Being There, Exhibition in Public Space, Linz 1996, Excerpt from the Catalog
True artists know nothing of themselves; they do not realize that their self-evidence as human beings, as living creatures that simply exist, is something entirely and utterly unself-evident in the eyes of a blind world. They know nothing of themselves as kings and goddesses, that what they feel and are (and often perceive as foolishness or as something that should not be taken seriously) holds great, quiet value.
How could a child, while playing, come to the idea that its games might hold any value for someone else? That its innocent joy in making a sand cake could be preferred to owning the Sacher bakery?!
The small, intimate joy of one’s own existence, this inconspicuous something that promises no gain and requires no achievement, the delight in being alive like an apple on a tree—this is what characterizes a true artist, inscribed upon their heart like an invisibly radiant medallion.
If one is surrounded by water from the very beginning, how could one recognize that there is dryness, karstification, ossification, and stagnation? If one has remained a child, true to oneself, how could one understand those who have betrayed themselves to an avalanche of dead thoughts, of the world, of reality?
Anyone who has made something other than the usual, self-satisfied grave out of the apocalypse of their origin and upbringing should be called a survivor.
We have survived; we still feel the sun of childhood, and even if everyone else has forgotten it, let us still proclaim that paradise is still open.
That is why we are here.