On Titelbilder ⁞

Exhibition Views ລ

On Titelbilder ⁞

In abstract terms, where does the artist postion himself at the moment? Somewhere, probably, or, clearly. There, in the middle, on the edge, maybe, maybe in the center, it doesn't matter. The joke is, his position is completely free. Not even the art determines the place where the artist stands. He can position himself in cinema, in pop, he can locate himself sociologically, literarily, or in the tradition of the new, he can have left the art context in all directions, but returns to it after his own complete reflection. And with this freedom only one thing as a last burden, the position of the individual in relation to the whole, that is the great thing about this new position. From there the gaze now falls upon the paintings, from the images here back to us.

– Rainald Götz, in: Jeff Koons, p. 117f. Frankfurt/M.: 1998

...from where we read his works: KURT COBAIN WAS MURDERED is written there right at the entrance. KÖNNEN WIR JETZT ENDLICH WIEDER HOLLYWOODSTARS UMSBRINGEN UND DEATH TO PIGS MIT BLUT AN DIE WAND SCHMIEREN? (Can we finally kill Hollywood stars again and smear death to pigs with their blood on the wall?) The words glow on the work in swift capitals. Black surfaces, impasto stroke, white letters, the oil still wet. To this: leather, plastic, mirrors. Monochromatic colors dominate the space and thus underline the roaring exaggeration of subjects. TITELBILDER (title images) is the name of Nicholas Warburg's current exhibition showing new works at Anton Janizewski and depicts mostly,.. well.. – title images. Sentences written on the canvas with a rough brush are filling the format. Is the title the depiction or the depicted the title? Do the words become merely placeholders, blanks, dummy text? Does the self-description become the motif? Do the images show themselves? Are they equally depiction and description of the piece? Is this the essence of self-reference? While in the past it was mostly the content, it is now additionally the form that sets Warburg's characteristically strong conceptual emphasis. The familiar motifs of Warburg—the old Federal Republic, German Angst, America, the male genius, and, again and again, fascism— are still clearly recognizable, though they are now joined by new subjects. The sticky, dusty shadows of West German baby boomers are no longer the center of reference: Warburg's new series of works has arrived in the framework of international '90s millennials: Rebellion is a warm jacket – on sale, now also in your local mall. The evoked No Future!-feels have been commodities of the pop- and subcultural attention economy for a long time. Where are Marina and Ulay anyway, their leather frocks hanging on white garden chairs by the doorway? 

Oh that's right, he's dead, but she might just be standing in London's Royal Academy of Arts, having to watch the re-staging of her Imponderabilia performance falling short, as everyone walks through the new, specially installed side door, so as not to overstep their boundaries along the naked bodies. The art of provocation has never been so easy. The art of provocation has never been so hard. We walk through it: ARM THE BROKEN HEARTED and COMING OF RAGE scream two of the five jackets that hang, likewise as if left haphazardly, over monoblocks arranged in a circle, that cockroach counterpart of a chair, unbreakable, to be found in the vicinity of any human civilization. Here, too, the words are brushed, moving from the canvas to the leather, to the clothing-turnedsymbol of the alpha male. Fashion becomes the picture, the title becomes the statement. The presence of absence looms large. And what was discussed during this gathering? WENN DER FASCHISMUS WIEDERKEHRT WIRD ER NICHT SAGEN ICH BIN DER FASCHISMUS NEIN ER WIRD SAGEN WENN DER FASCHISMUS WIEDERKEHRT WIRD ER… (If fascism returns, he won’t say, I am the fascism, he would say if fascism returns, he won’t say …) Warburg's references are plentiful. From Fake News to Nietzsche, they sure don't stop at Silone, elevating him to a brilliant ouroboros, so simple and true, one should rightfully write it on all walls. In Warburgs body of work always dwells the wit. In Warburgs wit always dwells the discomfort. The discomfort is infinite, it resides in the Internet, in pop, in cinema, at the university and in Germany anyway. Everything is hard to bear, the past, the present, the future, this triad of transience which, even reading these words, evokes the repetitive boredom of human existence. IM LEBENDEN DAS TOTE ZU SEHEN AUS GEWOHNHEIT. (Seeing the dead in the living out of habit). Are Warburg's works catharsis or castigation? Perhaps they are just a new experiment by the notorious enfant terrible, the provocateur, the Städel-bad-boy: How can one make our time resonate? And how much cultural creation can man/kind endure? DARUM BENEIDE ICH JEDEN MALER, DASS ES KEINE SCHWERKRAFT AUF DEM BILD GIBT (I envy every painter, that there’s no gravity in the image) said the mirror. And hereby reflected us quite incidentally our own Kaputtheit.

– Hilka Dirks