Dr Paul Wrede


Gefangen im Netz – befreit durch Farben – es bleiben sicherlich auch Narben

Natürlich, wann immer ich auf die orange blauen Netzfragmente vom Deich der Insel Pellworm blicke, bringt mich das farblich sehr schöne Gebilde immer wieder dazu, in der Beschäftigung mit dem Thema Meeres-Schonung nicht nachzulassen. Viel Schönes, Ansprechendes steckt oft im Gefährlichen, gut, ich erfreue mich immer an den harmonischen Farben und schöpfe die Kraft daraus, um das Gefährliche, Schädliche dauerhaft bekämpfen zu können.

paul wrede


Alexander Ross

Artist, Massachusetts

Habits for Feeding Creativity

• Give yourself time for wandering curiosity and playing with no goals in mind.
• Make an effort to care about the small or unusual details wherever you may be.
• Read all kinds of poetry, recent and past.
• Make mental models of procedures.
• Constantly look at new art and listen to new music.
• A good formula for energy management; nap + espresso = productivity.
• Always follow up on suggestions people give you for books, music, art, and film.
• Occasionally reconsider cultural things you think you hate; taste changes.


Linda Karshan

Künstlerin, London/New York

The counts, and their rhythms, are internal to me since 1994. They are that ‚moving figure assigned to me.’ They CONDUCT my movements and thoughts throughout the working day...and beyond.


Nanne Meyer

Künstlerin, Berlin

Gedanken, Ideen, Inspiration, Zeichnungen kommen nicht aus dem Nichts. Sie werden vorbereitet. Ich ebne ihnen Wege über die Aufmerksamkeit, damit sich etwas einstellen kann, was nicht auszudenken ist.
Es sind oft Rückstände aus eigenen Arbeitsprozessen, auch Reste, Angefangenes, Worte, Schnipsel und Ränder, dem Papierkorb entkommene Nichtigkeiten, auch Fotos, Landkarten, Ansichtskarten, unterschiedliche Papiere usw. lauter Augenwinkeleien, die meine Aufmerksamkeit auf sich ziehen, die ich auf- und einsammle. In Stapeln und Schachteln auf dem Tisch geordnet und ausgebreitet, bilden sie den Humus für Verknüpfungen im Denken. Denken wird nicht nur aus Worten gemacht, ist gleichermaßen Flüstern, Sehen, Rascheln , Fühlen, Bewegen usw. befasst sich mit Papier und Werkzeugen, mit Bildern aller Art, ist anschaulich und haptisch.

Ein Winkel meines Gehirns wird auf einem Tisch ans Licht gebracht: Möglichkeitsort, Wartezimmer, Handlungsraum, offen für Unerwartetes und das Verknüpfen von Disparatem. Dazwischen bahnen sich die Linien ihre Wege. Eine Zeichnung entsteht.

Nanne Meyer

Ausschnitt aus der Installation von Nanne Meyer, die einen Tisch mit diversen gefüllten Kartonen beinhaltet.


Carrie Beehan

Songwriter, performer, New York

Inspiration comes from the fleeting sentence snippet in subway/store/street while passing, the tattooed statement on the woman's back, the tears and wailing of the broken-hearted stranger on the subway bench, the invitation to sealed rooms and private groups ranging from dens of inequity to offices in the Empire State Building. Every NYC ambulance siren a damaged or saved person, every fire engine and police siren the possibility of more anguish and shock or rescue and relief, every hustle a charged and concentrated need for an end destination, ruled by money, time, history, culture, status, profession, celebrity obsession, humor, pace, space, synchronicity, your personal trajectory and reruns of Saturday Night Live gems.

carrie image
Ausschnitt aus der Installation von Carrie Beehan: eine Ecke des Ausstellungsraums wurde mit billigem PVC ausgelegt und mit den Utensilien einer Songwriterin bestreut.


Fabio Sonnino

Bühnen- und Kostumbildner, Rom


To come up with my perfect state of mind, I must feel concentrated, but free to think about everything.

I access it drawing sketches on recycled sheets of paper, on the white side, or on sheets of newspapers where I rediscovered classic images represented with popular language.

Daily routine helps me to improve my spirit and the maximum speed of ideas.

fabio sonnino


Lorenzo Rocha

Architekt, Mexikostadt

In order to work I need peace of mind. There are two specific moments in my daily routine that give me peace and contribute to clear my mind before I start to work.
The first one is taking my five-year-old daughter to her school. We take my bicycle. We have done that every week day since the last two years. She sings or talks to me sometimes, but mainly she sits in her chair. The school is about one and a half kilometers away from our home. We always take the same route.
The second moment is when I take my dog for a walk. He is ten years old and we have done that since he was a puppy. We have lived together in four different places, but we always go for a walk together. We have lived in the present apartment for the last two years. It's very close to a big park, so we either go there or just around the block if I don't have much time.
In fact, that's exactly what we did today.
For this exercise, I have asked my daughter to document our journey to school, she has a small wrist camera. After that, I attached a camera to my dog's head and programmed it to shoot a photograph every thirty seconds during our morning walk to the park.
I like these two parts of my daily routine, because they are repetitive, but at the same time they are different each day. It's like Heraclitus’s aphorism: “One cannot step into the same stream twice”.
The same thing happens when I visit a building, I have often had the experience of being moved by a building on my first visit, disappointed with it on the second and overjoyed by it, on my third encounter.


Prof Dr Sue Denham

Neurowissenschaftlerin, Plymouth

Every morning I swim in the sea
Every day the same
Everyday different
Everyday vivid sensual present

Sue Denham


Thomas Stammer

Production Designer, Berlin

ABRAUM - oder auf der Asche der Gedanken wachsen die Visionen. Für mich ich das was ich jeden Tag mache und was mir meinen Kopf immer wieder für neue Ideen freimacht: Zerreißen und Wegwerfen—Platz schaffen für das Neue. ABRAUM ist eines meiner Lieblingsworte und ein Text, an dem ich schon seit 20 Jahren arbeite.

thomas stammer


Mark Pascale

Kurator, Künstler, Chicago

Napping or Cooking

I don’t have a conscious method for being creative, or for capturing the creative moment. I have long believed that the creative process is organic and relational. One activity feeds into another. Sometimes, I have creative momentum in the moments just before sleeping—particularly when grabbing an impromptu nap. This is an infrequent activity.
Early in my career, as I was establishing personal studio methods, I was also teaching myself to cook. Most of my cooking was based on memories of food I enjoyed growing up—Italian American dishes for the most part. I enjoyed watching my grandmother in the kitchen. My graduate advisor was a serious gourmet—someone who could talk for two hours about flavored vinegars. I paid attention to his broad view in the kitchen. Creativity is largely intuitive, and cooking is creative, so I allowed myself to imagine the process of cooking as analogous to making art. Both require discrete operations and layering, and both are very hands-on. The tactile is important to me, as an element and as motivation. Since transitioning to work as a curator, cooking has become an even more important activity for me. The process of cooking keeps me connected to what I knew and felt when making art objects, and also satisfies right brain exercise. It’s not verbally articulated, just as making art was never a verbal activity for me.
People always ask me what is my favorite thing—favorite artist, work of art, museum, gallery, whatever. I have very catholic taste, and this kind of question is embarrassing to me. It’s much easier to offer something that brings me great pleasure to make and consume, such as this winter soup that has become a staple in my cold weather repertoire. As always, the recipe is provisional, and subject to what is on hand, and how I finish it, but the elements listed here provide a good start. Hint, it’s even better using broccoli instead of cauliflower, and also not pureeing the entire pot of soup—leaving some solids.

mark pascale


Owen Schuh

Künstler, San Francisco

Before I begin my work I like to have a cup of tea. I prepare the tea using simple ceremony. This helps me calm the mind and bring awareness to the senses. This is very important since my work deals so directly with mind and form. Tea itself is an important material in my work. I use to to stain much of my paper, which gives it a nice golden depth. My favorite type of tea is pu-ehr (I prefer the raw, sheng-style pu-erhs). They are often compressed into discs or brick, and are one of the few teas that improve with age.

This is one of my favorite brewing vessels. My wife and I bought them while traveling in Korea a few years ago.

owen schuh


Béatrice Gysin

Künstlerin, Biel

Die täglichen Rituale oder: “Was mich einstimmt”

Seit Jahren sammle ich morgens die Haare in meinem Kamm und forme sie zu Kugeln. In ca. 2-3 Wochen entsteht auf diese Weise eine kleine Haarkugel.
Dieses Ritual—vor Jahren entstanden aus dem Entschluss heraus, das Verstopfen des Ablaufs im Wasserbecken und vor allem das ekelhafte Entstopfen desselben zu verhindern—wurde für mich mit der Zeit zu einer bedeutungsvollen Handlung. Mit dieser einfachen Geste—dem Sammeln und Formen von Haaren zu einer kleinen Kugel—beginnt mein Tag. Sie stimmt mich ein auf Kontinuität, Zeitdauer, Geduld, Wachsamkeit. Eine Handlung, die darin besteht, etwas absolut Wertloses—sich im Kamm verhedderte Haar— in etwas für mich Kostbares zu verwandeln. Die langsam über eine unbestimmte Zeitspanne hinweg sich formende kleine Kugel stimmt mich seither täglich ein ins Handeln und Denken.
Ich lerne, dass ich wachsam bleiben muss: Veränderungen bedürfen der kontinuierlichen Aufmerksamkeit. Wenn ich nachlässig bin, ist rasch die alte Unordnung wieder hergestellt: Das Abflussrohr verstopft. Also muss ich dranbleiben an der täglich sich wiederholenden Handlung.
Ich lerne, dass die Zeit fließt. Oder dass ich mich in der Zeit vorwärts bewege. Die Kügelchen werden immer mehr. Es ist totes Material. Es sind meine Haare. Vergänglichkeit in homöopathischen Dosen sozusagen. Eine einzelne kleine Kugel ist ein Linienkonglomerat. Ein Linien-Knäuel. Ein Wirbel um eine Mitte herum. (Ein Satellit?) Eine räumliche Zeichnung, die eine bereits abgeschlossene Zeitspanne bezeichnet.
Ein zweites Ritual:
 Das Ankommen im Atelier: hochziehen, Licht an, auf dem Zeichentisch die Spuren des Vortags finden. Die Spitzabfälle, die Werkzeuge, das Papier. Vielleicht eine bereits begonnene Zeichnung. Der prüfende Blick. Weiterzeichnen. Wachsam sein.
In der Mitte des Morgens eine Kaffeepause.
Wenn es stockt: Manchmal hilft der Blick in die Pflanztöpfe vor dem Atelier. Was wächst denn da? Heute schaut mich der Helleborus an. Und die Schneeglöckchen. (Diese Kraftwerke, die unbeirrt durch den Schnee hindurch in die Höhe wachsen). Dass die nicht frieren? Ein wenig in der Erde wühlen. Etwas. Bei den Pflanzen Zeit verplempern.
Manchmal hilft es zu schauen, was ich früher gezeichnet habe, vor ein paar Monaten, vor einem Jahr, vor einigen Jahren. Wie verläuft die Spur? In welche Richtung. Nachdenken.
Manchmal hilft es zu schauen, was andere machen. Zeit mit Büchern verbringen. (Oft wieder mit den selben). Oder in Museen durch die Säle wandern, um nach Verwandtschaften, nach Überraschungen zu suchen. “Wo gibt es etwas für mich?” Oft sind es Details, die mich anhalten. Irritierendes,
Skurriles, Befremdendes, Unerwartetes. Oder es zieht mich wieder zu jener Gruppe von Malereien, die ich bereits x-mal angeschaut habe, zu jenem Farbfleck, zu jener Geste, zu jenem Blick, zu jenem Pinselstrich. Erscheinungen, die ich stets wieder aufsuche und die mich nähren. (Les Primitifs francais, im Louvre, z. Bsp.). Zeichnungsausstellungen sind für mich Energie-Tankstellen: Es ist unwichtig, wie alt die gezeichneten Spuren sind, denen ich mit den Augen folge. Unmittelbar kann ich in ihren Zeitraum eintreten. Die Entstehungskraft einer Linie erscheint ungebrochen. Sie zeigt das Tempo auf, in dem sie hingesetzt wurde. Die Erscheinungsformen der Linien lassen mich mitschwingen oder mitzittern, mitzögen, je nachdem... Derart beschenkt mit Energie fremder Zeichnerinnen und Zeichner, kann ich wieder eintauchen in mein eigenes Tätig sein.
Manchmal hilft gegen das Stocken auch das Ordnen der Dinge als nützliche Ersatzhandlung: Die Stifte in die Schachtel. Das Blau zum Blau. Das Grün zum Grün. Den Tisch abwaschen, und die Spitzabfälle entsorgen. Die in Schachteln gelagerten Zeichnungen chronologisch stapeln. Die Neuordnung außen bewirkt auch Neuordnung innen, schafft freien Denk-Raum.
Welche Rolle spielt die tägliche Routine?
Der Begriff “Routine” trifft nicht auf meine Arbeitshaltung zu. “Routine” verstehe ich als fraglose Könnerschaft, als technische Versiertheit. Ich beginne meine Zeichnungen jedoch meist ohne zu wissen, wohin mich die Reise den Linien entlang führen wird, in welchem Ausmaß sich Flachen ausbreiten werden. Trotz der Intension zu Beginn eine bestimmte Richtung einzuschlagen, trotz einer Absicht, begleiten mich stets auch Nichtwissen, Zweifel, kritisches Beobachten der aufscheinen—den Spur und Neugier, wie sich die Dinge entwickeln werden.
Während ich hier diese Gedanken aufschreibe, frage ich mich: Vielleicht ist es auch nicht wichtig, “täglich” zu zeichnen? Vielleicht genügt es, wachsam zu bleiben. Bereit. Warten, bis sich etwas vordrängt. Bis das Denken ins Handeln umschlägt. Es gibt diesen inneren Film, der nie abbricht. Vielleicht genügt es manchmal, “zeichnen zu denken”. Wichtig sind für mich die Verwandtschaften, die Momente der Übereinstimmung. Sie begegnen mir manchmal plötzlich in einer Melodie, in einem Klang, in einem Satz. Oder in Buchform, als literarische Stimme. Manchmal ist es ein Ort, oder die Fotografie eines Ortes, der mich atmen lässt. Orte von großer Weite und Ereignislosigkeit. Am liebsten schneebedeckt. Wenn es schneit, arbeite ich mit Leichtigkeit. Eigentlich warte ich das ganze Jahr auf den Schnee.
Vielleicht sind meine Rituale zur Einstimmung, zum Fokussieren auf die Arbeit, Ersatzhandlungen in Erwartung auf das chaotisch wirbelnde Schneien, auf das Weiß, das die Welt vor meinem Atelierfenster in ein weißes, unbezeichnetes Blatt verwandelt? Eine Verwandlung, die beflügelt.



Phil Minton

Jazz/free improvisation vocalist, London

Preparing my voice and brain for performance. A ritual, and a necessity.
I do this daily, but never in airports.


Juliane Laitzsch

Künstlerin, Berlin

Mein tägliches Ritual, das die künstlerische Arbeit begleitet, ist:

am Fenster stehen
und raus schauen

Dabei fokussiert meine Aufmerksamkeit meist ein Detail, das ich über einen längeren Zeitraum verfolge. Momentan sind es die Vögel am Futterhaus, denen ich täglich Zeit widme.

Juliane Laitzsch


Saul Fletcher

Künstler, Berlin

Cock Sucker Blues, 2016
2 parts, mixed media, ca 110 x 95 x 80 cm

saul fletcher


Liliane Lijn

Künstlerin, London

I do about 30 minutes of short form Tai Chi every morning when I wake up and a few yoga exercises. These keep me fit and possibly also grounded. Apart from that, I really don’t have time for inspirational rituals. I am desperate to find enough clear time to make work. Much of my work needs a lot of organization, research for materials and technological design so when a gap opens in which I can draw or work myself on an intensely creative side of the work, I jump into it without any need for preparatory ritual.
There are two aspects to this situation. I believe that the main reason that I don’t have time for preparatory rituals is that I am a woman artist, who has also had children. But perhaps, even if I hadn’t had children, even women who don’t have children will feel this urgency, this compulsion to create/work whenever they can. Seize the minute, not the day, since the day inevitably fills up with so many other obligations. I have observed with envy the lives of famous men so totally dedicated to their ‘art’, who always seem to have some dedicated soul ready to look after their every daily need. Even when a woman is free to work at her ease, there is still the practical side of making things, there is communication and all sorts of administrative jobs that need to be off-loaded or taken care of before one can find the space and time to focus entirely on one’s art. For these reasons, I don’t need any rituals.
The images I photographed were of torn and pulled together polythene coverings to protect plants in a pineapple plantation above the lake of Tiberias in Israel. The resemblance to a draped female figure was startling. A figure that might perhaps have walked that very hillside thousands of years ago. A bride. The polythene appeared also as veils, curtains filtering light, partially obscuring the view. These sudden encounters with fertile material, whatever they may be, are the stuff of inspiration, the food for continuing my work.

lijn image


Dr Arndt Pechstein

Neurowissenschaftler, Berlin

Mein Anker zu kreativem Arbeiten ist die Natur. Sie erdet mich durch die Besinnung auf das Gegenwärtige. Sie inspiriert mich durch die Ästhetik und Brillanz ihrer Formen und Vielfalt. Sie stimmt mich positiv auf Grund ihrer wertungsfreien Existenz. Und sie gibt mir eine Vision und ein Ziel, diese Natur zu erhalten. Diese positive Stimmung ist der Motor für neue Ideen, für scheinbar endlose Energie und für den Drang, Dinge zu verändern.
Durch verschiedene Formate versuche ich, mich täglich mit Natur zu umgeben. In meinem Office schaue ich durch ein direkt über dem Schreibtisch befindliches Dachfenster auf drei Baumwipfel, die sich in zehn Metern Entfernung im Wind wiegen. Oft nutzen verschiedene Vögel die Äste als Rastplatz. Im Frühjahr und Sommer arbeite ich regelmäßig mit offenem Fenster, um von Vogelgezwitscher umgeben zu sein. Oft verlagere ich meine Arbeit sogar nach draußen. Im Winter hole ich mir die Natur ins Büro und spiele Vogelgezwitscher von digitalen Medien im Hintergrund. Den Blick auf die Baumwipfel habe ich dabei auch im Winter. Gelegentlich gehe ich einfach ins Freie und spaziere durch einen nahe gelegenen Park oder Wald.


Massimo Morasso

Poet, Genua

The artist, no matter of what sort or what his medium, must be moved by the nature of whatever art he practices. Among the artists, the poet, when he’s a poet, lives in a space between word and silence: the inter-stresses of the “voice” and the “hush” create an internal balance in the case of writing (or aiming to write) poetry.
I don’t regard myself as an exception to this grammar. On the contrary, I can see myself as a living example of it. Creative vitality normally comes to me via music, and this has to do with the poet’s task, as in my opinion “poet” means, at root, someone similar to a “carpenter of song” called to work mainly on rhythm, even more carefully, as it seems, than on images and concepts.
To free my mind and concentrate myself, for a long time now I am used to listen to a limited number of touching masterpieces of the so called “chamber music,” mostly string quartets, which I feel as its purest expressions, and among them, mostly the adagios. I don’t know why I prefer the adagios. I’ve never thought of such a motivation before. As a matter of fact, I can try to answer, they help my mind to get into a “quiet time” ruled by a silent, fertile dialogue between hearth and breath, and their (our) dynamics of expansion and contraction...
So I owe a great debt to a few composers that are going along me for years through my spiritual hunt. We know - it goes without saying - that the question “By what means or agency is poetry?” cannot be answered. But we know as well that one of the causes of which what we define poetry is a dependent involves the achievement of a particular “tone”, and involves that achievement at an especially heightened tension. I am very far from thinking that the capacity of this “achievement” depends on the nature and the quality of some listenings, of course. I think only that when I get empty and feel at ease listening to Corelli or Messiaen, f.i., it may happen that the “line of beauty” within me is moved, and that the material and immaterial elements of my mental reality mix together, preparing myself to host the “poetical word”—whatever it means.
Usually, I work with words six days per week. And everyday my mood swings decide the pieces I’m going to choose. When I’ve made my choice, I often go on obsessively listening and re-listening my “favorite” one, until I find the right (let’s say) “linguistic temperature” to begin to write.
These six fragments are just a possible example of one of my regular weeks. And give a hint on how to conceive a short but not banal listening guide:

Arcangelo Corelli: Concerto Grosso in Sol minore, Op. 6 No. 8
Anton Bruckner: Adagio aus dem Streichquintett F-Dur
Anton Webern: Langsamer Satz
Olivier Messiaen: Quatuor pour la fin du temps: 5 Louange à l'Eternité de Jésus
Luigi Nono: Fragmente-Stille, an Diotima
Arvo Pärt: Silentium

Massimo’s playlist


Neil Gall

Künstler, London

Dear Rebeccah and Kit,

1) To get in the “zone” as part of a “daily routine”—I read four pages of Proust—unless I’ve got a physical task to start the day. I work at home. The studio is at the bottom of the garden and it helps to separate things.

2) All artists seem to have postcards on their walls—like teenagers! Here is me: “Titian’s First Essay in Colour” by William Dyce. An otherworldly image.

3) Love “Forever Changes”—I don’t actually play this to start the day! However, I remember reading that Morrissey used to play it every morning when he woke up. I think this anecdote may have been the first time I heard of such a “ritual”—that was not religious. I even tried it for a while (same record) as a teenager. Maybe some kind of Satori would be revealed, I thought.

Anyway I’ve always remembered the story and since the artist’s studio is part professional workshop/part teenager’s bedroom, I enclose a C.D. of said album. I seem to have lost my original L.P..

Choosing the ‘first’ record to play in the studio remains important to me—to set the mood—for ART!

image alt text


Thora Dolven Balke

Künstlerin, Berlin/Oslo

When I’m moving my thoughts can wander and focus on nothing in particular. I like looking at surroundings passing by, through small lenses and low resolution that struggle to keep up with the shifting landscapes and light. How the camera fails to capture the depth of the visual experience and makes something new and other.

Nulla Dies Sine Linea @ Satellite Berlin from Thora Dolven Balke on Vimeo.


Amber Stucke

Künstlerin, San Francisco

My daily routine is the words that I say to myself every morning: Thank You.

I don't draw every day, but when I do, I need to be able to access the state of mind of becoming to make my drawings. I do go for walks in the woods, read and cook quite a lot—but not every day. It is the words that I say that remind me as a daily practice.


Robert Gschwantner

Künstler, Berlin

Langeweile! Du bist Mutter der Musen.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Robert Gschwantner


Dr Satyan Devadoss

Mathematiker, Claremont, CA

Mathematics is viewed as a cerebral form of work, done with the mind and not with the body. There is a dualistic, gnostic notion of trying to separate thought from matter. I believe this way of thinking is not only wrong, but is an obstruction and stumbling block to pursuing mathematics. We must become engaged in mathematics with our whole bodies, for we are human, made of flesh and blood.

My work requires a physical environment that promotes mental stimulation. A good board, excellent chalk, some books for inspiration, and some toys for design. All of these disparate physical objects play a large role in promoting mathematical output.

Satyan Devadoss


Bjørn Hegardt

Künstler, Kurator, Verleger, Berlin

When starting a new creative process, my studio setting is important. The drawing depicts some of the stuff on my studio desk. Seemingly trivial items can play a crucial part: the right pen, brush, cup, glue stick, binder, tools, cables, adapters. I need those small things around me, in place, knowing the framework is there, to start working.

Björn Hegardt


Tamar Yoseloff

Poet, London

All my routines are quite prosaic before the actual process of writing, but I am always sitting at my desk.
Most of my thinking and writing takes place at my desk, which has a southeast-facing window overlooking St Martin’s Road in Stockwell, London. My desk isn’t tidy, but certain objects are always within reach. I keep a card, which was sent to me around 1990 by the late poet, Richard Caddel, keeper of the Basil Bunting Archive in Durham. On the card is printed Bunting’s advice to student poets. There isn’t a day when I don’t look at the card and think about some aspect of it. It’s engrained in me now, and I can recite it without thinking.
At my back is a wall of bookshelves. These are some of my favorite books. I remember travelling into NYC on the train and going to Scribner’s when it was on Fifth Avenue—it would have been around 1983—just to buy the Collected Poems of Frank O’Hara. It was like my Bible. I still have that edition. O’Hara sits next to me when I write, as does Plath and Bishop. They are my companionable ghosts.

image alt text


Lothar Götz

Künstler, London

seven tea cups for seven days

The transition from night to day or dream to reality is crucial to me. If I get it wrong the day is basically fucked, if I get it right the day is full of ideas.Tea in the right cup always helps to get over it, but which cup is the right one? Without really noticing, I started to get into the habit of spending a few minutes every morning sourcing for the right cup to start the day. The ideal cup will set me in the right mood, and different days need different cups. I love the conversation with the abstract shape of a tea cup, and I carry it with me into my day and studio.

image alt text


Jonathan Turner

Kurator, Kunstkritiker, Rom

Cooking the Books—or what role my kitchen plays in my creative juices

In my kitchen, there is always a lot of marinating, reducing, simmering and percolating going on. When I sit in my studio in front of my computer to write a review or a catalogue text, hopefully the same things are fermenting in my mind. The two procedures work best in tandem. Cooking and writing – for me they are often linked.
Already for decades, I repeat a daily ritual which kick-starts the process of invention. I wake up early, and walk a couple of blocks from my apartment in the Trastevere area of Rome, to the daily fruit and vegetable markets in Piazza di San Cosimato. It’s a hard-working market, nothing fancy, but with incredibly fresh produce often sold by the families of the farmers themselves. I rarely decide in advance what I am going to buy, and the quantities are always different, because I usually have guests coming over for lunch or dinner on my terrace. I always shop at the same market stall, run by Bruno, Virginia, Fabio, Davide and various cousins, and they make jokes as they suggest the best of the seasonal greens. They banter, I barter, we laugh. It’s the stuff that inspiration is made of. Depending on the season, I buy a veritable A-to-Z, from artichokes to zucchini, plus cherries, lemons, mushrooms, or such local greens as puntarelle, wild rughetta or frigitelli. It affects my mood. If my phone has been ringing, or there are messages to answer, I sometimes I stop off at the Bar San Calisto on my way back home, for a proverbial Pieroni beer. People tell me their gossip. They always do. And it’s always cynical but affectionate.
I walk up the stairs back to my apartment, unpack the shopping bags, stand at the kitchen bench to chop, dice, slice and grate. Then I start to cook something on the stove. Now I am ready to start something on my computer screen. The basic, almost instinctive act of shopping and cooking food each morning provides the initial stimulus for the much more anti-social act of tunnel vision. For me to write cohesively, it helps that all the other senses have already been exercised, and the smells that now drift from my kitchen add spice to my vocabulary. Flavour is heightened. Also, I maintain that the generosity of preparing a meal generates a more open, healthy attitude to accompany my critical eye. I consider myself to be relatively pragmatic, and I seek to write in a manner, which is descriptive, emotional but clear. To construct even a simple menu is a perfect start-up, a departure point, to create a pungent tone from ingredients and cooking methods, eventually helping me to shape the mood of my writing for the day ahead.

Jonathan Turner


František Skála

Künstler, Prag

Preisliste der Ritualdienste

Beschwörung eines talentlosen Künstlers: 1000€

Einführung in einen transähnlichen Zustand: 90€/min+Spesen

Eingebung (Ideengeburt ohne die Mithilfe von Google): 500€

Ausmisten eines versauten Gemüts (unausweichliche Bedingung–3 Tage ohne Sozialnetze): 950€

Beseitigung der negativen Schöpfungsimpuls: 500€

Findung des eigenen Ich: 780€

Punz der Originalität: 800€

Ausmisten (Einweihung) des Studio: 450€

Beweihräucherung eines Werktisches von unten: 450€

Einweihung der Geräte: 480€

Einweihung und Beschwörung eines Computers: 560€

Stille Autorenverehrung (telepathisch auf Distanz–ohne physische Anwesenheit): 90€/min+Spesen

Stille Autorenverehrung (im Nebenzimmer, auf Bestellung der nächsten): 90€/min+Spesen

Fürsprache für die Anreicherung eines Werkes mit einem Geistesblitz (Intercession): 300€

Fürsprache über der Wiege (künftiger Künstler): 90€/min+Spesen

Fürsprache über dem Sarg (das lebendige Vermächtnis und Preiserhöhungmassnahme): 90€/min+Spesen

Fürsprache für die Grantverleihung: 280€

Fürsprache für die Residenzaufenthalt: 270€

Zusendung eines erfolgreichen Projekt: 235€

Partnerbeschwörung (ausschliesslich mit der Übereinstimmung des betroffenen): 300€

Einweihung eines Haustierliebling: 200€

Skálas Koffer-Altar

Skálas tragbarer Altar im alten Samsonite-Koffer


Dr Konstantinos Katsikopoulos

Kognitivforscher, Berlin

My job is to research how ordinary people come up with clever shortcuts for reasoning and making decisions. These shortcuts tend to be simple—sometimes borderline naïve—but often outperform the complex mathematical models developed in statistics, management science, and artificial intelligence.
So I think about people’s thinking all the time. A lot of this thinking is active, but some of it is passive. In the morning, I spent time watching people. As Kate Bush said, people are amazing, just full of inspiration. I first look outside my window. I see people walking, riding bicycles, getting in and out of cars, going to school, going to work, opening up their stores. That’s how it looked today.
After I leave home, I do some more people watching. When I am out, I like to combine people watching with thinking about the technicalities of my research. I may go to a café with a scientific article, alternating between reading and watching. Resting my eyes off the page helps to think. That’s what I saw today.

Link Text

Konstantinos’ peoplewatching


Katrin von Lehmann

Künstlerin, Berlin

In unregelmäßigen Abständen übe ich regelmäßig Qi Gong. Zuhause, im Atelier, wenn ich auf Reisen bin, da, wo Platz und Ruhe ist, im Sommer manchmal im Park. Wenn ich wenig Zeit habe, übe ich ‘Der fliegende Kranich’, wenn ich mehr Zeit habe, übe ich ‘Fan Huan Gong, Rückkehr zum Ursprung’.
Am Anfang lag meine Aufmerksamkeit darauf, die Bewegungsabläufe korrekt auszuführen. Im Laufe der Zeit denke ich weniger an die Bewegungsabläufe und mehr an die Titel der Übungsbilder. Das, was der Qi Gong-Lehrer manchmal zu den Bildern sagt, bringt meine Denkstrukturen durcheinander. Ab und zu tauche ich in eine konzentrierte Leere ein.
Nach Abschließen der Übungen fühle ich mich anders als beim Beginn der Übungen.

katrin von lehmann


Mark Gisbourne

Kurator, Kunsthistoriker, Kritiker, Berlin

Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time (À la recherché du temps perdu)—a novel in seven volumes written from 1909 to 1922: volumes published from 1913 to 1927.

Many readers have called Marcel Proust’s masterpiece of social relations and involuntary memory the greatest novel written in the twentieth century, and I would certainly admit to being among them, since I read pages from it every day of my life—at least for the last thirty or more years. When I travel a volume is always with me. It is a novel of seven volumes, 3,031 pages, 1, 267,069 words, and this might suggest that it is and arduous read and feat of endurance to accomplish a single reading, particularly in the current world of twitter and tweets. After all the most famous rejection of the book by Anatole France was “life is too short, and Proust is too long.” This was the case of Andre Gide’s most famous initial dismissal (later regretted) of the text. But like all great literature it is self-revealing, for it reads the reader as much as the reader reads the authorial aspect of the novel, for when you come to the end you begin again, and it has somehow miraculously become a new novel all over again. You may think you know the characters, but the subtle variations of perception thrown up by re-reading are almost endless. And it is at the same time an essential delight and a driven insight into miraculous intuition of the writer Proust. If Joyce presents an effulgent stream of consciousness a flowing river of sporadic thoughts and apostasy, Proust presents the framework of consciousness itself as the continuous process of existent being and anxious imagining. I love so many of the literally hundreds of characters from the Baron Charlus, to the ubiquitous Morel, from Swann to Odette de Crecy, the rich, snobbish and pretentious Monsieur et Madame Verdurins and so on and on in subtle differentiations. And as any reader might, I imagine myself as the narrator participating in the shared and speculative libidinal insights into his love of Gilberte and Albertine. And this unique insight is the case notwithstanding that Proust’s actual gender orientation was distinctly otherwise directed. But most of all the characters that I return to again and again through the variegated imaginings of the narrator are Oriane, Duchesse de Guermantes, and the Marquis Robert de Saint-Loup-en-Bray. Like all his characters they are complex and multi-faceted, and similarly based on an amalgam of living persons known to Proust. One like an imagined figure of history, the other a figure of modern paradoxical complexities. And these are the two characters I regularly bring to mind in my daily life—relative yet paradoxical opposites.
Therefore in the Satellite project Nulla Dies Sine Linea, or in my case ‘nulla dies sine linea legere’, I have asked that the members of the gallery re-enact the roles of Oriane and Robert in their daily work lives at the project space, that is through the exhibition period of 13th February to 19th March, 2016, and at the same time undertake reading lines from Proust everyday during the exhibition period.

Mark Gisbourne and his contribution

Mark Gisbourne und sein Beitrag, Rebeccah als Marquis Robert Saint-Loup-en-Bray


Michael Kutschbach

Künstler, Berlin

“Walking at our own pace creates an unadulterated feedback loop between the rhythm of our bodies and our mental state….
Because we don’t have to devote much conscious effort to the act of walking, our attention is free to wander—to overlay the world before us with a parade of images from the mind’s theatre.”

Ferris Jabr, “Why Walking Helps Us Think,” The New Yorker, Sept 3, 2014.

Michaels Beitrag ist ein Pfad aus schwarzen Punkten, das durch die Ausstellung mäandert.

Michaels Pfad


Veronike Hinsberg

Künstlerin, Berlin

Auf meinem Tisch steht immer ein Blumenstrauß.
Beim Betrachten der Blumen sehe ich die Eigenheiten der verschiedenen Arten. Ich vergleiche den charakteristischen Aufbau der Blüten, die Geometrie der Blätter und die unterschiedlichen Winkel, in denen sich die Dolden verzweigen. Die Vielfalt der Formen und die Räume, die zwischen den Zweigen entstehen regen mich zum genauen Hinsehen an. Die Pracht der Farben und die Schönheit erfreuen mich im Vorbeigehen.

Hinsberg Beitrag


Ciprian Muresan

Künstler, Cluj

I have a dog and a cat in the studio where I work. I recently moved my studio to my home. From 2009 till January 2016 I had my studio at the Paintbrush Factory in Cluj—a place of creation for a community of 50 artists and perfomers. Till last year, when three galerists (from Sabot, Bazis, Intact) took the name and the brand Paintbrush Factory and registered it as a trademark and we—the artists—can no longer use it.
But coming back to the cat and the dog:
I feel comfortable when they are around.

Ciprians Beitrag: die Anwesenheit eines Hundes im Ausstellungsraum.

Ciprians pets


Tom Chamberlain

Künstler, Mexikostadt

Don’t you wonder sometimes…

I can’t really work in the studio without the radio on. It’s not that I listen to it, particularly; it comes in and out of focus. The sort of concentration I need is something like an abandon. Music is too overpowering, and with the radio I get a kind of silence that doesn’t fill up with the debilitating noise of anxiety and self consciousness.
Radio 4 is mostly talk, chatter, current affairs, documentaries, some awful radio plays, some good ones. In the to and fro between hearing it and listening to my work and where it might take me, I have to acknowledge that true sublimation isn’t one thing over here and something else over there and out of reach. Rather it’s the combination of both, at the same time. It also seems to explain why many apparently compelling ideas happen while doing something like washing a brush.

Drifting into my solitude, over my head.

-David Bowie

Toms Beitrag: BBC Radio 4 läuft im Hintergrund.


Jorinde Voigt

Künstlerin, Berlin

The Perfect Day / Der optimale Tag

  1. Aufstehen

  2. 3 Stunden Kaffee trinken, reflektieren

  3. 5 min baden

  4. ins Atelier fahren

  5. E-Mails und Post ignorieren

  6. Musik anmachen

  7. 6 Stunden Farben mischen, zeichnen, lesen

  8. Bürobesprechung

  9. Sport

  10. Abendessen kochen

  11. Freunde treffen

  12. 5 min baden



Werner Linster

Künstler, Berlin

Nulla dies sine linea - die Aufforderung, keinen Tag verstreichen zu lassen, ohne eine Spur oder Linie zu ziehen, also ohne eine kurze Übung in der eigenen Fertigkeit, gehört zum intuitiven Wissen jedes Sportlers und Künstlers.
Nulla dies ... sagt schon die Antike, wie Plinius d. J. überliefert; practise and repetition sagt unser Zeitgenosse Richard Sennett.

Meine diarischen Zeichnungen sind schnell am Morgen hingeworfene doodles.
Sind ein erstes Spiel meiner Arbeitsmuskeln.
Sind Konzentrationen meiner Interessen, meiner Gedanken.