It is urgent at the time. So completely without culture as before it should not go on. I remember my enjoyment of museum visits and am glad to be on the way. The old Romans should not meet this time, because I feel very young that day. That’s why I choose a gallery.

I find something of everything, both the old masters, but also the younger, the very young and the young old. By no means does such an exhibition renounce exceptional, extreme works, for it is precisely before them that the masses gather. Above all, a certain of the latter captivates the stream of visitors of the art connoisseurs, the would-be and even more of the non-art connoisseurs who, however, to the best of their ability sometimes even cover up this ignorance.

Such a great art lesson I have throughout my Lyceum time and has long persisted, never experienced. My mind is working at full speed to keep up. The concentration work used brings me insights that I would not even dream of dreaming in my wildest dreams and very soon my ears are ringing.

Wedged between at least thirty dear fellow human beings, I see little, much less extraordinary.

“Excuse me!” I whisper to my standing neighbor. “Can you tell me what that should be?”

In this question, which was more than polite, I am reassured by a glance which stamped my mental abomination and clearly meant to me how I could only allow myself the audacity to even sneak into this illustrious society of art-obsessed people.

But still this look bounces off me, nor do I have the courage to claim me:

“What do you think about it?”, I notice boldly and thus bring my counterpart internally considerably on the go.

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“Well, probably no idea about art, right?”, He bursts out, but that’s exactly why I get the spontaneous impression that the sea of ​​ignorance, which is equally swallowed up in prestige, is swimming.

Immodesty is not one of my qualities. So I also reply quite modestly:

“Actually, something … But, this, is that still art?”

With this remark, I seem to land a hit. Does he ask that too?

In any case, its rejection turns into accessibility. He gets really talkative and actually deigns to talk to me a few words.

“To do that, you first have to define ‘art’,” he says.

“That’s no art!” I venture out. “Art counts for everything that is self-designed, it serves to process feelings and circumstances internally as well as to depict oneself in visual and acoustic works with the world.”

After all, this is accepted and even rewarded with a reasonably appreciative look.

Meanwhile, we have been brought closer and closer to that exceptionality and finally, I can admire it with my own eyes. Their effect almost kills me, but by no means as you probably suspect.

No, I’m just stunned and stand speechless.

‘It’s art. Now finally recognize it as that. Otherwise one counts you here to the art baneas! ‘, I speak to myself.

As a precaution, I keep these thoughts to myself and, instead, go out of my way to try a method of interpreting what seems so alien to me, which will hopefully appeal to my counterpart.

“Do you feel it too – this clarity of forms, just great, is not it?”

The human next to me bites. He seems to love such discussions:

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“Yes, is not it unbelievable, with what few stylistic devices one can express so much?”

Again, the caution directs me, not to rip through this delicate ribbon of conversation again by an imprudent answer. I am silent for a moment and think:

‘Has something in style!’


“Yes, so to speak the simplicity of life, do not you agree?”

I looked at him harmlessly smiling.

He gets going:

“If you look at this color combination, taken from nature, as a connection to naturalness, so to speak, back to the origin, that is pure life, you know!”

He rattles enthusiastically and not so restrained on my arm.

Startled, it runs through my head:

‘Ah, that’s how it works. It had to do that!’ Since I am a fantastic person, I can think of a lot more:

“You are absolutely right! It represents our human life path. The lower object stands for the cheerfulness, the lightness, the joy, the life-affirming …”

My counterpart now nods so violently to each of my wise words that I am already worried about his extremely stressed discs. However, this is certainly unnecessary, because he performs, as determined regularly in such exhibitions, guaranteed not for the first time in his life this exercise.

“I see, we have the same wavelength, it’s so helpful to meet someone who …!” He enthuses. ‘If you knew …!’, I think.

But he is already hovering in the seventh interpretive sky and is unstoppable:

“The upper object expresses flexibility, the desire to make something out of his life, to explore it, and yet to communicate his spiritual good only in a responsible manner and only in suitable opportunities to the environment, otherwise keep covered …”

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I’ve already gone to considerable lengths not to betray myself by a more than amused grin:

‘Oh dear, just pull yourself together! You can not do that to him now … ‘

But it gets even better:

“This truly grandiose black, full of secrets, full of tranquility and yet of splendor, this thundering transparency of expression … This solemnity … If you do not feel that flair, you will not open your heart … Oh yes, the artist is a master of his craft … His work is the absolute enrichment of my ego, nothing will be the same anymore …! “

‘You have no idea how right you are!’ I affirm to him in silence. With a small, polite jerk, I release my now more than shaken arm and quickly get out of the way in the corner around the corner of the bathroom to leave to my long-overdone laugh-laugh.

By the way, the work raised in the uppermost spheres of the sky of art comes from Joseph Beuys.

Incidentally, the object with the thunderous transparency of the expression betrays itself as a piano, and that which conveys the flexible, spiritual good is the corresponding felt hat.