Werner Büttner: Poor Souls

Werner BĂźttner

25 26 28 31 32 35 36 38 40 42

The confetti of duration Lonesome Winston, watching the Continent in ’ 39 But on the seventh day a bit of peace and quiet…

John, the pleasantly preyless…

The origin of life on land The tears of Xerxes Poor souls The short earthly hop Super-rigid composition The widow of the drug baron

43 The astonished roof •

The gaze of the allotment gardener…

•

The murderer, pretty as a picture 44 Triumph on a rainy day •

The ability to assess oneself halfway accurately impacts decisively on the course a life takes…

45 Joie de vivre 46 Symbol with periorbital hematoma 49 Armies of sadness 51 After the riot 52 Nest-building enthusiasts

53 Watching over territory • The aroma seekers • When evil triumphs, will there be quiet at last?

54 A universe full of prey…

• Unlike many of my colleagues, I was also a good housewife…

55 Artifact in captivity 56 Two remarkable beings—Johann Nepomuk Nestroy as “Pan” and fish as “fish” 58 Still life with five tiny worn-out feet 60 Everyone cracks fleas his own way…

61 The hourglass of disquiet • The beautiful divorce • This little world has always had dental problems…

62 No alternative now to existential banality…

• The humorlessness of historians spawns further monsters…

• The art of severing heads

63 After the brawl with table legs, over her…

65 The singing of the insects 66 Another wreck of hope

67 A totally daft fruit • Nauseating symbolism 68 Brass musicians with fatal orientation • Remembering Mama

69 The lonesome tribunal 70 Erring worm 73 Warrior groupies 74 Work of mourning

75 Portrait of an aunt • Remembering the first rebellious sheep…

• Another wreck of hope 76 Skate embryo with lamb’s lettuce • A whiff of the good old days • Irresistibly elegant surrender…

77 Presumably, death, too, will be a disappointment…

• Auctioning something…

• Plenty of room for all sorts of happiness • Forty thousand years of spray art 78 Guarding virgins−a popular topos…

• Two mummies taking time seriously…

• On waiting for room service 79 Bug dance in red • Fear−the crowned constant 80 Species-appropriate fate • Also a way of preserving…

• Monks playing ball

89 O ur daily detail • Undying amazement • The patient idol…

90 The mercy of the workplace…

• Queen of Heather, after the brawl with table legs, over her…

• Selfie for Mama 91 One contaminant fondles the other…

• Alongside faeces and urine, you were pushed into this world…

• Self-portrait 92 Photogenic beings • Homage to “Ugliest Dog, 2015” 93 Goethe smirking about his reception…

• A theory of humanity cannot be scientific…

• No space without molestation…

94 The International of Sufferers has no trouble finding new members…

• Triumphal agglutination

Poor Souls

Marlborough Chelsea

2016

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Werner Büttner Poor Souls

Marlborough Chelsea

2016

[ Self-portrait, 1988 /2016 ]

Contents

17 rooting for mephistopheles,

contemptuous of faust

David Hunt 25 Plates

81 The tiny New York statement

by Werner Büttner 83 To avoid annoying questions—

probably adequate answers

Werner Büttner 89 Plates

16

HAMM : NAGG : HAMM : NAGG :

Scoundrel! Why did you engender me?

I didn’t know.

What didn’t you know?

That it’d be you.

Beckett, Endgame

rooting for mephistopheles, contemptuous of faust

David Hunt

narco-philosophes Ever since Pablo Escobar started collecting his work, Büttner couldn’t get rid of him.

(Olive Garden) Werner, you gotta meet my plastic surgeon. Fabulous guy. Need to disappear yourself? Lam it in plain sight? He’s your man. ( SCORES : 4am) Werner, stop worrying so much, “it’s out of your hands.” Hmm … a rare form of self-love whose only lubricant is social?—or the Rubik’s-Revenge of existential riddles? (Exactly: tough call.) Friction-at-a-distance? Cuts down on alone-time, Büttner guessed, but all ‘n all, a huge time-saver, if only he could get the colors to match up on his Five-Sided Fistagon. Thanks, Pablo!

Escobar was reliably flush with gnostic bullshit like this, but Büttner had to give it to him: Aztec Terrorista or Spanish Harlem Mona Lisa, brown-eyed girls were the best, yo. Always the best view, the best chance for you to ever bask in charm’s glow, for the bait required no wit, whatsoever—the lure, no breath of any kind, actually—spinning solely, here, on the dilation of a single pupil. In silico-millennio, or old-school in vivo, from what Büttner saw onstage, brown-eyed girls were no doubt the Conquistadoras of yore: window-givers onto double-paned worlds themselves winterized to muffle the racket of ascension

within. Valkyries. Your average Teutonic hottie with a clean credit-record and a filthy mouth, counting cards, counting jackpots, to be sure; but now in sepia-drag, a melancholy baby: so many soft palace-coups wrapped in a Trojan horse of sweet taboo—your Streetcar Named Despair. The Catwoman of chi-burglars, yeah, but look at her work that pole. The sky was all purple, there were people runnin’ everywhere …

There were moments in the flow not unlike this, where Büttner detected in the pattern-collapse a chasm of silence that could not, would not, be breached. But this was merely charm’s cue; charm getting ready for its close-up.

Adapt, evolve, become: this persistence of immanence insistently weaponized Büttner’s own sinuous charm, brought its edges into eloquence. For what was charm, really, if not modesty & perversity held together by a system of cantilevered stresses and companionable counterweights circling each other well after dark, well past last call.

Escobar’s talent for exploiting his own people, for alienating entire governments, was truly admirable, Büttner decided. Legendary. But his style? Subtle like a brick through a window. Brusque. A little pushy even, Büttner had to admit.

Not all that charming after all. Büttner didn’t think he’d have to drive a tank into the Venezuelan Parliament, or blow up a plane to get his work out there. Chill, Pablo. Slow it down, mi amigo. Where Büttner was more the “radical human disengagement type”, The Final Withdrawal, on occasion, in the thermodynamic pain & energy bank, the clearing out of that account (some really out-there Howard Hughes-type shit).

Escobar, meanwhile, was down in the barrio shaking hands, passing out cash, all man of the people. He had that whole relatable thing going.

Büttner got it; he used to have friends like that back in the day. Political prisoners trapped in the cell-block of their own making, doing 25-to-Life, crapped-out on appeal. Büttner was a recluse—castle-bound, in fact. But he never consigned himself to solitary. Those who make a habit of chanting Abandon all hope, ye who enter here, while swinging a large brass bell, usually have an exit strategy, lead the flock out of harm’s way. The banks, the tanks, the corporations. The debt, the drones, the corporations.

Who cares about the past worn smooth by error and friction?

Still, Büttner thought, perhaps they were not that different after all. Shared the same internal fatal error, faced the same failures to communicate on the day to day. Simply: felt too much. At any rate, he sympathized; knew people generally misunderstood Escobar, reflexively thought: bulls on parade, thought Escobar a mere soapbox for the ego, a paper-mache atoll from which, bullhorn in hand, he might bully himself into

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acclaim, drown out the dreamers and his own doubting mind.

Thought Escobar’s talent was for casting the widest net over the shallowest, most desperate pool, ensnaring Moby and mackerel, alike. Which it kinda was. But real talent, Büttner knew, was other and distinct from this. No bull itself, it was never interested in scaring anyone into a shocked submission, nor did it traffic in intimidation of any kind. Rather, talent wanted to help the bull out, remove the crown of thorns from its tender hoof, gently hold its martyred foot. ( SUPERCUTS ) Werner, The Men of Always aren’t interested in The Children of Never. No mention of the children of Not-Never—of the double-negative. The children of Never Never Land slouching perilously toward Negativland, about to rob a liquor store, car-jack your Porsche. The Children Doubly-Fucked.

God’s-Eye-View of World-as-Favela: Koyaanisqatsi meets POWER/KNOWLEDGE , the narco way. Life seriously out of balance, if not completely out of whack. (Note to self: call Philip Glass.) Pablo Escobar, his friend and patron, the ugly duckling whose quack or cri-de-coeur-on-command now struck Büttner as the saddest Song of Myself—all three power chords wailing in unison. Perhaps, circa 2016, even the objective emblem of life under the new cruel of law, our casual urban cannibalism abjected, made more real, run amok—resistance made pre-emptively feudal.

Was cannibalism an act of dominance or merely its purest expression, the feral distillate?

People were not instruments to be played, this much Büttner knew. You couldn’t press their valves or pluck their strings with any regularity and expect to hear the notes that you wanted. Expect a comforting arpeggio of melodic intuition to ring out like answered prayers. Flute music. Oh no. In order to help people, Büttner had long realized, it helped to know yourself by not focusing on your self—to avoid making a fetish of your So-Called Inner Life. To not carve your pain, that is, into a jade pagoda of pomp & splendor under which the Sorrows of Young Werner would rain down on you like cherry blossoms, blanketing your inadequacies in soft, dewy petals, all the while converting the stacked bulk of the planet’s misery into soothing, compensatory metaphor.

The metaphor that explained how you were a cutter in a world that favored glocks over razors; a subculture of one, who saw in the emphatic punctuation of semi-automatic spray, an ecstatic shattering to the exclusion of all else, that zero-sum old black magic: in a spin, that’s the spin you’re in. The loneliest little lyric in the world whose longing on a large scale fueled its affirmative rhetorical push: Who can love you like me?

Escobar reminded Büttner of one of his own paintings from ’87: Nice day in the life of two thalidomide victims.

Büttner at the prime of his “emotional amputee” period. Think: dove grey. Vapor, but with stumps. Picture: open water, dead calm, your last nocturnal emission, weaponized and turned against you. Pollock’s best wet bed: drowning not waving.

Kind of a people painting, I guess. A couple—now detached.

Unfortunately, from their own sockets. Going for the neoplatonic thing, looks like—FORMLESS. Gonna see how that works out (everyone needs boundaries). Headless, faceless, limbless—less anything you might need to qualify yourself as human. Buoys. Vaguely post-minimal, in that regard. Shades of … well, shades drawn. Pod-people Kabuki-miming the Kantian-sublime: the abyss you could not miss. Old reliable.

Mr. Void. There was no pretending for these two. People, pupa, panic—they weren’t so dissimilar. Raisinets, and yet, potent & distinct, meat envelopes with dreams. Beef jerky dangling from this mortal coil, wrapping it around each other’s necks like a tourniquet. Life didn’t amount to a hill of beans, but here it did. Büttner trauma-tooling through the 20th Century trainwreck: ’Cuz they say two-thousand zero zero party over, oops out of time …

Synopsis: Virtuoso shit-creek. “Without-ness” of paddle, hard to miss. Theme: You gotta know when to hold ’em. Know when to fold ’em. Execution: the dress rehearsal for your own?

Bonus points for prescient hints of current precariat.

Rating: B+. Kid’s got promise. A beautiful boy, might wanna watch the swagger.

Jury says?

“Werner Büttner’s punishing psychic tundras doubtless mark him as that subtlest beast, a talented oppressor in the abiding sea of me, the reaper of shrunken, Delaware hearts. Nunc fluens facit tempus, nunc stans facit aeternitatum, indeed. Ah, yes … ‘The now that passes produces time, the now that remains produces eternity.’

Boethius, The Consolation of Philosophy 524 A .D.” (Too true. True dat’.)

“In Büttner’s work, we bear witness to a state-sponsored actor, now reformed. Once, this cunning refugee from the East merely comprised the fissile material used to fuel the capitalist centrifuge. Today, he’s a rara avis poised on the cusp of re-entry in the welcoming West— Marlborough, Inc., the most genial of docents: Dahling, this is what you came for. If not, we don’t know why you’re here.

Alas, we are afforded the chance to get up-close & personal, touch the actual isotope, rattle the bird’s cage, witness the hoovering up of whole lives on the atomic level. In each of his paintings, expertly rendered in Büttner’s coolly-suave hands (always the summa of sardonic), one is instantly made aware that there are no consoling fictions—in SPACE, nor

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the ripples within your dog’s bowl as he gently laps away at it— and Boethius’ own philosophy, for lack of a better term, finally revealed to be a gross impostor in the most fragile of corrals.

Taken collectively, Büttner’s latest suite of paintings seem to say: Have you seen the placid face of a Kenyan marathoner in mid-stride? Clocked the Easter Island of that mind? They knew there was no finish line, not really.” rooting for mephistopheles, contemptuous of faust Time: fate’s pendulum swing—was the arrow winding up this year, or his cuckoo-clock unhinged? Büttner often produced the word like a gold coin between his teeth. Spoke it aloud as if dredging some exotic creature from the dark lagoon of his consciousness. Held its resonance in front of him like a totem or a charm, something to ward off the vulpine baying, still his own chronic barking, the skeptical bite lodged within his dentures. A vague ache. (What was old age, anyway, if not a kind of jaded infancy?) Time: you had it or you didn’t. Time: pretty sure he didn’t even wear a watch. Time: Büttner was a survivor of the Before & After of Christ’s death; about time, that is all ye need know. Still, it broke a brother’s heart to see him strung up and hung up in garlands of false avant-gardes like so much strange, low-hanging fruit—overripe and dying on the vine Tuesday, scheduled for immaculate resurrection the Tuesday after next.

For over thirty years, the German painter had seen the asylum choir whip up a dialectic, run contra to it, then keep on running, skylarking from one anxious asteroid to another at warp speed, nose pressed to the action’s glass—a kind of Médecins Sans Frontières dispatched to perform triage on the aesthetic body wherever it found itself in crisis—maintaining the mythos, managing the moving parts. Like a cautionary apparition, a cataract in the crystal vision, the asylum choir was supersonic and on it: the coming deluge. As they moved through darkness on velvet torpedoes in search of The Critical Condition, chrome-9 quiet-storm trailing their wake, they gave Büttner every impression of having plenty of places to go, but no place to actually be—writing circles, for sure, just not around things. Burn baby burn, or—shake shake shake—there was an inferno going on somewhere, and it felt suspiciously like disco.

Everything is so wonderful to see, so terrible to be… sighed Büttner, taking little satisfaction in the chain reaction of bodies. Satisfaction?—uh … no no, no.

The spark spinning in extremis which wrapped the asylum choir in a cloak of fire, turned out to have its own Jekylllike morphologies to contend with. It, too, swung from a rope.

Danced around poles. Went off its Lithium for weeks at a time.

Saw conspiracy in the cloud cover (what is it obscuring?)

What Büttner had called: “the excitement in the fog”. Began to lose language, then meaning, then semblances of meaning, and finally, the verdict itself: abstract as an ice cube now, inscrutable as the polar melt. The Fire This Time, a candle flickering in the wind, twinkling, turning on dimes, turning on pennies from heaven with perfect ease into that junkie with a superpower dispensing vigilante justice in the falsely-imperiled Gotham of his own comfortable middle class imagination, shaking your dungeon to the core. You could roofie yourself and record the results, but who would know?

Soon the asylum choir began practicing what Büttner considered a debased form of clumsy lepidoptery, often mistaking engineering for intuition, a Monarch for a moth, blithely pinning down both inside the same glass box—Danaus plexippus: Symbol with periororbital Hematoma. A weatherproof butterfly whose resolve was not so much steely, but anodized—bendy and flexible like aluminum; a Tin Man’s grip.

No one’s idea of bullet-proof. (What hath thou wrought?)

Büttner stood in the center of this blizzard of taxonomic confusion more times than he cared to remember. This thrilling to The Greater Polynomial that was the dying of the light and its hearkening, too. Did his best to hyperspace out of harm’s way. Like Coyote & Road Runner, a pathological dynamic chasing its own co-dependent tail if ever there was one, Büttner often found himself wondering: “Who’s Zoomin’ Who?” Road Runner, the Coyote’s after you / Road Runner, if he catches you you’re through.

So why was Coyote the one always left clutching the anvil in the air? Weightless and zero-gravity-ecstatic one second, then soul-cycling for dear life seconds after that?

Why did the gun always go off in his hand, the detonator blow up in his face?

Toot-toot, hey! Beep-beep!

Marienbad-of-the-mind for precocious toddlers, or resounding echo of an El Greco-effect boomeranging back at him at light-speed—revved up in the wrong way? Of the collateral damage from so many botched coronations dumped on the street in piles, now hastily gathered up and reified, made new in gaunt, withered flesh? A kind of Situationist-derive of the senses, made explicit, signaling the concept-creep of simian devolution in real time: first erect, then hunched over, then sucker-punched into a prone position—sprawled out by default. A curb sandwich, Büttner was surprised to find out, that you could not eat.

On the Praise or Bury? continuum of what to do with Caesar, Büttner had always been staunchly with the ditch-diggers, but this Suez Canal of shit-storms, right here, was getting out of hand. Surely, Caligula would have blushed at the body count, built a few aqueducts, cried out “Palpitation

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Time!” then sent the Centurions out to find another daisychain of double-barreled trigger-hippies to polish the chrome on his dagger. Even the cheek-turners were caught off guard, stumped by the rearrangement of derangements. Even the buses were throwing themselves under themselves.

Choose your delusion, or illusion, or that custom jack-o-lantern with an accelerated, bespoke grimace—Fate, in Büttner’s experience, often rested on a finger, a sign of their times, not yours. Often turned on the double-jointed anointed’s trembling digits (the priests, prophets and parishioners assimilated into one)—your pulse, their finger. In our art world, our World of Art, our community, our tribal clan, our ruthless cabal of makers faking it until they finally broke through, Büttner had risked quiet indictments for paying insufficient homage, been j’accused of tithing too much, his paintings declared overcooked or undernourished as the winds blew, as only the Prince of Tides knew.

But what his paintings had been trying to tell me all along, was—yes, in his experience, there were actual ghosts waterwalking among us in plain sight; that our Polterzeitgeist was littered with would-be windtalkers and wannabe Shogun-gunslingers of all kinds, dim wraiths whose antics you could not cancel no matter how hard you tried. And from what Büttner could see, it usually boiled down to this: win, place, or show—aftermath & afterglow. How was your sun?

Where was your sun? Sure your sun was shining? Still solar frightening? The end of your tears, same time next year?

The driest martini, sir, distilled from your fear?

Who wouldn’t invest in these prophesies, burn sage, burn the occasional house down, torch whole villages, just to get it, just to feel it?

Soleil-olé: The what? of your sun.

But smoke did not signal fire for Büttner; it did not precede it. Rather, gusting solar winds, lodged within the crease of his own wreck, signaled a self-immolating turn of mind within himself and the culture at large, a cruel lust for the epiphanic disturbance for its own obstreperous sake to ward off creeping ennui; to keep shit real. Jokers. Jackals.

Mischief-makers with a grudge. Anarchic desublimation as longing and lifestyle choice shading darkly over time into an ominous, catastrophic veil on the brink. An urgent plea to be lifted, coming from the veil itself, in order to bring in the light. A sun-starved house, in other words, that needed to be brought down, leveled, razed. Büttner himself standing in that exact house, right now, whispering IMMORTAL BELOVED softly by your side, cupping your ear, carrying the words like a flag, brandishing them, maybe tattooing it across your face, over your heart, dark, diagonal ribbons.

Isn’t she lovely? Isn’t she made for love?

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Key to sizes and mediums 94 ½ × 74 ¾ in → Oil on canvas 240 × 190 cm 74 ¾ × 74 ¾ in → Oil on canvas 190 × 190 cm 74 ¾ × 59 in → Oil on canvas 190 × 150 cm 59 × 74 ¾ in → Oil on canvas 150 × 190 cm 59 × 47 ¼ in → Oil on canvas 150 × 120 cm 12 ½ × 9 ½ in → Collage 32 × 24 cm

Das Konfetti der Dauerei

The confetti of duration 2016 74 ¾ × 59 in

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Winston allein, den Kontinent ’39 beobachtend

Lonesome Winston, watching

the Continent in ’39 2016 59 × 47 ¼ in

Am siebten Tag aber war Ruhe …

But on the seventh

day a bit of peace and quiet…

2016 74 ¾ × 74 ¾ in

28

Johannes, der angenehm Beutelose …

John, the pleasantly preyless…

2014 59 × 47 ¼ in

30

32

Der Ursprung des Landlebens

The origin of life on land 2016 74 ¾ × 74 ¾ in

Die Tränen des Xerxes

The tears of Xerxes 2016 59 × 47 ¼ in

34

Arme Seelen

Poor souls 2016 94 ½ × 74 ¾ in

36

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Der kurze irdische Hopser

The short earthly hop 2016 74 ¾ × 59 in

Megastrenge Komposition

Super-rigid composition 2015 59 × 74 ¾ in

40

Die Witwe des Drogenbarons

The widow of the drug baron 2016 59 × 47 ¼ in

42

The astonished roof 2016 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

The gaze of the allotment gardener…

2016 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

The murderer, pretty as a picture 2016 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

44

Triumph on a rainy day 2016 12 ½ × 9 ½ in The ability to assess oneself halfway accurately impacts decisively on the course a life takes…

2015 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

Lebensfreude

Joie de vivre 2015 74 ¾ × 59 in

46

Symbol mit Brillenhämatom

Symbol with periorbital hematoma 2016 74 ¾ × 74 ¾ in

Heere der Traurigkeit

Armies of sadness 2016 59 × 47 ¼ in

48

Nach der Straßenschlacht

After the riot 2014 74 ¾ × 59 in

50

Nestbauenthusiasten

Nest-building enthusiasts 2016 59 × 47 ¼ in

52

Watching over territory 2015 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

The aroma seekers 2016 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

When evil triumphs, will there be quiet at last?

2015 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

54

A universe full of prey…

2016 12 ½ × 9 ½ in Unlike many of my colleagues, I was also a good housewife…

2015 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

Artefakt in Gefangenschaft

Artifact in captivity 2016 59 × 47 ¼ in

56

Zwei bemerkenswerte Wesen – Johann Nepomuk Nestroy als „Pan“ und Fisch als „Fisch“

Two remarkable beings —

Johann Nepomuk Nestroy as “Pan”

and fish as “fish” 2016 74 ¾ × 59 in

Stilleben mit fünf abgelaufenen Füßchen

Still life with five tiny worn-out feet 2016 59 × 74 ¾ in

58

Jeder knackt die Flöhe auf seine Art …

Everyone cracks fleas his own way…

2015 74 ¾ × 59 in

60

The hourglass of disquiet 2016 12 ½ × 9 ½ in The beautiful divorce 2016 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

This little world has always had dental problems…

2016 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

62

No alternative now to existential banality…

2016 12 ½ × 9 ½ in The humorlessness of historians spawns further monsters…

2016 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

The art of severing heads…

2016 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

Nach der Saalschlacht mit Stuhlbeinen, ihretwegen …

After the brawl with table legs,

over her…

2016 59 × 47 ¼ in

Der Gesang der Insekten

The singing of the insects 2014 59 × 47 ¼ in

64

Noch eine gescheiterte Hoffnung

Another wreck of hope 2016 59 × 47 ¼ in

66

A totally daft fruit 2016 12 ½ × 9 ½ in Nauseating symbolism 2016 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

68

Brass musicians with fatal orientation 2016 12 ½ × 9 ½ in Remembering Mama 2016 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

Das einsame Tribunal

The lonesome tribunal 2016 59 × 47 ¼ in

70

Irrender Wurm

Erring worm 2015 59 × 47 ¼ in

Kriegergroupies

Warrior groupies 2016 74 ¾ × 59 in

72

Trauerarbeit

Work of mourning 2012 59 × 47 ¼ in

74

Portrait of an aunt 2016 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

Remembering the first rebellious sheep…

2016 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

Another wreck of hope 2016 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

76

Skate embryo with lamb’s lettuce 2016 12 ½ × 9 ½ in A whiff of the good old days 2016 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

Irresistibly elegant surrender…

2016 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

Presumably, death, too, will be a disappointment…

2016 12 ½ × 9 ½ in Auctioning something…

2016 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

Plenty of room for all sorts of happiness…

2016 12 ½ × 9 ½ in Forty thousand years of spray art 2015 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

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Guarding virgins−a popular topos…

2016 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

Two mummies taking time seriously…

2015 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

On waiting for room service 2016 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

Bug dance in red 2016 12 ½ × 9 ½ in Fear−the crowned constant…

2015 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

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Species-appropriate fate…

2015 12 ½ × 9 ½ in Also a way of preserving…

2015 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

Monks playing ball 2015 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

The tiny New York statement by Werner Büttner 1

I was born and raised in a short-lived state called the German Democratic Republic. In those good old days of the Cold War we were allowed to speak German and Russian, so my English is a bit poor. That is why I prepared this short statement to avoid the impression of being an uncultured Hun. From the GDR I was abducted to the capitalistic part of Germany. I looked and learned, made a little living by painting some strange pictures and became by chance professor at the Hamburg Art School. There I tried to force some morals into careerist art students. Everything was fine.

I was a very contented sleeping beauty.

But then Gilbert Lloyd and Andrew Renton showed up and kissed me awake. And since then I’ve had nothing but work, work and work. In March 2015 we did this show at Marlborough Contemporary called The Marking of the Abyss.

Anybody with a brain and a sense of taste loved it, at least pretended to, but maybe it was just British politeness. Gilbert Lloyd took me out for a fantastic dinner, drugged me with the first Bullshot 2 of my life and made me an obscene offer. He said he loves my stuff, wants to spread it all over the world and make me rich and famous. I thanked him for his offer, said I was honoured, and told him “No way!” I preferred to remain a sleeping beauty. It seemed healthier to me.

Gilbert would not accept this outright “No” and visited me at my castle in Germany. We had a fantastic lunch in the German woods and went in the pouring rain to the grave of my late wife to put down some fat roses. In other words we enjoyed our day. And then he said something irresistible. He said “Mr. Büttner, you don’t need me and I don’t need you. This is a perfect basis to work together.” So he got me and here I am.

But I warned him. I told him I’m a lazy artist. I only paint when I’m convinced that the painting has to be done.

I don’t paint for fun.

I told him I’m fragile. A bad smell can make me disappear for weeks.

And I told him since I’m a full-time orphan and a widower I cry even more easily about this silly world.

My aim in life was properly primitive: to stay as clean as possible. And to stay as awake as possible. I hope you will find this tender attitude in these paintings and appreciate it a little.

1 A version of this text was delivered at the launch of Werner Büttner’s two books, Coincidence in Splendour and My Looting Eye, London, 28 January 2016.

2 A cocktail traditionally made with beef consommé, vodka and spices.

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To avoid annoying questions— probably adequate answers in advance

Werner Büttner

→ 25

The confetti of duration Life’s a goddam waste, its duration sometimes longer and sometimes shorter. You have certain expectations, you get a few sausages, and you have to stomach a whole load of Hard Edge and Color Field painting. The windows are as dark as the future that might not even come. As Rainer Maria Rilke, a wise man who lived off women, so rightly put it: “Who’s talking about victory? Survival is everything!”

Lonesome Winston, watching the Continent in ’39 I’ve always admired Winston Churchill, although he probably wasn’t a very nice guy. I admire him because he stopped Hitler and won the Nobel Prize for Literature. He won the Nobel for his two-volume work on his predecessor the Duke of Marlborough, who stopped Louis XIV. It is miraculous that two members of the same family stopped two European despots in two different centuries. This prompts me to reconsider the concept of procreation in slightly milder terms. Kudos!

But on the seventh day a bit of peace and quiet…

A myth of the occident tells how all earthly phenomena were created in six days. Engaging sympathetically with this myth,

→ 26

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I must admit I’m glad that the seventh day was a day of respite. For ever since I was pushed into this world between feces and urine, the output of those six days has put me into a constant state of nervous agitation commonly known as astonishment. I’d love it if my nerves were not agitated for a whole day. I’d love some respite. And the creation of the Guinea worm was harassment, pure and simple…

John, the pleasantly preyless Here’s another stylistic reference to Byzantium. The urge to use one of these deep-fried icons for a painting of my own was strong, it got stronger, and then I gave in to it. The deep-fried head was placed in a spider’s web. There’s no better way of isolating and highlighting a motif. Since “being without prey” constitutes a value in my world, the title was quickly found. The result is a rather miserable imago, somehow detached from all contemporaneity…

The origin of life on land The world is full of theories and salt water.

This is basically unfalsifiable. Even the tiniest human tribe has its own origin myth which, if considered fairly, is immune to criticism. “In the beginning was a duck, and this duck created another duck.” That’s what the Abakan Tatars believe, if they still exist. Many believe that life on land has its origins in the ocean. I’ve given their belief a picture…

The tears of Xerxes The tears of Xerxes are the strangest tears in the history of the world. A ruler weeps over his magnificent men at arms because they won’t be around in 100 years time. And the next day, he sends them to their death. All this happened 2500 years ago on the Bosporus. For friends of accomplished representation, the Bosporus at least should be identifiable in my painting. The rest of the picture is as dark as the tears of Xerxes. I have portrayed Xerxes as an orchid. Despotism, lamentable and much-lamented despotism…

Poor souls According to Roman Catholic tradition and dogma, poor souls are souls in purgatory. If nothing else, the shameless invention of purgatory financed the cathedrals of Europe. My sympathies, however, lie with the poor souls in the land of the living, who gather beneath tattered chandeliers, with worn-out faces, demanding only the proximity of others. But many other things also lie in tatters. Even abstract concepts. Like Immanuel Kant.

The short earthly hop The fact that life is a short hop has been noted again and again down the centuries. Only by the best, of course. My short earthly hop takes place in a harvested field

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in deeply melancholic autumnal yellow. Composition, perspective, et al are purely conventional. What distinguishes my short earthly hop from other people’s short earthly hops is the smart red hat.

Super-rigid composition Dachshunds have a strong sense of self-assurance. In a badger set or fox’s den, the dog is a lone hunter and can make its own decisions, without human assistance.

The dachshund’s sense of loyalty is therefore less well developed. Only this proud solo hunter could be used for a super-rigid composition. Plus two sausages, clearly not to be touched by anyone else in the world, and an eclectically installed coat rack. Et voilà, a masterpiece…

The widow of the drug baron A drug-free society is a thing unknown to humanity. “Man, the swine, crown of creation” (Gottfried Benn) clearly wants to get out of his head now and again.

Consequently, dealing drugs is one of the oldest trades in the world. Much older than that of the politician. The resemblance between the drug baron’s widow and the Catholic queen of heaven (Regina cæli) is no coincidence. Both organizations use vulgar opulence to senselessly overwhelm. I enjoyed indulging in this parallel. In order to overwhelm…

Joie de vivre “Joie de vivre” is an attempt to depict something that is utterly alien to me, since my true line of business is black bile, commonly known as melancholia.

And the fact that I oblige the so-called “joie de vivre” to appear in a monastic biotope leaves little room for wayward interpretations. Please also note the accomplished execution of the right hook. What a punch!

Symbol with periorbital hematoma On March 13, 2013, a power unknown to me snatched my beloved wife Jule from this world. It seems that as soon as beauty is discovered (true, inner beauty), it is hounded down by these unknown powers and destroyed.

I have no other explanation. And the fact that I am alive supports this theory. After three years of mourning, lamenting, and misery, I wanted to inflict pain. To hurt those responsible.

But in this fucking world, just try to find anyone who is responsible…

Armies of sadness “Come and see the children pillaging the garden and setting fire to the butterflies!” wrote Picasso. And for Freud, children were polymorphously perverse. These were childhoods worthy of the name. When I look at children’s playgrounds today, I shudder at the blessing of my early birth in the 1950s. I look at these places and I see armies of sadness recruiting themselves…

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After the riot Sometimes, a riot has the quality of a heaven-sent cloudburst. It clears the air, drives away insects, binds dust, etc. We are not talking about morals here, or about good and evil. We are considering the riot in aesthetic terms. Like an organically grown Carl Andre. The archetypal hooligan was looked into. And something was found. The lowest common denominator of all outbursts of violence is the utterance: “Let’s make something happen at last!” After the riot, the local residents come streaming out of their addresses and look indignantly into the cameras of this world. At last, something has happened.

Nest-building enthusiasts When the cockerel has found the hen and impressed her to the point where she lets herself be mounted, to become broody, then nature laughs, the world spirit smiles, and the universe wallows contentedly in its own laws.

Now it’s time to build a nest, as another of Nestroy’s laws swiftly comes into effect: “The fundamental tone in the harmony of domesticity must always be the clamor of children, otherwise the most important voice is missing.”

Artifact in captivity In and of themselves, men are louts and have been for 40,000 years. And for the most part, their womenfolk are not a jot better. And for 40,000 years these louts have been accompanied by dogs and artifacts. Unlike dogs, artifacts have come to be considered as bearers of value.

As a result, unlike dogs, they are robbed and taken to hideouts. In this world, such a fate, like the decision to believe in money, is irreversible…

Two remarkable beings—Johann Nepomuk Nestroy as “Pan“ and fish as “Fish” Johann Nepomuk Nestroy lived between 1801 and 1862 in the part of the world now known as Austria. A courageous man who delighted in clashing with authority and spent many a night in police custody. Loved by women, feared by men, he wrote countless very funny plays that influenced writers from Karl Kraus to Thomas Bernhard. His brutal aphorisms, neologisms and metaphors have probably only survived in Vienna. One of his better known aphorisms: “The Phoenicians invented money—but why so little?” More subtle: “The only consolation is despair.” I don’t like it when really good people get forgotten.

Still life with five tiny worn-out feet This picture is another homage to Saint James Ensor. It is painted without the use of black, the distinctive mark of the master from Ostend. But the five tiny worn-out feet also recall a trauma from my childhood. At the age of five (sic!) I was obliged to watch a play supposedly suitable for

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children entitled “Peter and Anneli’s Journey to the Moon”, written by a monster called Gerdt von Bassewitz. After that, I was ruined for life. The cockchafer Mr. Zoomzeman has one of his legs cut off by a wood thief. Now he has just five (sic!). To get his leg back, he must go to the moon with two children who have never hurt an animal, and so on and so forth… Like I said, this play destroyed me…

Everyone cracks fleas his own way Fleas are a beastly business and have brought humankind unpleasant hours. They belong to the species of the pests. Pests highlight our fragility and should, in theory, make us humble. But that’s not what this picture is about. This picture is about tolerance. And tolerance is a state of mind that comes quite close to pure reason…

After the brawl with table legs, over her…

“All my acting has but one purpose, the attraction of the female. If it had been possible for me to attract by exhibiting a series of physical charms, my hatred would have been less. But I found it necessary to substitute strange conceits, wise and witty sayings, peculiar conduct, Art for the muscles, teeth, hair, of my rivals… Because of women… I acquired the habit of extravagant thought.

I now convert everything into fantastic entertainment and the extraordinary has become an obsession…”

(Nathanael West, The Dream Life of Balso Snell) The singing of the insects “The singing of the insects” is a title based on the German title of a novel by Paul Bowles, a man who traversed this world with hitherto unseen detachment, claiming that “there is nothing more delightful than to be a stranger.” The icy coolness with which he remained aloof is admirable and his literary work is, in parts, alarming.

He wrote a number of songs with Tennessee Williams, including “San Sebastiano di Sodoma” which I covered on my album “Lousy Days Are Here To Stay”.

Another wreck of hope “Frankly, the present, the way the world is now, just doesn’t interest me much in terms of writing about it. I hate to sound so damn gloomy, but I can’t help thinking that our best days are behind us.” These are the words of Donald Ray Pollock who wrote pitiless books and who seems unlikely to be infected by hope. “Time enslaves us with hope” was the title of one of my shows. Guess I wanted to sound gloomy.

All the same, my ice floes are more charming and more appetizing than Caspar David Friedrich’s. But I must insist, again and again: Hope is bad habit!

The lonesome tribunal I love Byzantine stylizations. In this case coupled with a moth-eaten Great British judge’s wig.

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My God! How earnestly this creature looks at us! It knows the exact weight of sins to a milligram. It knows no compromises and no indulgences. It’s a self-portrait, without a doubt. And now imagine for a moment what it feels like to look out of this creature into a mirror. And what difficulties this brings. All I’ll say is: a crying man can’t shave…

Erring worm Some say every picture is ultimately a self-portrait. In the case of “Erring worm” there’s no doubt.

The Ancients decreed: “Live in obscurity.” In their view, this assured a healthy life, without rousing the potentially lethal envy of the gods or of “fellow” human beings. For years, I’ve been an almost fanatic adherent of this maxim. And now this stupid worm breaks cover and sets off for NY… Warrior groupies In the history of culture, groupies appeared late. The first known groupies thronged around Frank Sinatra in the 1940s. Groupies go far beyond the behavior of a fan, but without becoming stalkers. What we see here is a Viking Memorial in Stavanger, Norway. As is customary in our culture, the swords in my portrayal are disproportionately large, the women disproportionately small. The sexual attraction of the killing warrior will always have had female admirers. Through all the dark times, they were probably referred to simply as sensible, pragmatic women…

Work of mourning Strangely (given the title) this is one of the few pictures upon which my late wife visited her elegant hand.

Seemingly unhappy with the way I obtusely iterated my painterly standards, she shoved me aside and shoved paint onto the canvas herself. She didn’t alter the picture’s core message: melancholy cherub with smart red hat, its foot on a skull. She added extraneous splats of paint. And she gave the skull feathers so that the situation no longer takes place in the religious lowlands of Europe. I hope that every last halfwit alive today has understood how much I miss this woman…

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Our daily detail 2016 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

Undying amazement 2016 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

The patient idol…

2015 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

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The mercy of the workplace…

2015 12 ½ × 9 ½ in Queen of Heather, after the brawl with table legs, over her…

2015 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

Selfie for Mama 2015 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

One contaminant fondles the other…

2015 12 ½ × 9 ½ in Alongside faeces and urine, you were pushed into this world…

2015 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

Self-portrait 2015 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

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Photogenic beings 2015 12 ½ × 9 ½ in Homage to “Ugliest Dog, 2015” 2015 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

Goethe smirking about his reception…

2015 12 ½ × 9 ½ in A theory of humanity cannot be scientific…

2015 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

No space without molestation…

2015 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

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The International of sufferers has no trouble finding new members…

2015 12 ½ × 9 ½ in Triumphal agglutination 2015 12 ½ × 9 ½ in

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Werner Büttner 1954 Born in Jena, Germany.

Professor at the University of Fine Arts of Hamburg.

Lives and works in Geesthacht.

Selected solo exhibitions

2016 Werner Büttner—Poor Souls, Marlborough Chelsea, New York.

Boucle d’attente dans le néant, Galerie Eva Meyer, Paris.

2015 The Marking of the Abyss, Marlborough Contemporary, London.

2014 Die Zeit versklavt uns mit Hoffnung, Galerie Figge von Rosen, Berlin.

2013 Werner Büttner, Weserburg Museum, Bremen.

Werner Büttner – Gemeine Wahrheiten, ZKM Museum, Karlsruhe.

2008 Bilanzpromenade, Galerie Hans Mayer, Düsseldorf.

Die Avantgarde von Hinten, Marion Meyer Contemporain, Paris.

Wetterfester Schmetterling, Galerie Bärbel Grässlin, Frankfurt.

2007 El baile de los parásitos, Galería Heinrich Ehrhardt, Madrid.

Gerocktes Haus, Galerie Hohenlohe, Vienna.

2006 KOMPROMAT (Kompromittierendes Material), Kunsthalle Dominikanerkirche, Osnabrück.

2005 Hello cruel world, Kunstverein Bremerhaven, Bremerhaven.

Polizeichef Hegel, Galerie Bärbel Grässlin, Frankfurt.

2004 Les diables de chacun, L’Espace SainteCroix, Loudun, France.

Welcome to acces interdit, FR AC Poitou Charentes, Angoulême.

2003 Werner Büttner — Gemälde und Zeichnungen aus den 80er Jahren, Galerie Max Hetzler, Berlin.

Werner Büttner — Verkehrte Welt, Deichtorhallen, Hamburg.

2001 Das Fleisch organisiert sich selbst, Galerie Christine König, Vienna.

2000 Globuli, Maximilian Verlag Sabine Knust, Munich.

Werner Büttner, Galerie Bärbel Grässlin, Frankfurt.

1998 Werner Büttner Neue Arbeiten, Galerie Ascan Crone, Hamburg.

1997 Werner Büttner, Städtische Museen Jena/Romantikerhaus, Jena.

1996 Einseitig gedeckter Tisch, Galerie Helga Maria Klosterfelde, Hamburg.

1995 Heimspiel, Arbeiten aus der Sammlung Grässlin, St. Georgen.

Heute scheint die Sonne in Strömen, Galerie Bärbel Grässlin, Frankfurt.

Werner Büttner, Kunstverein Hamburg, Hamburg.

1993 Werner Büttner, KRaum Daxer, Munich.

1991 Werner Büttner, Galerie Grässlin Ehrhardt, Frankfurt.

Werner Büttner, Galerie Max Hetzler, Cologne.

1990 Kampf dem Verderb, Jänner Galerie, Wien.

Werner Büttner, Ascan Crone, Hamburg.

Werner Büttner, Points in time, Galerie Paul Andriesse, Amsterdam.

Werner Büttner, Recent reasonable stuff of our century, Kerlin Gallery, Belfast.

1989 Das wichtige SchwarzWeiß, Städtisches Kunstmuseum, Reutlingen.

1988 Stilleben, Galerie Grässlin Ehrhardt, Frankfurt.

1987 Bilder und einige Skulpturen, Kunstverein, exhibiting at the Museum Villa Stuck, Munich; Museum Folkwang, Essen.

Und das Meer lag da wie Nudeln aus Gold und Silber, Palais Liechtenstein, Vienna.

Viva Büttner, Galerie Max Hetzler, Cologne.

Werner Büttner, Galerie Peter Pakesch, Vienna.

Wir haben Grund zu der Annahme, daß ALLE Avantgardisten im Kopfrechnen schwach, in Religion dagegen sehr gut hatten, Kunstverein, Oldenburg.

1986 Halbe Stunde moderne Kunst und andere versammelte Werke (alles Papier), Galerie Borgmann-Capitain, Cologne.

Half an hour of Modern Art, Metro Pictures, New York.

Werner Büttner, Galerie Crousel Hussenot, Paris.

Wie aber enden solche Geschichten, Galerie Grässlin Ehrhardt, Frankfurt.

1985 55 Thesen (Qualität ist der Schatten der Intelligenz) und 1 Skulptur (und verhüte auch, daß ich überheblich werde), Galerie Thomas Borgmann, Cologne.

Das Auge auf’s Kleine und die Großen auf’s Auge, Galerie Max Hetzler, Cologne.

Von Händen und Eiern, Galerie Paul Andriesse, Amsterdam.

Werner Büttner, Metro Pictures, New York.

Werner Büttner und Luigi Ontani, Galerie Ascan Crone, Hamburg.

1984 La Luta Continua, Drei Beispiele, Galerie Max Hetzler, Cologne.

1983 Das blaue Männchen von Schnelsen — ein Kranker, Galerie Ascan Crone, Hamburg.

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Die Probleme des Minigolfs in der europäischen Malerei, Galerie Max Hetzler, Cologne.

Jenseits konstanter Bemühungen um braven Erfolg (with A. Oehlen), Produzentengalerie, Hamburg.

Werner Büttner, Galerie Max Hetzler, Cologne.

1982 Rechts blinken – links abbiegen (with A.Oehlen), nGbK – neue Gesellschaft für bildende Kunst, Berlin.

Wiederholung der Information kompensiert den darüberliegenden Lärm, Galerie Max Hetzler, Stuttgart.

1981 Werner Büttner, Galerie Max Hetzler, Stuttgart.

Selected group exhibitions

2016 Colliding Alien Cargo, Marlborough Chelsea, New York.

Elective Affinities, Exhibition Hall Arsenals, Riga.

Nieuwe Wilden, Groninger Museum, Groningen.

Portraits of Professions, Manifesta 11, Zurich.

2015 The 80s : Figurative Painting in West Germany, Städel Museum, Frankfurt.

2014 No Problem: Cologne/New York 1984-1989, David Zwirner, New York.

2013 Cowboy Style, Marlborough Contemporary, London.

2010 Wahrheit ist Arbeit, Büttner, Kippenberger, Oehlen und ein Werk von Herold, Villa Schöningen, Potsdam.

2008 Bad Painting—good art, MUMOK — Museum Moderner Kunst Stiftung Ludwig, Vienna.

MMKK Länderspiel-Kunst im Spiel, Museum Moderner Kunst Kärnten, Lagenfurt.

Vertrautes Terrain – Collectors’ Choice, ZKM Museum, Karlsruhe.

2006 Flashback. Eine Revision der Kunst der 80er Jahre, Kunstmuseum Basel, Basel.

Goetz meets Falckenberg, Phönix Hallen, Hamburg.

2005 La nouvelle peinture allemande, Carré d’Art Musée d’art contemporain, Nîmes.

Rundlederwelten, Martin Gropius Bau, Berlin.

2003 Obsessive Malerei. Ein Rückblick auf die „Neuen Wilden“, ZKM Museum, Karlsruhe.

2001 Ziviler Ungehorsam. Zeitgenössiche Kunst aus der Sammlung Falckenberg, Kestner Gesellschaft, Hanover.

1998 Die Macht des Alters. Strategien der Meisterschaft, Deutsches Historisches Museum, Kronprinzenpalais, Berlin; Kunstmuseum, Bonn; Galerie der Stadt, Stuttgart.

1992 Malen ist Wahlen (with Kippenberger, A. Oehlen), Kunstverein, Munich.

1991 Metropolis, Martin-GropiusBau, Berlin.

1989 Neue Figuration – Deutsche Malerei 1960 – 88, Kunstmuseum Düsseldorf; Kunsthalle Schirn, Frankfurt.

The BiNational—German Art of the late Eighties, The Minneapolis Institute of the Arts; Contemporary Arts Museum, Houston; Aschenbach Galerie, Amsterdam; Museum of Contemporary Art, Belgrade.

1988 Arbeit in Geschichte – Geschichte in Arbeit, Kunsthaus and Kunstverein, Hamburg.

New Prints from Germany, St. Louis Art Museum.

1986 Deutsche Malerei der Gegenwart, Galeria Comicos, Lisbon.

Können wir vielleicht mal unsere Mutter wiederhaben!, Kunstverein Hamburg, Hamburg.

Neue deutsche Kunst aus der Sammlung Ludwig, Aachen, Haus Metternich, Koblenz; Musée St. Pierre Art Contemporain & Goethe Institut, Lyon.

What about having our mother back!, ICA, London.

1985 Tiefe Blicke, Kunst der achtziger Jahre aus der Bundesrepublik Deutschland, der DDR , Österreich und der Schweiz, Hessisches Landesmuseum, Darmstadt.

1984 Angst vor nice. Ludwigs law (with Kippenberger, A. & M. Oehlen), Metro Pictures, New York.

Origen y Visión: Nueva pintura alemana, Centre Cultural de la Caixa de Pensions, Barcelona; Palacio Velázquez, Madrid; Museo de Arte Moderno, Mexico City.

Wahrheit ist Arbeit (with Kippenberger, A. Oehlen), Museum Folkwang, Essen.

1983 Ansatzpunkte kritischer Kunst heute, Kunstverein, Bonn.

1982 12 Künstler aus Deutschland, Kunsthalle, Basel; Museum Boijmans van Beuningen, Rotterdam.

Zeitgeist. Internationale Kunstausstellung Berlin, Martin-Gropius-Bau, Berlin.

1981 Bildwechsel. Neue Malerei aus Deutschland, Akademie der Künste, Berlin.

1979 außerordentliche Veranstaltung in Bild und Klang zum Thema der Zeit: Elend, Kippenbergers Büro, Berlin.

1979 außerordentliche Veranstaltung in Bild und Klang zum Thema der Zeit: Elend, Kippenbergers Büro, Berlin.