I’ve been nominated and I’ve won awards, I’ve done residencies and I have had international exhibitions. I get grants for God knows what reason sake and yes, sometimes, I do sell. All of the all important “required” conditions, though, there are still so many skills I’m still lacking, so many interesting people I still haven’t encountered .
In all fairness, I fit right in the romantic idea of an 18th century romantic artist, without the soggy, balmy lamentation, of course. I don’t shout, I dig in an dig through. Because that is who I am, a unconditional maker who visualises a story of alienation and discrepancy in a consistency of the praxuis of my atelier. The paradigms of life are tackled by my pencil, brushes, leftover scraps and other mans waste. It fuels my never-ending rebellion with conventions.
I am not slacking off in my refusal to please. No milking of century old winning images, no sipping of that wine of basal temptation. I refuse top dip in my magic hat full of tricks, smoke and mirrors. I refuse to conventionalise, abuse or ‘upcycle. My grandmother’s funny rug doesn’t need a concept to be crucified against a museums hall. I do not find resignation in what works, but strive to go uncomfortably close to the wound of what we are, do and loath. I pick off scabs and live by them. In fact, I seek it, I thrive off it, it feeds me.
I want to live and I want to live from what I make, stubborn as I am, I have no plan B, cause the alphabet was made to follow, and I want to make my own. I can an do sleep in squads, I can and do eat out of dumps and wash myself in public buildings. I have seen the night and made many questionable choices. But the only one that matters is that I chose to be myself. And being myself is art in its own way. And so are the things I bring into this world.
I know, trough trial, error and catastrophe who I am and I know what I stand for. No hot air, no empty promises. What you see is always part of a process, never an finality. In my search of new experiences, profound professionalism, knowledge and network, I send you my kind regards to screw if you are boring or mundane. I wish to encounter, experience and enforce the same passion and drive as I have.
Ich mag es wenn Sie füttert mich mit Geschichten über zerbröckelte Nüsse – The rat under my bed
I state the following: What is mankind?
As if we can ever know them because we happen to be part of it.
Why is mankind?
As if a reason to be should be needed since we already happen to be here.
How does mankind relate?
As if people can convention relations and interactions as a certainty to provide values and standards, let alone ‘truth’. Bah, it only takes a sliver of imagination while it could just as well be different. Confirming what is already institutionalised, is sleep-inducing and bad for your health.
I’d rather (re)present a counterpoint, a reflection, a metaphor, an interpretation, a deformation or an junction of that what mankind sees as a given.
These strange humanistic themes of enlightenment are concerning me and, I believe, I am not the only one. Armed with pencil and brush, churned paint and depraved textile, I explore the forms of these creatures who take a final stand to medio-, merito- and mediacracy.
To summarize: There is mankind and it is flawed.
To expedite: My acceptance and critique are transposed in my creations as second-rate scattershots. I don’t like to limit myself to conventions, so I don’t.
The line is the legend. The almighty which scams the form of bodies as a guide to my process of expression.
I usually start from life model drawing and then gradually bring these sketches in hyperbole to the context of a new moment, story, abstraction and emotion.
Some who don’t survive my tempestuous temper or the ticking of time are boiled alive, mixed and kneaded into the humus of an artificial landscape. Desolation, decay and deprivation sing their enigmatic song in my makings.
Others I translate in paint as if they were letters that, away from a mere two dimensions, seek space, battle for a body and a constitution and Re-live the machinations and the realisation of the original drawing.
The pencil is a blissful tool, it can cut, it can caress, it can flatter, it can doubt. It can communicate in all languages, even with rats. So can I and for that I am grateful.
My aberrations are tolerations in the realm of the general human. We see a glimpse of man-made nature in my drawings in there multiple forms. And the canvas, well, it is sewn together, torn, twisted and turned inside out. As it mankind is.
Disclaimer: The collective is one solid mind. The I is the eye of a blind beholder with a silly head.