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 do i live / then i live! –

do i die / then i die!

non-committal comments on the drawings of thomas palme

an abundant willingness to blossom can be found in the picture-world of thomas palme. the most personal and the most remote alike are in hallowed bloom – and, since it wants to remain hallowed, it veils itself in mystery. the drawings have no other aim than themselves. no drawing, to paraphrase a quote by stefan george, will ever carry the name „drawing“ in such a truly dignified way than that, which has been brought onto paper solely for the joy of it.

the picture-world created by thomas palme blossoms in the anarchic space of art. here, morbid surprises may celebrate death as an erotikon, contrasts may persist as open wounds, trashy obscenities may meet canonized or dubious persons of (intellectual) history. art is not in sync with the world. the liberation from the knout of rationality alone suffices to turn art into provocation, to challenge the beholder to a fight, to confront himself with something that, without the artwork’s impulse, would have remained concealed to him; the provocation is an imposed enlightenment which creeps into the beholders’ heads in slow motion.

it is time to create a counterweight to the hyped and youthful la-di-da, the systematic medial stultification of the people. in the consumptive counter-world which palme designs, the trimmed fin-the-siècle and art-brut shoots branch out like irredeemably lustful twigs; twigs of a tree of life planted on a german cemetery. with freedom, tempo, vehemence palme inoculates it with a demonic rank growth. his stroke never deadens into the delicate; still, his drawings appear to be fine and concise, probably also because they exhaust the options of graphite on paper; from almost invisible, precise strokes to the gestural-impulsive  inking that dominates the entire paper; from the finest hair to the darkest hole, everything seems feasible and graspable. it is the same with the texts that are inscribed into the drawings as with any other text in combination with a work of art: it is either denominator, key, trap, or seal.

palme’s picture-world is located somewhere between being and becoming, appearing and dying; in a quick, unprecedented creative concentration he generates his diabolic icons. there is not an image which has not been co-drawn by death and which does not sound like a distorted chord on a punk-guitar. “just no boredom/it is death for this” the golden lemons sing; the sweet chimera of death lures from the paper – who looks at her cannot but break through the appealing and multi-faced surfaces of these drawings – even if, afterwards, one feels as if one had been forced to look into a bum’s begging cup. there is no clarity, only baroque charm. there is no moral assessment in this world in which everything remains forever vain. and if a tempest is brewing in benighted derangement, it shall be purifying and beautiful. i myself was looking out the window one night between thunder and lightning and thought: i admire the moths which, despite the hard tempestuous rain, are fluttering round the streetlight by the hundreds. and i thought: i despise the moths which, despite the hard tempestuous rain, are fluttering round the streetlight by the hundreds.

                                                                             arne rautenberg, poet

 

>> information about the artist - thomas palme

>> flyer "die schöne müllerin" (jpg, 349kb)

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