In a windy pelting snowstorm I delivered the three works on paper to the Blütenweisse gallery. ‘The art must get through', I thought. It is such an attractive spacious gallery. The rents are very low, comparatively, in Berlin so the galleries are huge.
A crowded private view reception at the Hamburger Hof Museum of 21st Century Art, seemed very much like an opening in London, interesting looking people, champagne, and an Athens-Berlin-New York video on show. No glasses to be taken into the darkened viewing space so there were about the same number not watching as watching the video, and going back and forth. Since the literature given was in German I perhaps had a little less grasp of the plot than usual, but it was based on the Jacques-Louis David painting ‘Rape of the Sabine Women' and takes place in the Pergamon Museum, the Tempelhof Airport and the Athens Meat Market, both in B&W 1940's Berlin, and contemporary Athens in colour, without words but local market sounds and a swirling specially composed score. Eve Sussman, The Rufus Corporation, The Rape Of The Sabine Women.
Another private view this time in a commercial gallery near Check Point Charlie. A vast space with harsh fluorescent tube lighting, the paintings hung sparsely with a lot of bare walls. This had a feeling of a New York opening rather than a London one. The amount of space gives it a cutting edge feel. Glasses of white wine, or water were passed around on trays. There were Russians, and some Americans, as well as Germans but not such a huge dressy crowd as at the Hamburger Hof. The amount of space was the impressive factor and I liked the alternative relaxed feel.
My writer friends and I met for a farewell celebration lunch at Gorky Park the Russian restaurant, the celebration being our meeting and being in Berlin, the farewell because they are returning to New York. Borsht, blinis, caviar and German champagne, (Sekt), fabulous. I love being with these smart guys who don't let anything get them down. It is tender and touching to see them approach. One walking slightly ahead of the other saying things like "watch out for the broken pavement here, keep to the left," "here is the curb to step down quite a way," "now there are four high steps up to the restaurant with a rail on your right." The other, blind one, has his hand lightly on the other's shoulder and follows with trust. They look as if they could be in a Beckett play, archetypal figures crossing the stage in eternity. Very moving. Then they realise I'm there and shout and wave their arms.
03/03/2007 Every step of the way in making a painting one has to be on one's toes wary of the pitfalls and obstacles on the way. Mentioning toes, painting, if it succeeds, is like ballet just as everyone quotes: presented as an effortless finished object, never mind the bloodied toes, sprained ankle, months of work. It is not at all a factory assemblage produced impersonally. As an example, when Manfred arrived and we put together the stretchers, doubling them with an electric stapler, and then laid the pieces of linen canvas down, one was too short, too narrow, it simply did not fit. After a bit of discussion and my swearing, there was nothing for it but to return to the kunst magazine and get another piece the right size. Since it is expensive they wouldn't be happy about that, and if needs must I would just have to pay for another, but I did give the correct measurements. That helpful girl was extremely upset but immediately set about getting the replacement canvas, and said how sorry she was. I only hope she doesn't have to make it up from her wages. Personally I was much relieved for the paintings. They were stretched up by the end of the morning and then I began wetting them, but I had a sinking feeling that they hadn't been stretched tightly enough. Manfred is used to cotton canvas that does shrink when wet. Linen may tighten when wet but doesn't shrink in the same way, and this linen was looser than what I have worked with before. Knocking out the corners worked but warped the stretchers, so then they had to be knocked back again, back and forth until they were finally optimised. After another wetting the corners rose up and weights had to be applied to keep them down. Those piles of books came into their own here. Whew, cross fingers I think they are fine. Once they dry out I'll put the primer on.
Now I feel much more at home in Berlin. It is actually brilliant fun to be immersed in another culture; a pleasure to learn the history, to read Thomas Mann, Nietzsche, Rilke, think about thinks differently. All those small details that stuck out so much at the beginning have been assimilated: where things are, how a shopping bag is tucked into the coat pocket as doors are pulled open, looking left in the street, carrying money to pay for anything I might buy, has all become second nature. Because it feels so much safer here than in London, as well as much less crowded, slower in pace, and of course nowhere around here takes credit cards anyway; I carry amounts of money on me that I never would otherwise. This feeling of being settled in releases a lot of energy that was used up before, and that shows in how I work now, no more dithering. The main thing is that now most of the Milchhof artists are back working and what a difference that makes to the vitality of ambience. Sculptors in the halls, painters and photographers in their studios, coming and going, saying ‘Hallo', being friendly, I feel happy here. Of the people I've met so far, the names I remember are Regina, Isabetta, Georgina, Wolka, Marcus, Mark, Tom, and of course Manfred, but there are all the others who smile and make me feel welcome as I pass. " You are our guest. Welcome. We hope you enjoy Berlin." That makes for an exceptionally fine feeling.
Since I didn't want to stop working in the studio during the day, again this evening I went upstairs at ten pm to do some emails perched in the corridor, and again shortly afterwards the large bass cello carrying girl turned up and again flung open her door and all the corridor windows. Is she a fresh air addict, does she play in a smoky night club and needs to clear her lungs, is it the smell of turpentine or some other medium that she is clearing out, or is it that she sublets from Isabetta so that she can practise her music letting it rip out into the sky? This strong girl in her drab overcoat is intriguing.
