For years I tried to find a word describing what I loved

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?

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