Opening Speech 28.2.1995
"I am the subject of my book..." This quote from Montaigne serves as the motto in the accompanying catalog for the exhibition. I could say, "I am the subject of my art." Should all the displayed objects then be seen as a self-representation? Pure exhibitionism? Or is it a question that all artists essentially grapple with and one that we all must confront: when we do not want to miss the meaning of our lives and sufferings?
Rembrandt painted over a hundred self-portraits; he depicted himself as a young dandy in a fashionable fur coat with a gold chain and earring, as an established painter on a wide throne-like chair, but also as the prodigal son and a down-and-out beggar. And what he initially liked to embellish—his somewhat shapeless, rugged nose—he ultimately shows as well. In his last self-portrait, preserved in a museum in Cologne, he depicts himself once more: an old, decayed face marked by illness, bearing an enigmatic smile, a smile that, in my opinion, reflects a deeper understanding of himself and the world. Through the cover of his wrinkled, swollen skin, something seems to shine through, a transparency for what I would call an indestructible, transcendent reality.
In light of these many self-portraits that accompany Rembrandt's whole life and work, I have asked myself: Why did he have to look into the mirror over and over again and paint his face? I can only explain it to myself as follows: He continually asked himself the question: Who am I?
We usually pose this question when we are 16, 17, or 18 years old. By the time we reach 20, 25, or 30, we believe we know who we are. And that is almost always where we stay.
Rembrandt could have left it at that, as it was clear to the sponsors of his art and the art world: Rembrandt is a great master. But Rembrandt does not stop. He remains true to himself, even as everyone else abandons him. He continues to ask: Who am I?
Is this not also the question that the artist continually poses in this exhibition? Right from the first picture, it becomes clear—although it depicts only a house—that "it is a self-portrait."
But why must someone expose themselves so completely, showing their wounds, their nakedness?—Because we others prefer to cloak our nudity with beautiful and expensive clothes and would rather offer a strong left hand than a mutilated right one. Because we do not want to know who we truly are. Because we would rather wear masks and present façades. Because we would rather be who we are for others. Because it is disappointing to see who we truly are. Because it hurts to rip apart the image we have of ourselves, the one that others have of us. Because it pains us to shed our old skin and allow ourselves to be renewed. Because we are in no way ready to die to be reborn.
Dying means not clinging to the image I have painstakingly crafted until I have become who I am: "the best, most talented, wildest," the established graphic designer and artist. It means letting go of the "I-am-something," of success and recognition, and the high feelings connected to that. Dying also means leaving behind and not getting stuck on injuries, disappointments, failures, feelings of guilt, on no longer wanting to live. "With each developmental stage, one lets go more." And transformation occurs. And even "pain transforms into something precious." So that I can know "that the injury to my hand is my greatest treasure."
Dying and becoming: Where does becoming lead us? It leads us to become… human: “… In failure, man comes to himself,” says the philosopher Karl Jaspers. In failure, not in success. Is it not the case that in progress, man moves away from himself? "In admitting the greatest powerlessness," however, "the highest unfolding of humanity" can occur. "Vulnerability is what connects me most with every living being."
This is the message of this exhibition. This is how the artist understands his art: as a proclamation. Thus, the artist becomes a prophet, a messenger of truth, a truth that the artist has the courage to articulate, a truth we do not like to hear. Because we prefer to hide, someone must step forward and speak the truth; someone must show themselves as they truly are. This means showing who we all are.
We believe art should be beautiful. And we are satisfied with the rosy images of our dreams and illusions from which we do not want to wake. A prophetic artist must come, one who has awakened himself through his fate, so that he is called to rouse us with his revelations.
But can what we see really be called art? If little remains of beauty? My Zen master in Japan, also a gifted artist, said the following about art:
"True art arises only where the artist has given up everything: the expectation of honor and recognition; pride; the prospect of money, of wanting to create. Only then, when he has let go of everything, can something arise that comes from the depths. Genuine art can only come from the depths… And genuine art arises from the encounter with reality." By reality, he had in mind both the external reality and the reality behind reality, which can only be experienced through connection with one's own depths.
I believe that if we contemplate what is presented here alongside the candid statements of the artist, we can say that here is someone at work who has left behind the desire for honor and money: someone who engages with their own depth; someone who confronts reality, the reality of themselves and of the world. Yes: someone who pursues the "world beyond all reality"; the world beyond the world in which we have settled and seek permanence and security, which cannot exist. Someone who can see "if the earth is an egg; how the shell breaks open." Someone who is in search of the transcendent reality on which "this world is held; life on the planet: sun, moon, the birds, and all other animals, including humans in their nakedness." It is the reality that shines in Rembrandt's late self-portrait and grants him quiet, serene peace. The way to experience this transparent reality is, of course, only through dying and being reborn anew.
However, once we have discovered and experienced the indestructible, unlosable, divine within us, then and only then will we be able to accept our nakedness, our powerlessness, our vulnerability, our neediness, and endure the need to die again and again and the transience of life and the apparent futility of all struggle. And like a child, we will allow ourselves to be surprised by everything life gifts us anew in every moment.
ERMIN DÖLL, born in 1936 in Bamberg/Germany, lives in Vienna. Theologian and Zen teacher trained with masters in Germany and Japan.