The search for ways to express what happens inside...

...expanded to words. The right words. Not to make anything clear. Far from it.

”The end of winter”

It’s cold and white

and the horizon dances around

in a wide, wide circle

and doesn’t seize to tease

From the dark, grey sky

come the white, white flakes

and my chill reaches the ground,

simultaneously and just as silent

If spring’s gonna start here

I swore I’d take it like a man

or like a flower

and drink the melting snow

And what I imagine to be

an arm around my shoulder

will be

gently falling rain

1991

oil on canvas

(40x50)

”I touch, I stroke, I feel”

The deafening silence thunders,

has her wings spread over my wings and sings

She sings between my fingers,

her thoughts hang on my shoulders for now

I touch her briefly

stroke her kindly

I feel her warmth from within

The darkness on a horse is in here

It shouts no words

It screams no sounds

Invisible for the eye in daylight

Not to be mentioned in a motionless night

I touch her briefly

stroke her kindly

I feel her warmth from within

1991

oil on plywood

(67 x 67)

”The thought”

One day one of the dices will explode

on a round table, making music disappear

I captured a thought in a bell below the ceiling

Could do nothing more than open a window

& hope it was all & would be forever

I know the feeling was mutual

The thought loved to leave me behind

and independently fill another sky

1991

oil on something

(20 x 35)

Still trying to find the obvious, anew

”To all of your commands I obey,

who made your world

and created your life

To all of my commands you obey,

who wander through my world

and live all of my lives”

1990

various techniques on chipwood

(80 x125)

Sold.

Lost the title, have to get back on that... it's oil on something very hard though... Sold, also.1

”So be it, coffee spilled over broken wishes”

Well both in the flesh

needed abstract utilities

Invisible in the hugh, high hall

was the man with the lamp

I walked right through him

as I once did before

So be it, coffee spilled over broken wishes

My island floats,

I feel secure

Between this winters’ pearls

I take my humble bow

1990

oil on plywood

(75 x 88)

On the brink of the roaring '90-ties

”Absurd rain”

Whispered sentences through the park

Thought them making sense

in absurd rain

Small sounds suggesting silence

The grey grassland is wrinkling its’ skin

humoured by the noisy speed of youth

1990

oil on projection-screen

(42 x 74)

This one initially started in the same Kibbutz, Gesher Haziv, a very strange Christmas-evening with a Danisch co-volunteer, and later, different strange countries later, finished at home.

”At times I sniff reality”

At times I sniff reality

At times, when you’re discribing

this world to me,

I long to see it

At times I fantasise a two steps further,

turn my back

& whisper words of soothing to the past

Deaf as it looks through me in future

I twirl in present

Find no grip

in has been or will be

1990

oil on plywood

(80 x 120)

”Why compliment her with the beauty of her skin”

Freedom is in naked shoulders

Sometimes in just bare feet

What I want to do lies behind tomorrow

A night, a barrier to overcome,

smooth and easy and like a dream

Nothing interests me more

than the mood that’ll hold my hands

& I hope I can put them on my belly

and make them smile to what’s in there

1990

various techniques on chipboard

(40 x 50)

And then there's a world to explore

Sometimes you mumble, sometimes you cry. Every once in a while you just got to scream a bit. And slowly the feeling starts to take root that not all has to be said...

”My eyes just simply have to touch”

I make them; these days of present

push them over,

call them mine

I can see the life within you

My eyes just simply have to touch

1989

crayon on newspaper

(50 x 70)

I made this one when living in a kibbutz. Didn't have much more material than crayons and newspapers.

”Splinters of an athmosphere”

While forgotten music holds the grass,

just above its’ roots

& stops it from moving with the winds,

sure of itself

as only a child or a cat can be,

I start to like the darkness,

‘cause her thoughts are of her own

Yes, she is female

& I draw the lines between images

& feel the splinters of an athmosphere

1989

oil on linen

(30 x 40)

Then came a time of trying, finding ways to speak with paint

When the smell of oilpaint first passed my nostrils, took a turn to the left and decided to stay...

”Her silence”

The water did her flowing

turning, twirling to the left

She watched

Her feet embraced

the surface of a flat stone

Her fingers watched her

from strange positions in the water

Stopped watching

when she felt her thoughts dragged out

The stream was grinning

Ruthless sun burning

Invisible voices stopped for a moment

& her silence held it all between two fingers

1988

oil on canvas

(40 x 50)

”I’ve got three voices to talk to thin air

Not one of them needs to be heard”

1988

oil on canvas

(65 x 80)

”Will I sleep on a mirror tonight

& break it with my dreams?”

1988

oil on linen

(65 x 80)

The last ones both have been sold. The second one really was a trade for a cooler, that, after a very long and succesfull carreer finally passed away. Softly. With a smile on it's door.

One of the first works ever, if I'm right this piece of plywood used to be the backside of a cupboard... The first load of oilpaint and brushes came from two deceised granddads...

”Curle up & hide”

Senseless in a way of speaking

I close my eyes and feel

the inside of my egg-shell

Perfectly round, a million familiar spots

No reason to get out of here

but curiosity and a strong urge to

-finally-

stretch my leggs

Senseless in a way of speaking

I open my eyes and feel

the sharves of my egg-shell

Divided, broken, a million now alienated spots

No possibillity to get back in there

Just a little fear and a strong urge to

-again-

curl up and hide

We’ll all grow up to be wise children

1988

oil on plywood

(45 x 65)