MY YEAR CAME INTO FOCUS in
someone else’s flashback. At a summer party in a socialist-era tower on
Karl-Marx-Allen, the British artist Mark Wallinger reminisced about one of his
performances at Berlin’s Neue Nationalgalerie the previous October: It’s
sometime after midnight, and he’s shuffling about inside Mies van der Rohe’s
Iconic structure in a mangy bear suit, his sight framed by a snarling mouth
(which is the only family resemblance between this creature and its intended
cousin, Berlin’s mascot, ursus rampant). The suit is sweltering, and Wallinger
pauses his performance for clandestine time-outs in his boxers to escape his
private sweathouse. Tonight he can see no audience as he stands looking over an
empty plaza at the stagy skyscrapers (lit up but largely unleased) of the new
Potsdamer Platz, where, presumably, people crowd the few tourist restaurants
and twin megaplexes. Suddenly, Wallinger later recalled, none of it made sense.
All the steps leading to the moment were clear, but he couldn’t imagine what he
was doing there at the very center of the city, somehow so strange and
unmoored.
From the balcony at the
party where Wallinger told his story, the city looked unspeakably appealing,
glittery and distant. I mulled over his experience: just another Brit in a bear
suit. Funny because during the performance he had seemed a sad and mysterious
figure, no longer a national alien but an otherworldly one on whom we could
project our fantasies and expectations. Yet Wallinger’s private experience of
(us piece strangely evoked my own-and, I’m sure, many artists’ experience of
Berlin a city of disappointments and random surprises. A site for public
discourse with room for eccentricities and solitary epiphanies. A place of
boredom and disjunction. And, by the way, Wallinger’s poignant Sleeper
rightly marked-albeit a few months early-the start of a sleeper year.
Berlin has apparently clung
to its status among the world’s art capitals. At least people keep arriving.
Many are drawn—as I was a few years ago—by hopes of a messed-up city, a
supposed site of possibility. (And, of course, you’ve all heard about the
rents, the Zeno’s Paradox of Berlin being that no matter how high they rise,
they never quite reach expensive.) Moving here we expected to join a party in
progress, a city with a local scene rocketing forward. What we found was a
slump, a pleasant place where afternoons of coffee or beer could stretch and
devour studio time if not our bearings. Instead of a city in the process of
becoming, Berlin just is, forever spinning in a sloppy cycle of retooling and
renewal. Countless articles will tell you that the city is in flux, so the
artists love it, and I can’t dispute the boilerplate (it’s true that any egoist
can make rent here), but that’s not enough. The hard part has been making a
way.
Even back in the golden ‘90s,
Berlin was foremost a magnetic rum-always more import/export than homebrew-and
by now, internationalism is part of the city’s self-image as a crossroads for
the art world. What would It mean to be a Berlin artist? It’s hard not to be
struck by the fact that this year three of the four nominees for the
Nationalgalerie Prize for Young Art (Berlin’s attempt to copy the Turner) were
non- German, one in residence for barely over a year. “Local” is whoever
happens to be in town: artists who have come on grants like the DAAD and
settled, out-of-towners doing shows or just plain showing up. Even the many
German artists who call Berlin home are often identified by other pedigrees:
Leipzig, Dresden, or Hamburg. Berlin is a base, rarely an origin which can make
the city feel ungrounded, at times painfully intractable. As the years turn
over, whole circles of friends come and go. (sure, everyone passes through
eventually, but only for a day, a week a little residency or two.) It’s glamorous
occasionally—if you romanticize coal heat, gray seas and smoky parties you
could have skipped-but often it’s Just boring. Leave Berlin however, and you’ll
hear of the scene and a dozen mists who live here (and you had no ideal), and
that, of course, is the slip that keeps Berlin In play. A friend who recently
moved back to Los Angeles now reports a renewed buzz of hype in his ear. Berlin
glows again with unfulfilled expectation, and it depresses him to trunk he has
already used up his allotted time there. In ways, Berlin exists best as an
option, a potential energy. It’s the Schrödinger’s cat of hype, always both
dead and alive, as long as no one looks inside the box.
In this regard, 2005 has
been exemplary. For a while, Schröder himself was the political living dead, and
it’s been a year of transition and uncertainty all over Germany Here In the “Culture
Capital,” we saw the Beuysian equation of Kultur=Kapital tested as the city
wearily pondered its lack of real capital. Weekly protests against
Hartz-IV (the government’s program for cutbacks in social welfare) passed close
to the Palast der Republik, the former East German parliament, which is slated
for demolition to make way for a reconstruction of the old royal palace. The
building has become a rallying symbol for the idea that Berlin needs to resist
total renovation, to preserve its layers of historical ruin. A regular
procession of last-ditch exhibitions and events there seemed to delay, but
never banish, the fleet of cranes. In August, artists and architects built a
synthetic mountain of scaffolding and tarps, which felled the gutted assembly
hall and burst out the roof. Far from a radical squat, the effort, tellingly,
was a bureaucratic maze of logos, collectives, and design firms; and whale the
kids have their clubhouse, the Prussian heritage people have the money. Yet,
throughout the year, a few projects there did manage to eloquently formulate
this nineteenth- vs. twentieth-century preservationist dilemma. Lars Ramberg’s
huge sign of the German word for “doubt” made a fitting graphic crown for the
shabby former statehouse, while a film by Tacita Dean, shown at the Venice
Biennale, transformed the reflections In the building’s copper-tinted windows
into a sober reverie on time’s passing. By this time next year, the Palast may
finally be gone.
This kind of limbo seemed
to seep into life, and the year lurched along in a parade of fanfare quickly
forgotten. January saw the high, late decadence of bars posing as private
clubs: hangouts like White Trash (in an ex-Chinese restaurant) and the
art-world- run Münzsalon (in a former urologist’s office). A wave of police
raids in the early summer busted the latter and pushed the former to close
down. By September, they had simply reformed and reopened. No big deal. If we’re
not careful, the fashion for recreation and renovation may become a house
style. Late In 2004, Martin Klosterfelde returned to his former address In
Mitte to establish a project space. Within eight months, the artists Michael
Elmgreen and Ingar Dragset had already rapped the new gallery out and carefully
installed a gated passageway to the courtyard. It looked Just like any other
recently renovated building in the neighborhood and weirdly echoed Pawel
Althamer’s much-admired 2003 demolition Job on Neugerreimschneider, which
returned the gallery to its derelict, pre-New Mitte state. Suddenly, renovated
is the new trashed.
So what actually happened
in 2005? Every evening ended In a night. Shows opened loud, then fizzled. The
Flick collection, which generated such rage last year for its unholy mix of
state museum, contemporary art, and Nazi gold, quietly shut the doors on its
first hang and moved on to other shows-surveys of Urs Fischer and of Minimalism—drawn
from the collection. At Kunst-Werke, “Regarding Terror,” long stalled by
controversy over its treatment of the RAF terrorists, opened with a big scene
and little follow-up. The show managed to be neither focused nor comprehensive,
neither Jagged nor stately, and the ark of overly illustrational works simply
sailed on. At the Neue Nationalgalerie In April, there were lines out the door
for Vanessa Beecroft’s performance starring “real” women, yet no sooner was the
documentation in the can than VB55 was quickly
filed away. Douglas Gordon eulogized his own tastes—from Warhol Polaroids to
self-lubricating Matthew Barney frames—in his curated project “The VANITY of
Allegory” at the Deutsche Guggenheim, but for most denizens of this sleepy
metropolis there was merely the rumor that the attendant film program was
worthwhile.
By my tally, the year saw
good thugs ship out and good things ship in. Thomas Scheibitz went to Venice,
and Thomas Demand to MOMA. The overheated international market for German
paintings seemed, thankfully, beside the point at home (perhaps because there
aren’t enough collectors here to sustain the heavy breathing). At Galerie Neu,
Manfred Pernice assembled documents, observations, and leftovers from a razed
apartment complex and showed how an artist can be specific to a place by keeping
the fragments of vanishing structures in precise but open-ended circulation.
Among the foreign Imports, much felt rehashed or B-list, but in some cases the
lower pressure made for riskier moves. Tal R overloaded Contemporary Fine Arts,
revealing amid the clutter some of his best cards (clusters of colored lights
and dumb abstractions). Arturo Herrera (a newly minted Berliner eschewed tamer
presentations in favor of the all-or-nothing gambit of simultaneously showing
major wall drawings at the daadgalerie, Max Hetzler, and on the side of a
building overlooking remains of the Wall. Foreign dealers came, too. LA mogul
Javier Peres papered the town with ads for his giant new gallery in Treptow. He
punched a showy hole through the roof for the first opening—Terence Koh—then
let the crowds eat cake. On the other extreme, In a tiny space nestled among
old Eastern Bloc apartment towers, Italian Isabella Bortolozzi has developed a
subtle and thoughtful, if sometimes oblique, program. With room for such range,
how do we find traction?
Let me say it here: I love
Berlin. Our very inability to muster a center, the sense that we can have
action without means-these things that animally lured us here actually do
thrive. Let Berlin be a book, so I can recommend It to you; but I’ll be
embarrassed to watch you read it. It’s hard going at times, and the reasons to
love it must be particular and your own. As you shuttle from one side of town
to another, It often seems as if each venue has its own little circle and that
Berlin is just a vast pool of overlapping ripples. Accidents add up only on the
sly. More established artists can use the city as a base from which to travel
to projects elsewhere. But what of the emerging artists, Berlin’s much-vaunted,
much-imported youth? The pressures and competitions that come with urbanity are
undoubtedly powerful levers for young artists, and a clear discourse provides a
context in which a gesture or manifesto can carry meaning. So what’s there for
us in this far-flung amalgam without hierarchical ladders? Does Berlin resist
orthodox global capitalism? No. Is it a backwater? Not really. As it would
anywhere, being a foreigner engenders a self-sufficiency an ability to be alone
and unknown, but here we have a world of foreigners, a decentralized
cacophonous society. This is reason enough to be in Berlin, for here we rub
elbows with questioning and self-awareness.
We have to value what’s
casual and confounding. Commercial spaces like Giti Nourbakhsch’s feel
necessary precisely because the shows sometimes seem like home experiments.
Dutch Berliner Joep van Liefland’s show at Guido Baudach opened with the
enormous gallery full of signs for the artist’s “Video Palace,” but van
Liefland was nowhere to be seen. He was parked out back in a van, regaling the
crowd with a fridge of beer and a video of a wild boar being slaughtered. (Another
night to remember was the annual Oktoberfest at Autocenter, an exhibition space
van Liefland and fellow artist Maik Schierloh run in the eastern district of
Friedrichshain. Truly independent, they don’t clamber to seize the center but
simply run amok with programming how and when they want it.) Mean- while,
artist Josef Strau’s Galerie Meerrettich, in a tiny glass house beside the
Volksbühne, looks better than ever. Julian Göthe built a jagged screen for a
video (made with Antje Stöffler-Hamad) that conflates nostalgia, theater, and
design with mesmerizing slow pans over production stills and superimposed
Spirographs, all assembled with economy and poise. In the early summer, a huge
crowd gathered to watch Paulina Olowska and friends on the roof performing an
alphabet of full-body poses (with roots in Czech modernism) before spinning out
into a yoga of words.
Here in Berlin we can have
our hype and leave it too. This year new avatars arrived In the form of
Maurizio Cattelan, Massimiliano Gioni and Ali Subotnick, the curators of the
2006 Berlin Biennale. They came and went and visited the studio of almost
everyone I know, building expectations as if 2005 were meant only to be the
year before the-year-of-the-biennale. Indeed, they kicked things off early- and
in drag-at a new venue they’re calling Gagosian Gallery. Is it only confidence
that the trio’s inaugural show was titled “Berlin Beauties” and concerned what
else but “the friendship that has tied together three extraordinary artists and
fascinating characters”? Whatever the case, “Beauties” turned out a worthy
document of correspondence between Dieter Roth, Dorothy Iannone, and Emmett
Williams—the latter two both old-time Berlin transplants-and promises a
radically self-reflexive biennial, or else a mixed and rich one.
The truth is, we’re not
always stare what we’re doing here. But we like it, and, more importantly, it
works. I’ve finally begun to feel how the city’s broke-down ethos and maddening
multiplicity have enriched my practice. My American, East Coast background and
education have found slippery footing In a slop of Swedes, Poles, Italians,
pre- and post-Saatchi Brits and pre- and post-Wende Germans. Above all, Berlin
has decentered my cetera, shaken up a clear sense of what could be valued and
how. It’s a place to fall a bit off track, a place to live without a consensus
of ways but not without convictions. Ultimately, the city’s underlying strength
is not at all its bohemianism, but rather a simple kind of malleability, an
overlay of practices and social ideas that deflects didacticism and forces
things to pile up. This is Berlin’s promise: an aimlessness that doesn’t close
in. Few places can maintain this through so many cycles of buzz. It takes a
certain unknowing. So, it may be that the city is actually best In the off
years, those sleepy years like this one in which there are no hot new things,
Just grand nothings and the fortuitous confidence of overlapped byways and
continuous asides.
Matt Saunders is a
Berlin-based artist.