The title of the exhibition, “The Gap the Devil Leaves,” is a direct reference to Alexander Kluge’s book of the same name. In it, he shows very clearly that wherever systems attempt to create order and coherence, something inevitably remains open, a gap in which the potential for change resides. He develops this idea through numerous stories, anecdotes, and fragments. For me, this gap is closely connected to painting. It is what I engage with most intensely and what fulfills me the most. In the practice of painting, I find the possibility to at least partially withdraw from systematic structures and, despite social and political constraints, to assert a form of relative freedom. At the same time, we are currently experiencing profound shifts that require a new way of engaging with the present. Our generation, shaped by neoliberalism, is used to smoothing over contradictions at least on a linguistic level, even as conditions become more tense. In recent years, also due to political developments such as Trump’s second presidency, this sense of stability has noticeably shifted. Within this necessary change of mode lies a strong potential to move beyond passivity and to collectively find new “gaps.”

The paintings in the exhibition are exclusively portraits and depict myself as well as people from my immediate circle, essentially my generation. The figures are partially covered with fabrics and thereby evade a clear, direct gaze. Often only the eyes remain visible, looking straight back at the viewer. I am interested in preserving the subjecthood of the depicted figures, not making them fully accessible or reducible to a single reading. At the same time, I withdraw from the expectation of providing clear answers through the work. Instead, the gaze is returned. The viewer is placed in a position where they become more involved and are forced to confront their own role. For me, this returning gaze is also a reflection on the painting as an object. As a painter, I produce works that circulate within a market. They are bought, displayed, and filled with meanings that are no longer under my control. In this process, they are often fixed into certain interpretations or, in a way, neutralized. What interests me is what happens if a painting resists this process. What if it does not become still after being bought, but continues to look back and to pose questions.

In the works of the new exhibition, I deliberately refer to the history of painting, particularly to portrait painting since the Renaissance. At that time, portraits were primarily commissioned by wealthy citizens and merchants, who expressed their social status, among other things, through the clothing they wore in the paintings. At the same time, oil painting gained importance and gradually replaced tempera, not least because it allowed for a more vivid and physical rendering of skin. In my work, materiality also plays a central role, but with a different function. The fabrics no longer point to status or representation; instead, they serve as a means of withdrawal. They are placed over the figures and disrupt a clear and stable visibility. This also shifts the promise inherent in Renaissance portraiture. Representation gives way to refusal. What remains is no longer a symbolically charged attribute, but rather a functional residue, a piece of fabric that conceals rather than reveals. These fabrics are painted in thick layers of oil paint, while the skin is built up in thin layers of egg tempera. This creates a contrast between materiality and figure. The surface appears dense and physical, while the depicted bodies seem fragile and almost flattened. The material acts almost like a protective layer. At the same time, I am interested in the question of a form of realism that does not simply return to traditional models, but is reformulated under contemporary conditions. Realism has lost relevance over the past decades, yet it seems to have become urgent again today. As social and political conditions shift, this also affects art. For me, this means starting again, questioning certain assumptions, and rethinking the possibilities of painting under present conditions.

I usually approach my work in a theme-based way, so that each exhibition initiates a new line of thinking. At the beginning, there is often a process of collecting painterly ideas that have accumulated over a longer period of time. Certain areas within the image that particularly interest or engage me are then further developed and explored. At the same time, I engage extensively with theoretical questions and try to incorporate both my own situation and that of my surroundings into the work. In this process, I often come across words, book titles, films, or other references that gradually condense. The works often emerge from a combination of things that shape me personally, that I am interested in, or that I find myself in tension with. For example, I dedicated a previous exhibition to wrestling, which has accompanied me since childhood, and connected it to questions of physicality, staging, and precarious conditions. Once a conceptual framework has taken shape, my working process shifts significantly. The act of painting then becomes more focused and almost methodical. I have a clear idea of what I want to realize and work over long periods in a concentrated and repetitive manner. This more monotonous process, detached from the initial moment of inspiration, is actually a central part of my practice. It creates a state of concentration in which I become fully absorbed in the work and everything else recedes into the background.