Gardens of Horror
It’s hot. Parasols open, we look for shadows when we care for ourselves. In the gardens, paddling pools bloom, children run through the water sprinklers. Birds look for puddles that form, bumblebees, butterflies. Trees fan a little air and throw shadow blobs into the merciless sunshine. Dragonflies buzz across the precious garden ponds….
And everywhere around concrete and stone, hot-heated materials that pass on the stored heat night after night. Cars seem to glow, engines heat up, the hot air wafts from the stoves and barbecue areas.
And they build the gardens of horror. Easy to clean, but for whom? Their own comfort is declared aesthetics, stones are locked into cages, hard slabs cover the earth, grey and clean, they border houses in front of which once lilacs scented, hydrangeas and rhododendrons bloomed. The owners of the heartlessness sit neatly in the midst of concrete and make me afraid. The order-loving owners own our air, our shadow, they give it away generously.
Through the heat, the cargoes rattle with rubble to fill up life with the clean ones, the order lovers in town and village, to rob what belongs to itself, to create the gardens of horror. They are not interested in the preciousness of shadows, bees, air and birds; the melting of poles, ozone levels and fine dust do not belong to their shared responsibility. Cleanliness on comfortable ground, so that they can travel in peace, to places where trees sway in the wind, laugh pigeons coo and barbecue give their evening concert. My world seems to have completely lost its way to me, seems to be losing its mind and its heart, and that quite neatly.
It’s hot. Sunshades open, we look for shadows when we care about ourselves. Paddling pools bloom in the gardens, children run through the sprinklers. Birds look for puddles that form, bumblebees, butterflies. Trees fan a little air and throw spots of shade into the merciless sunshine. Dragonflies swish over the precious garden ponds…..
And all around it are concrete and stone, hot materials that pass on the stored heat throughout the night. Cars seem to glow, engines heat up, the hot air wafts out of the ovens and barbecue areas.
And they build the Gardens of Terror. Easy-care, but for whom? Their own comfort has become an aesthetic, stones are locked in cages, hard slabs cover the earth, grey and clean, bordering houses in front of which lilac scented, hydrangeas and rhododendrons once bloomed. The owners of the heartlessness squat neatly amidst concrete and make me fear. The order loving owners own our air, our shadow, they give it away generously.
Through the heat the charges rattle with rubble to fill up life with the clean ones, the order lovers in town and village, to rob what belongs to itself, to create itself the gardens of horror. They are not interested in the preciousness of shadows, bees, air and birds, the melting of poles, ozone values and fine dust are not their shared responsibility. Cleanliness on comfortable ground, so that they can travel in peace, where trees sway in the wind, laughing pigeons coo and barbecues give their evening concert. My world seems to have completely moved away from me, seems to lose its mind and its heart and that quite properly.
Translated with help from www.DeepL.com/Translator
When I look into my computer these days, I am immediately asked to identify myself as a fan by means of football decorations. This is completely absurd for me, of course.
It is not my intention not to identify myself with ball sports in all their fun, but rather not to apply for a mass hype, let alone one with all my “friends”, which has no other purpose than to satisfy a huge injection of capital into the football industry and to stimulate masses of fans whose sport is above all to drink and mob – in a bad case. On the bright side, they buy bravely fan articles and national jerseys the size of beer jugs and cheer about barbecue sausages.
But how can I cheer for a championship of corrupt officials in a country that persecutes, imprisons, tortures and even sometimes murders homosexuals? A country where artists, intellectuals are oppressed and people are starving? On whose orders thousands and thousands of dogs and cats were slain, poisoned, so that the cheering tourist does not see that they are made to starve? The blood of the thousand poor dogs of Sochi is not dried in my memory yet, there is kicked on fresh suffering. I am aware that even if gas chambers were built in Russia, the fun of football would not decrease. The joker doesn’t care where he spits on the floor, worldwide. Precisely because I appreciate the beauties of Russia, the landscape and culture and don’t feel far from the communist idea, that’s why I feel particularly horrified before this event.
Tree of knowledge
Art can do anything. May grab, bore, decorate, disturb, ask or comfort, disgust or rejoice. Art is free.
All creators are looking for their own language, concept and intention. Mine is to paint clever pictures as long as people are so foolish, me included, and I can paint and live. I use the temptations of craftsmanship, radiant colours, funny titles, sensuality or the hope of solace. With a sly brush tip I take my time on a journey into the future, which will ask for justification. Certainly, my aberrations of the mind will be put aside as illustrative mannerism, my femininity will be condemned to authorship. It will be fine with me, even posthumously, because the patriarchal view of art history has already revealed itself to me at painting times in its capitalist defense of benefices as a construct of lies, even with some quota women as packaging, with which the painting masculinity elegantly ensured that they remained harmless when the benefices were distributed. It can’t mislead me, it motivates my courage, pampers my expectations.
And so my tree of knowledge does not make us naked, it shows us as fools. This makes Adam and Eve, in relation to our world development, more credible to me than a male deity’s view of a female “shame”. Or is it already there, the condemnation of one part of humanity, as an apple in the womb of masculinity? Back when the male part was pleasing to God, somewhat stupidly seducible or just a murderer and the female side was condemned to the seductress to give birth in pain? Like a manifesto, this original idea already points the way to be taken in art history. Their acceptance was pursued inquisitively. This is where my brush picks up the trail. Here I look and let the tree rot a little, the fools look at each other. It makes me happy to answer something in return for my time.
Sound and Smoke
In the beginning there is the silence, the area of fog. An invitation to give the viewers space and time for their own entrance. My intentions, which should not play a role in this, are only available in the lateral settings. Similar to the dancers who warm up for their performance but are not yet in turn and wait impatiently until the set is ready for them.
Then the fog comes in that makes us too blind: consume, success, fame, beauty, recognition – the curtains of vanity, so indescribably void. We have nothing, we will keep nothing, so what else of life’s effort? What remains is the smile, the loving, the protected that still exists for a while when we already turn away. Each hand reaches out to another, each non-pushed hand can kick out and grow.
The layers, similar to the structure of Renaissance paintings, do not allow any colour perspective, they insist on being seen when shattered buildings become castles, because we cultivate them with content and affection.
We possess the rich treasure of a sea of forgetfulness to recover things or thoughts, cultures or memories and to revive them by making them visible, to protect them from their own stupidity.
The picture was taken in my head, like any other, lurking there to be painted. The thoughts came while looking at pictures in the DRK museum in Vogelsang, whose message touched me: With the joy of togetherness it is easier to ease, to look at the world and, in the end, this energy does not fade into sound and smoke. In the community’s refineries more scents than smoke are created, more cloud images than smog, a life plan of spiritual lust is formed, yes, there is one!
Sound and Smoke
Oil on canvas
200 x 140 cm