01

whoever believes they can stamp down art’s long and bloody struggle for liberation by questioning its autonomy is committing the dubious double error of both properly scrutinizing the motivation of their own political motives, whatever these may be, and completely misunderstanding the field in which they are actually operating. whoever eviscerates his victim in order to adorn himself with this skin should consider that not every form of appropriation is effective and self-empowerment only gives rise to respect if the fundamental rights of others are respected. moreover, the reception of one’s own rules, according to the definition of autonomy, is not a skin disease one gets rid of with unctuous collective rituals, but the liberation of the individual from his patronizers.

02

a savage mob celebrates its revitalization of lascaux’s cave paintings, lapsing from the ecstatic frenzy of group-therapeutic self-pollination into a stinging nettle-tea intoxication. in a weighty swiss art metropolis, THE one chinese artist swings his arty necklace collection around and vip hairdressers very smoothly sell their vital custom-made art creations to the illustrious clientele via instagram. as of corona. contributing to the general irritation, the misconception that everyone is an artist, created by the gentleman with hat and vest, results in – everything is art. buried under these intellectual rags and flattering flannels, in the middle of it all – the autonomous idea. those who allow themselves to be swept under the pile like this probably don’t deserve it any other way. that’s what it is, this field. the mate-tea-showered hall begins to roar at the monosyllabic announcement – all raise. cheers, and one more absynth. the one-eared dutchman and his montmartre-manikin friend also had no clue what they really started with their perspective-flattening japonisms.

03

there is an oh and ah everywhere. dragging oneself from the hall of agony into the wailing room to the chamber of woe, the authorship perishes. not that one had not been warned. the complete deletion of the artistic genius concealed, in addition to the gesture of knocking out the jag, the announcement of the future theft of the crown itself. art as a commodity, how could it be otherwise, fills the merchant’s pocket. whoever has conquered a banknote for the wall naturally takes care of its upkeep, and the devoted writers eagerly firing up the coal train make sure that the pace of the journey is pleasant. as the proud owner of a blue chip, even artists are allowed to try a cold drink in the dining car. next stop – cologne. no, this machine does not run round in circles. larmoyance and hellfire, but – where is markus keibel?

04

keibel is no stranger to transformation, having studied philosophy not to gain a master’s degree, but as a means of finding his artistic position, on the contrary. playfully, one thinks, he depicts the trajectory of a fictitious comet in a gallery, smashing glass panes on its way. a colleague is threatened by a costly cleaning crew and angry complaints from the residents, as keibel, spreading pigment on the sacred gallery floors, participatively allows the initially hesitant public to drag his art piece, which is thus dragging on, far beyond the gallery doors onto the street, by simply allowing them to walk over it. by burning written, society-forming railings and transforming these book ashes into his painting material, the artist also refers here to the endless circuit of things. thus the brockhaus-interfused canvases, as silent witnesses to a concept-based sequence of events and a clear commitment to autonomous art, are obviously only available for discursive disposal to those who do not have to see the interplay of intellectual work and perfectly formed production as a privilege to be spit upon and torn down.

05

de lautrec, van gogh, beuys, ai weiwei, ruangrupa and other nameless hairstyle goddesses are not in opposition to keibel’s artistic stance. they rather stand unasked to the side to demand a further transformation that can not force the jack back into the box, but is nevertheless urgently advisable – the transformation of contemporary divergence into serious diversity. every epoch negotiates its own comedians. it remains to be seen whether the fun makers currently in vogue will succeed in completely erase the fine line between comedy and tragedy. when these two topics collide, there will be peace.

05

de lautrec, van gogh, beuys, ai weiwei, ruangrupa and other nameless hairstyle goddesses are not in opposition to keibel’s artistic stance. they rather stand unasked to the side to demand a further transformation that can not force the jack back into the box, but is nevertheless urgently advisable – the transformation of contemporary divergence into serious diversity. every epoch negotiates its own comedians. it remains to be seen whether the fun makers currently in vogue will succeed in completely erase the fine line between comedy and tragedy. when these two topics collide, there will be peace.

martin eugen raabenstein, 2023

markus keibel

01

whoever believes they can stamp down art’s long and bloody struggle for liberation by questioning its autonomy is committing the dubious double error of both properly scrutinizing the motivation of their own political motives, whatever these may be, and completely misunderstanding the field in which they are actually operating. whoever eviscerates his victim in order to adorn himself with this skin should consider that not every form of appropriation is effective and self-empowerment only gives rise to respect if the fundamental rights of others are respected. moreover, the reception of one’s own rules, according to the definition of autonomy, is not a skin disease one gets rid of with unctuous collective rituals, but the liberation of the individual from his patronizers.

02

a savage mob celebrates its revitalization of lascaux’s cave paintings, lapsing from the ecstatic frenzy of group-therapeutic self-pollination into a stinging nettle-tea intoxication. in a weighty swiss art metropolis, THE one chinese artist swings his arty necklace collection around and vip hairdressers very smoothly sell their vital custom-made art creations to the illustrious clientele via instagram. as of corona. contributing to the general irritation, the misconception that everyone is an artist, created by the gentleman with hat and vest, results in – everything is art. buried under these intellectual rags and flattering flannels, in the middle of it all – the autonomous idea. those who allow themselves to be swept under the pile like this probably don’t deserve it any other way. that’s what it is, this field. the mate-tea-showered hall begins to roar at the monosyllabic announcement – all raise. cheers, and one more absynth. the one-eared dutchman and his montmartre-manikin friend also had no clue what they really started with their perspective-flattening japonisms.

03

there is an oh and ah everywhere. dragging oneself from the hall of agony into the wailing room to the chamber of woe, the authorship perishes. not that one had not been warned. the complete deletion of the artistic genius concealed, in addition to the gesture of knocking out the jag, the announcement of the future theft of the crown itself. art as a commodity, how could it be otherwise, fills the merchant’s pocket. whoever has conquered a banknote for the wall naturally takes care of its upkeep, and the devoted writers eagerly firing up the coal train make sure that the pace of the journey is pleasant. as the proud owner of a blue chip, even artists are allowed to try a cold drink in the dining car. next stop – cologne. no, this machine does not run round in circles. larmoyance and hellfire, but – where is markus keibel?

04

keibel is no stranger to transformation, having studied philosophy not to gain a master’s degree, but as a means of finding his artistic position, on the contrary. playfully, one thinks, he depicts the trajectory of a fictitious comet in a gallery, smashing glass panes on its way. a colleague is threatened by a costly cleaning crew and angry complaints from the residents, as keibel, spreading pigment on the sacred gallery floors, participatively allows the initially hesitant public to drag his art piece, which is thus dragging on, far beyond the gallery doors onto the street, by simply allowing them to walk over it. by burning written, society-forming railings and transforming these book ashes into his painting material, the artist also refers here to the endless circuit of things. thus the brockhaus-interfused canvases, as silent witnesses to a concept-based sequence of events and a clear commitment to autonomous art, are obviously only available for discursive disposal to those who do not have to see the interplay of intellectual work and perfectly formed production as a privilege to be spit upon and torn down.

05

de lautrec, van gogh, beuys, ai weiwei, ruangrupa and other nameless hairstyle goddesses are not in opposition to keibel’s artistic stance. they rather stand unasked to the side to demand a further transformation that can not force the jack back into the box, but is nevertheless urgently advisable – the transformation of contemporary divergence into serious diversity. every epoch negotiates its own comedians. it remains to be seen whether the fun makers currently in vogue will succeed in completely erase the fine line between comedy and tragedy. when these two topics collide, there will be peace.

martin eugen raabenstein, 2023