I was an artist — for one day — and I enjoyed the experience.
It was in Berlin in the early ‘90s, at this devastated house in the former east, near the wall.
A collective exhibition, organised by a progressive gallerist, and morbid in every way. It consisted of skulls of deceased German soldiers as a carbon atom installation, and I took part with an installation too!
I felt the system: the respect of the fellow artists after the opening, and all of the compliments. I was a part of it for one day.
Then there were the painters in the cafè keeping a distance from our table, and looking angry when I talked about painting in a loving way, because they thought I was mocking them.
It was one happy holiday.
Art or “kunst“ in German, is a word I never dared to take in my mouth because it has a bad taste.
All the time I heard people whispering to me or behind my back that I am no artist; as if I ever wanted to be one.
There were years where I tried to find a word describing what I loved.
Was it not simply painting in a gripping way?
What a relief to have a term I can relate to.
Why try to be a part of a system, when you can simply have friends and respected colleagues?