Found the text:
May 23, 2004
Lost chronicle of the master race
By Deirdre Fernand
Hitler called her his 'ideal woman' and gave her artistic freedom to document his Aryan vision. But Leni Riefenstahl was reviled for her collaboration with the Nazis, and spent decades as a pariah. Her private photo albums of the 1936 Berlin Olympics, which lay forgotten until her death last year, remain a powerful social narrative
Leni Riefenstahl was in love with the human form. Nobody who looks at her film of the 1936 Berlin Olympics can be in any doubt about that. Under her artistic guidance, the athlete is transformed into a screen icon: flesh and muscle, sinew and brawn become things of beauty, taking on a sculptural quality.
What will forever remain in doubt, however, is her closeness to Hitler, her political allegiances and her championship of Aryan values. The documentary that Hitler begged her to make, Triumph of the Will, a pictorial record of the 1934 Nazi-party rally at Nuremberg, was seen as an instrument of propaganda. Beautiful, stark and powerful, certainly, but propaganda nonetheless. As a result of Triumph, which won the gold medal at the World Exhibition in Paris in 1937, the International Olympic Committee (IOC) commissioned her to make Olympia, the film that made her famous and notorious.
But while her film was seen around the world, the private photograph albums she compiled of the 1936 games disappeared into her own personal archive. And just like Leni Riefenstahl herself, they were unseen for decades.
But for the tenacity of one man, Christian Diener, a German designer, these pictures might have been lost when she died last year aged 101. An admirer of her work, Diener staged Riefenstahl's first one-woman shows in Berlin in the 1990s, which reminded the world that this redoubtable old lady was still working well into her ninth decade. After much persuasion, she handed over her Olympic scrapbooks, more than 400 pictures in total, all taken by her photographers under her direction. Only a handful have ever been seen before.
"She had forgotten about these albums," Diener says. "You have to remember that she was nothing after the war, and she was shunned. I think she felt that nobody was interested in these old prints."
Many of these pictures are to be sold by Diener next month at the Atlas Gallery in London, in the first British retrospective of her work since her death. The photographs reveal how highly she was valued by Hitler, who referred to her as his "ideal woman". As she recalled in her 1992 memoirs, he gave her complete artistic freedom. Whatever she wanted, she got.
It was Hitler who funded the Olympics project, furnishing her with 45 cameramen, and ample time to shoot the documentary. No expense was spared: at her behest, towers were built, walls erected and trenches dug. This relationship only served to make her enemies. Goebbels, who once tried to seduce her and was rejected, resented the access she had to the Fhrer and did his best to sabotage the film, moving her equipment, harassing her and ordering his henchmen to rough up her cameramen. The minister of propaganda further demanded that she must not show too many "niggers" (his term). She refused.
Her footage of Jesse Owens, the black American sprinter, depicts him as an athletic Adonis. No wonder that in many of the photographs she is surrounded by police it was as much for her own safety as for that of her staff. Hitler later removed her from Goebbels's aegis, putting her under the protection of Rudolf Hess.
If Riefenstahl was passionate about the body, she was also passionate about men. "I didn't make the athletes beautiful," she said later of the competitors, "it was God." One who caught her eye was the chisel-jawed Glenn Morris. Born in Denver, Colorado, in 1912, he was a 6ft 2in all-American golden boy. During the games they had a torrid affair. In her memoirs, Riefenstahl recalls that when he triumphed in the decathlon, he stepped down from the rostrum, tore her blouse open and kissed her breasts. But their affair didn't last and Morris went back home to star in a Tarzan film.
Riefenstahl, a former dancer and actress, came to the attention of Hitler as the star of German cinema and for The Blue Light, a film she directed in 1932. Born to middle-class parents in Berlin in 1902, she had originally trained as a dancer but soon graduated to acting, eventually becoming as popular in her homeland as Marlene Dietrich. The film director Josef von Sternberg championed her talents, but soon she had other, more powerful, admirers. After she wrote a fan letter to Hitler expressing her admiration for his oratory, she received a personal invitation to meet him.
"When I come to power, you will make my films," he told her. Many believed they were lovers, something she always denied. She went on to marry a German officer, Peter Jacob, but the union did not last.
It was for her association with the German leader that Riefenstahl spent decades in the wilderness her work for the Third Reich had been both the making and the ruin of her. The rest of her life was spent justifying this collaboration and dealing with accusations of anti-semitism. Indeed she fought, and won, several libel actions.
After the war, she was imprisoned and interrogated by the French but was later cleared by the denazification tribunals. "I was not a Communist, I was not a Nazi, I was an artist," she told one interviewer before her death. "I was nothing, no party."
That she ever won recognition again after the war was largely due to The Sunday Times Magazine and to its then art director, Michael Rand.
Inspired by the work of Ernest Hemingway, Riefenstahl undertook an arduous journey in her sixties to the Sudan to photograph a little-known tribe, the Nuba. The photographs of these magnificent warriors with their tribal markings and skin like polished mahogany appeared in the magazine in 1967 and won her instant plaudits.
Rand then came up with the idea of commissioning her to photograph the Munich Olympics in 1972. But there were obstacles. "We decided the name Leni Riefenstahl wouldn't be acceptable to the IOC for obvious reasons," says Rand, "so we got round it by using her married name."
The shoot was judged a success. "She liked photographing bodies and she worshipped the human form," adds Rand. He paid her DM25,000 for the job, the equivalent of 10,000 today. That was enough to lift her out of poverty, and she no longer had to take lodgers into her Munich home. Soon Rand became a trusted friend and she went on to shoot Mick and Bianca Jagger for the magazine. Mick, a fan of hers, reportedly found it "f***ing amazing" to be photographed by her.
The magazine came under fire for using her. More than once, Rand had to defend his decision. "I always thought she was politically naive, a dolt even," he recalls. "I think if she admired Hitler it was because he gave her total artistic control and dished out the dosh."
Riefenstahl was ripe for rejuvenation. She made a second trip to the Sudan and published two books, and at 72, took up diving (giving her age as 52) to make underwater films. Her last years were fulfilled and surrounded by people. She declared she was at her happiest after the Olympics in the cutting room, with reels of film garlanded around her shoulders. The result Olympia and these extraordinary scrapbooks represent not just her finest hour but also the finest years of her artistic life.