293 I 2 I 7

Canvas stretched over a wooden stretcher frame, framed in wood

signed on the front.

Title: 293 I 2 I 7

Dimensions: 180 cm x 140 cm (framed 182 cm x 142 cm)

Technique: Airbrush on acrylic on canvas

Year of creation: 2026

The price includes the artwork, a certificate of authenticity, the frame and postage within Germany.

If desired, the artwork can be viewed and collected in advance (by prior arrangement) in Berlin-Moabit.

Small animals are hopping about on the reflection of the morning sun on this lake. There are hundreds of them, some moving and some basking in the sun. They belong together and you can clearly see that. They see me, recognise me, and move in the opposite direction to me, like a shepherd and his sheep. 

The small animals on the lake look like water droplets on a cloudy early autumn morning. They look half awkward, half mechanical as they hop about, their feet forming a perfect square. They hop in all sorts of directions to find tiny bits of what they call food. There are small animals on the ground in front of me. I sit on a bench in an inner-city park, looking at tiny stones that are almost like sand. The closer I look, the more creatures I see: ants carrying things, flies that seem to be frantically searching for something, wasps taking their last autumn breath before they die and won’t return until spring. 

Some children are playing with the mixture of small animals and tiny rocks, building pyramids on cloud nine. There are small creatures strolling about in this gentle light of shimmering clouds, and I am one of them. I move, I move things and I breathe. I look at other small animals; I feel close to some of them. I rest and I’m hungry until I’m no longer hungry. Everything I am returns to this planet – my poo and my wee, the things I build that get torn down again, and eventually myself. Small animals on the washing-up I forgot to do. They eat what I cooked: leftovers of chicken, peas and potatoes with gravy, wine and even some vanilla ice cream. What a time to be alive. Dry plants drinking water for the first time in twenty days. The water disappears within seconds into the soil and, in a way, into the leaves. I study the leaves intently, trying to elicit some reaction from them. There is a small animal walking on the leaves. We make things move that don’t move. We are the movers, the dreamers of movement. Everything moves, just at all sorts of paces. The pace of this little creature is not the plants’ pace, nor is it my pace, nor the light’s pace. I sit still on the bed in my flat, watching things move. Trees are glistening and dancing about in the afternoon sun. 

There is one tree whose leaves are the same colour as the inside of an unripe avocado on the upper side and a Rothko-like green on the underside. People are walking by in harmony, mostly in groups, making their way to their destinations or their loved ones. They do what they must do, what lies within them and what nature has told them. 

Grey clouds, in many shades, hang over us in this endless expanse of sky. Here and there are small patches of blue, mingled with duller greys and a strong wind – the sort that carries you almost effortlessly in one specific direction. The air feels full of life; the light and its contrasts almost make my heart melt. Runners with dogs are passing by. There’s a static hum – it could be the sea or the motorway. What does it matter? 

I sit by the river. All sorts of plants surround me; someone is watering them. It is a place that is very well looked after. I see: rose hips, nettles, ferns, clover and many other flowers that have chosen to bloom in early autumn. The sun casts shadows that are just the right length for the wind to create a play of shadows amongst the leaves. Bumblebees are all around, doing what keeps things moving. 

I see more and more…