This unlikely training ground took shape in the increasingly cross-disciplinary, intermedia, and transgenre activities of the ’60s (which Theodor W. Adorno in 1966 termed the “intermeshing of art forms”).⁶ What is more, the proliferation of the pedagogical and intermedial within the arts paralleled the rise of cultural capitalism—that is, a capitalism increasingly based on information technology and the productivity of knowledge and culture. Naturally, this social shift called for its own pedagogy, the scope of which ranged from the Beuysian learning environment to the new discipline of Visuelle Kommunikation (a blend of art education, ideological critique, and pop-culture studies) in the West German school system. As the media-savvy “total artist” Timm Ulrichs wrote in 1970, art could “teach a new sensibility,” “a new attitude toward the things of the everyday space of experience.”⁷

Art history has largely turned a blind eye to the impact of these theories of education on the development of the arts around 1968. Such peculiar myopia stems from the same impulse behind accusations of didacticism in Conceptual art: the fear of heteronomy. In his 1970 Aesthetic Theory, Adorno had cautioned against attempts to integrate art into the managerial and functionalist textures of late-capitalist bureaucracy, into the imperiousness of instruction: “Once art has been recognized as a social fact, the sociological definition of its context considers itself superior to it and disposes over it.”⁸ Adorno warned that for “contemporary consciousness, and especially for student activists,” the “immanent difficulties” and the “social isolation” of art have become “totalitarian.”⁹

Wolf Vostell, 24 Stunden (24 Hours), 1965, Happening, Galerie Parnass, Wuppertal, Germany.

YET THE PROGRAMMATIC and instrumental character of art—its inevitable dissolution into society—was a core assumption of the aesthetic reasoning of the New Left and not only in West Germany. The reinvention of the artist as a militant, and thus useful, participant in social struggles has, of course, been part and parcel of twentieth-century theories of art and politics. But the conception of an artistic practice integrated into the needs of the working class has always required updating, whether in reference to the Soviet LEF of the ’20s, Walter Benjamin’s “author as producer,” or the Situationist elimination of the visual arts.

The March 1970 issue of Kursbuch (Coursebook), the quasi-official journal of the West German New Left, focused on this social and political mission of art in the aftermath of 1968. Kursbuch editor Hans Magnus Enzensberger dismissed “superfluous events” such as Happenings and “Fluxus- and mixed-media shows” as well as the “banal fallacy” of “Concept art” for their limited reach and impact. He admonishes the artist-author to engage in a “learning process” in order to eliminate art as a category of specialization or expertise. Only then would the artist’s “self-abolition,” his or her complete integration into life, succeed. Finally, Enzensberger states, the author-artist is transfigured into an “agent of the masses”—before he or she vanishes completely.¹⁰

Enzensberger believed that both the abolition of art through education and the emergence of a brand-new type of cultural producer were inextricably linked to the mediasphere. He had absorbed the notion of a scientifically and technologically enhanced sensorium, a “New Sensibility” cultivated through electronic communications and virtual environments, from the writings of Susan Sontag, Marshall McLuhan, Herbert Marcuse, and others stateside. Armed with this theoretical apparatus (as well as Bertolt Brecht’s “Radiotheorie” of the ’30s), Enzensberger invested utopian belief in the self-educating and self-empowering potential of communications media. To this end, the philosopher and art historian Eckhard Siepmann contributed a related essay on “electronics and class struggle” to the 1970 Kursbuch issue that supplemented and radicalized Enzensberger’s approach. Alluding to the development of new media, mind-expanding drugs, and new spaces of collectivity such as the discotheque, he speculates on the revolutionary shift from the perceptual organization of bourgeois society (based on central perspective) to a dehierarchized and interactive postbourgeois field of experience, populated by a new subject—the “‘electronically’ structured ‘human being.’”¹¹

Like Enzensberger, Siepmann declares advanced artistic practices of the ’60s (from Pop art to “many a torturous Happening”) to be “finished with the political happenings of the New Left, Paris May and the resignation of the most important artists during their lifetime and their turn toward the revolution.”¹² Yet what kind of artist might actually withdraw from art? Siepmann may have been thinking of the neo-avant-garde artist H. P. Alvermann, who stopped producing “sociographic” and “political” assemblages in 1966 to commit his energies exclusively to “political work,” as the artist wrote in 1970.¹³ Another candidate for such self-exclusion could have been Jean-Jacques Lebel, ex-Surrealist and Happenings impresario, who in an agitated letter from October 1968 rhapsodized about destruction and graffiti, dismissing art as “too small, too little . . . NOT ENOUGH to change life with.”¹⁴ Wolf Vostell, Lebel’s West German pendant on the international Happenings scene, also claimed to merge with the revolutionary movement—even if Vostell himself was often identified with the spectacular exploitation of shock values, occupying the position of a public provocateur endorsed by the very culture industry he claimed to destroy. (Indeed, when Enzensberger, Siepmann, and others made their dismissive remarks about Happenings, they were probably thinking of Vostell’s notoriously self-promoted media spectacles of the mid-’60s.) Yet the artist was smart enough to detect the zeitgeist’s shifting sands. In notes written in 1969 and published the next year, he argues that the “Happening had dissolved in the revolt”: “Today, demonstrations have the character of art.”¹⁵

Vostell and others tapped into leftist dynamics in order to refresh (and legitimate) their own practice as artists, but they were under constant ideological pressure to replace their artistic identity with a militant persona. The student movement launched piercing attacks on art (and its middle-class practitioners) that frequently bore a puritanical edge. Yet the demonstrators’ emphasis on action, spontaneity, and subjectivity entailed an aestheticism of its own. As literary scholar Martin Jürgens observed in the 1970 Kursbuch issue, the media-driven fascination with antiestablishment violence in the streets and the lyric romanticization of the barricades of May ’68 Paris uncannily resembled the aesthetics of bourgeois elite culture.¹⁶ These days, any such idealistic nostalgia for the era risks matching contemporary conservative condemnations of the “generation of ’68”: Both threaten to elide the latent possibilities contained within that historical moment.

Timm Ulrichs, Spiel-Dose (Music Box), 1966/68, metal can with object, 2 3⁄4 x 4 1⁄8 x 4 1⁄8".

IF AESTHETIC CRITERIA OF ORIGINALITY, spontaneity, and virtuosity—whether in protests or on canvases—lodged art firmly within the logic of fashion, passive consumption, and systems of exchange value (in other words, the culture industry), then what options remained to counter bourgeois aesthetics? This unresolved and aporetic question formed the crux of “Art as Commodity in the Consciousness Industry,” a statement published by the Berlin SDS group Culture and Revolution in Die Zeit in November 1968. For this wing of the Berlin SDS, it was still possible to defy “the consciousness industry” with “critical contention (actions, analyses).”¹⁷ For others in the student movement, though, this return to art-as-criticism relapsed into idealism. In 1969, Michael Buselmeier, a member of the Heidelberg SDS group Cultural Revolution Workshop, accused his Berlin comrades of neglecting any rigorous formal critique of the “manipulative, often terrorist objects” of Op art and Minimalism. More important, they did not attack the “truly powerful cultural apparatus (television, press)”: Rather than accepting the fact that society will never be transformed by art, they still dreamed of a socialist art. Buselmeier’s text proposes that such fantasies be replaced by “social work” resulting in project groups and the development of “collective practice.”¹⁸ Again, the solution was sought in a collusion of aesthetics and didactics.

A model was close at hand. Buselmeier cites the Projektgruppe Schülerfilm, the High School Student Film Project Group, an initiative to engage high school students politically through filmmaking. In 1967, SDS activists at the recently opened German Film and Television Academy Berlin (DFFB) in West Berlin had contacted the Action Center of Independent Socialist High School Students (AUSS) in Frankfurt. Basing their project on socialist film theory, the Berlin film students envisioned both legal and illegal distribution of the high school students’ films, as well as a successive dissolution of the producer/consumer dichotomy. Instead of the production and presentation of a finished film, the group conceived of cinematic “chapters” that could be combined like building blocks, depending on the specific screening situation and target audience.¹⁹ The individual modules would address political organization and power structures, including the family and the educational system.

The high school students never actually executed any film projects. But the program became a locus for the extraordinary convergence of radical filmmaking, pedagogy, and activism in the New Left. The film school and other such workshops aspired to become a new kind of educational environment, a subcultural public sphere of the kind proposed by Negt and Kluge, a space where the “sensual-fantastic imagination” was developed as the “raw material” of proletarian experience.²⁰ Instruction and agitation merged when the first students of the DFFB rapidly politicized their practice over the course of 1967. (In fact, many of the young filmmakers had experienced the killing of Benno Ohnesorg as a direct attack on themselves, since it was rumored that the police had actually aimed at fellow student Thomas Giefer—who not only resembled Ohnesorg but was being watched by police for making a documentary on the demonstrations against the shah.)

Holger Meins, who famously quit filmmaking in 1970 to go underground and join the Red Army Faction, was one of the SDS activists at the DFFB who started the Projektgruppe Schülerfilm in 1967. That year, Meins also participated in a student initiative for the production of hands-on instructional agitprop films. His three-minute documentary Herstellung eines Molotow-Cocktails (Making a Molotov Cocktail), screened for the first time during a protest against media company Axel Springer Verlag (publisher of the right-wing tabloid Bild) at the Technical University in Berlin in February 1968, rapidly gained popularity in militant circles. The most direct instructional film imaginable, it was not only a visual manual for assembling a weapon but also defined its target: the Springer headquarters.

Meins’s fellow students Harun Farocki, Hartmut Bitomsky, and Helke Sander began to produce short Lehrfilme (educational, instructional films) as well, deliberately revisiting Brechtian models of theatrical pedagogy. Farocki’s Die Worte des Vorsitzenden (The Words of the Chairman, 1967) and Ihre Zeitungen (Their Newspapers, 1968), demonstrated how the pages of Mao’s Little Red Book could be used to build paper airplanes to hit the shah of Iran, and how to wrap a brick with a newspaper to better aim it on a specific trajectory at a specific target (Springer, again).

Here, the break with the art object, the desire to dissolve art into social acts of liberation, and the emphasis on education, agitation, and media circled one another. It is telling that practitioners of film—the medium of both agitation and propaganda par excellence—entered far more easily into radical political and aesthetic positions than their colleagues in fine arts departments. Film could create the kind of learning environment in which revolutionary subjects might be shaped. The new art of revolution had to be an art of teaching the revolution itself.

In May ’68, the Berlin film school was occupied by students, most of whom were expelled shortly afterward. Ejected from the academy, Bitomsky and Farocki applied for funding for a “research program for audiovisual instructional material.” The grant application is a telling source for the deep connection between political, pedagogical, and filmic concerns in the aftermath of 1968. In 1969, Bitomsky and Farocki teamed with a philosopher of science and an education scientist to develop a comprehensive learning program that included efficiency tests and was based on recent research into cybernetics, behaviorism, and instructional design.²¹ But their purpose was not the transmission of neutral knowledge by a state-of-the-art learning program (a techno-pedagogical fantasy of the 1960s). Rather, it was the introduction of basic concepts of political economy through mass instruction and agitation.

Bitomsky and Farocki actually got the funding they applied for. The research project resulted in the hour-long Die Teilung aller Tage (The Division of All Days), broadcast on WDR on April 19, 1970. Short pieces of agitation, filmed on black-and-white 16-mm stock and conceived as Marxist teaching modules, were combined to demonstrate the fundamental power relations of industrial capitalist society. With Brechtian didacticism, the film lays bare theories of value and commodity, questions of property and exploitation, and the realities of gender relations. For their follow-up film Eine Sache, die sich versteht (15 mal) (A Thing That Is Evident [15 Times], 1971), Bitomsky and Farocki described the project as a “School of Communication”: The film’s fifteen episodes form a veritable catalogue of communicative acts, such as “contacting,” “presentation of oneself and playing a role,” “quoting,” “encoding and decoding,” “describing,” and so on, all of which are exemplified in short, simply shot, and laconically acted scenes.²² In 1970, Bitomsky gave a talk at a conference of art educators in Loccum, espousing “audiovisual media as keys to education.” Bitomsky demanded that art education endorse mass communication and new media as its ultimate subjects. Arguing that Land art, for example, withheld immediate aesthetic experience and instead increasingly relied on mediation and communication, he announced: “The everyday life of the art is to be used. Art pedagogy could instigate such use.”²³

Harun Farocki, Die Worte des Vorsitzenden (The Words of the Chairman), 1967, still from a black-and-white film in 16 mm, 3 minutes.

THE CONVERGENCE OF THE AESTHETIC, political, and pedagogical dominated Documenta 5 in 1972 (for many, the real “’68 Documenta”). Not only did the curatorial team, led by Harald Szeemann, include a broad scope of post-Minimal, process-based, intermedia, conceptual, and installation art, but D5 was also a groundbreaking presentation of the parallel worlds of pop culture and Visuelle Kommunikation—the renewed discipline of materialist, critical aesthetic education that was a direct outcome of 1968. The first issue of the journal Ästhetik und Kommunikation. Beiträge zur politischen Erziehung (Aesthetics and Communication: Contributions to Political Education), published in 1970, outlined the liberating power of an aesthetic education that would “blast” the bourgeois sensorium and “rinse out” its conceptual apparatus.²⁴ A year later, the influential reader Visuelle Kommunikation. Beiträge zur Kritik der Bewusstseinsindustrie (Visual Communication: Contributions to a Critique of the Consciousness Industry)—initially conceived in 1968 as a critique of the hermeticism of Documenta 4—helped establish the discourse of Visuelle Kommunikation among progressive educators. The volume forayed beyond contemporary art and into advertisements, comics, and spaghetti westerns, resolutely extending the field of art education to include the visual phenomena of popular culture.

As Lawrence Alloway pointed out in these pages on the occasion of D5, pop culture—as opposed to Pop art—is “the sum of the arts designed for simultaneous consumption by a numerically large audience.”²⁵ Bitomsky would likely have agreed, reiterating his claim for a reinvention of art education as a “school of communication.” And it should come as no surprise that while Joseph Beuys lectured in his Office of the Organization of Direct Democracy, Bazon Brock, who had helped ratify the DSP charter in 1967, designed an “audiovisual preface” and the education program for D5. Calls for an art given over to mass communication and education resounded throughout the exhibition.

Yet art clearly remained very much alive in 1972, far more vital than could have been expected after its recurring deaths in the ’60s. Perhaps between art’s utopian pedagogical impulse, on the one hand, and its pedagogical imperative—which, as we know, became implicated in post-Fordist regimes of productivity and subjectivity—on the other, the possibility remains for what Jacques Rancière has called intellectual emancipation. How might one find a space in which teaching would be both autonomous and egalitarian? For all art’s failures to assimilate into life, it may be precisely its persistent claims to autonomy that allow for new modes of self-education. There are, no doubt, many lessons yet to learn.

Tom Holert is a critic and art historian based in Berlin.


1. “Deutsche Studentenpartei. Protokoll der Gründungsversammlung vom 22. Juni 1967 (angefertigt von Johannes Stüttgen),” Düsseldorf, November 15, 1967. Reprinted in Um 1968. Konkrete Utopien in Kunst und Gesellschaft, ed. Marie Luise Syring and Karin Thomas, exh. cat. Städtische Kunsthalle Düsseldorf (Cologne: DuMont, 1990), 167. Author’s translation.

2. Rudi Dutschke, “Wir fordern die Enteignung Axel Springers,” Der Spiegel 29 (July 10, 1967). Reprinted in . . . wir danken Ihnen für dieses Gespräch. 24 Spiegel-Gespräche, ed. Walter Busse (Munich: dtv Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag, 1970), 264–265. Author’s translation.

3. See Helmut Schelsky, Anpassung oder Widerstand? Soziologische Bedenken zur Schulreform (Heidelberg: Quelle & Meyer, 1961), 162.

4. Alexander Kluge, Lernprozesse mit tödlichem Ausgang (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1973), 5. Author’s translation.

5. Roger M. Buergel, “Leitmotifs (Documenta 12),” 2005.

6. See Theodor W. Adorno, “Die Kunst und die Künste” [1966], in Adorno, Ohne Leitbild. Parva Aesthetica (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1967), 168–192. Translated in Theodor W. Adorno, Can One Live after Auschwitz? A Philosophical Reader, ed. Rolf Tiedemann (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2003).

7. Timm Ulrichs, “Statement,” in Rolf-Gunter Dienst, Deutsche Kunst: eine neue Generation (Cologne: DuMont, 1970), unpaginated. Author’s translation.

8. Theodor W. Adorno, Aesthetic Theory, trans. Robert Hullot-Kentor, ed. Rolf Tiedemann and Gretel Adorno (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1997), 250.

9. Ibid., 251.

10. Hans Magnus Enzensberger, “Baukasten zu einer Theorie der Medien,” Kursbuch 20 (March 1970), 185. Author’s translation.

11. Eckhard Siepmann, “Rotfront Faraday. Über Elektronik und Klassenkampf. Ein Interpretationsraster,” Kursbuch 20 (March 1970), 191. Author’s translation.

12. Ibid., 194.

13. See the biographical note in H. P. Alvermann. Objekte 1959–66, exh. cat. (Wuppertal, Germany: Kunst- und Museumsverein Wuppertal, 1970), unpaginated. Author’s translation.

14. Jean-Jacques Lebel, letter to Wolf Vostell [in English], October 1968, reprinted in Wolf Vostell, Aktionen. Happenings und Demonstrationen seit 1965. Eine Dokumentation (Reinbek/Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1970), unpaginated. Author’s translation.

15. See Wolf Vostell, Happening & Leben, ed. Otto F. Walter (Neuwied and Berlin: Luchterhand, 1970), 99–100.

16. Martin Jürgens, “Der Staat als Kunstwerk. Bemerkungen zur ‘Ästhetisierung der Politik,’” Kursbuch 20 (March 1970), 119–139.

17. Berlin SDS Group Culture and Revolution, “Kunst als Ware in der Bewusstseinsindustrie,” Die Zeit 48 (November 29, 1968), 22. Author’s translation.

18. Arbeitskreis Kulturrevolution Heidelberg (Michael Buselmeier), “Gesellschaftliche Arbeit statt Kunst,” Die Zeit 5 (January 31, 1969), 11–12. Author’s translation.

19. Flugschrift II des Aktionszentrums unabhängiger und sozialistischer Schüler (AUSS), Projektgruppe Schülerfilm,” Filmstudio 55 (October–December 1967). Author’s translation.

20. Oskar Negt and Alexander Kluge, Öffentlichkeit und Erfahrung: zur Organisationsanalyse von bürgerlicher und proletarischer Öffentlichkeit (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1972), 71. Translated in Public Sphere and Experience: Toward an Analysis of the Bourgeois and Proletarian Public Sphere, trans. Peter Labanyi (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1993).

21. Hartmut Bitomsky, Harun Farocki, Wolfgang Lenk, and Petra Milhoffer, “Forschungsprogramm audiovisuelles Lehrmittel zu einem Thema der politischen Ökonomie,” typescript (Berlin: April 1969), 1. Author’s translation.

22. Hartmut Bitomsky, Harun Farocki, “Kommunizieren,” typescript (Berlin: 1970). Author’s translation.

23. Hartmut Bitomsky, “Der Alltag der Kunst. Audiovisuelle Medien als Schlüssel der Erziehung,” Ästhetische Erziehung und Kommunikation, ed. Olaf Schwencke (Frankfurt am Main: Diesterweg, 1972), 29. Author’s translation.

24. Johannes Lundgreen, “Einige Bemerkungen zur politischen Bedeutung visueller Kommunikation zum gegenwärtigen Zeitpunkt,” Ästhetik und Kommunikation. Beiträge zur politischen Erziehung, vol. 1, no. 1, 1970, 26. Author’s translation.

25. Lawrence Alloway, “‘Reality’: Ideology at D5,” Artforum, vol. XI, no. 2 (October 1972), 34.