AB: It gets worse. I had just gone through a tough eye operation and was a total wreck – emotionally and physically. Then my girlfriend broke up with me. I came home from the hospital to our shared apartment and she was gone. It was devastating. And the very next day, I had an interview with Jörg Immendorff, who was already a big name in Germany. I wasn’t particularly into his paintings, but I was interested in him as a person. I wanted to join his class. So there I was, a young artist in a beret, showing up with my portfolio. He looked at my drawings, and the first thing he said was: “Why would a young person draw nudes? You’ll never get anywhere. Goodbye.” He thought it was too academic and uptight. So I gathered my things – papers falling out of my folder – and left. But even though I was at my lowest, I felt a fire inside. I said to him: “I’ll be back. You’ll see.” That was the beginning of a fight with him. I didn’t give up. I ended up spending two years in Konrad Klapheck’s class instead – which turned out to be a lucky break. It was a more intellectual environment, and the battles fought there were on a different level.

Later, I ran into Immendorff again – by chance, in an elevator. I said, “I’d still really like to be in your class. Could I show you some new work?” And in that elevator, with his deep voice, he said: “Let’s see.” I always photographed my work, so I had some pictures with me. He looked at them and said: “Yeah, the heads are good. I find what you’re doing interesting. Come join my class.”
He acted like he didn’t recognize me – but I think my face is hard to forget. His teaching assistant didn’t like me at all. He claimed I was more interested in women than in painting. But luckily, Immendorff didn’t let that influence him.

AB: Immendorff was always surrounded by beautiful women and some pretty wild guys from Hamburg’s red-light district. Studying with him was controversial – he had a bad reputation. At the academy at that time, there was a very liberal, uninhibited atmosphere. At the same time, students were expected to take responsibility for themselves and take risks. I was searching for something anti-bourgeois and anarchic.

AB: In the beginning, I was very insecure, fragile, and cautious in how I moved through life. I was still recovering and wasn’t ready to make radical decisions. At first, I tried to compromise and enrolled in art history and law. But after one semester, I realized I couldn’t live among normal students. The weed-smoking, the recycling obsession, that eco-collective mindset – it got on my nerves. I felt even more out of place in that academic environment than I had in the small town I came from.

Things changed when I got into the art academy in Düsseldorf. There was this sentence carved in stone: Only the best for our students. I liked that elitist flair. And those huge rooms with the Greek sculptures – that was the atmosphere I wanted to live in. I knew I belonged there, even if I couldn’t explain why.

AB: Right after I left the art academy – without a degree – I had an exhibition in a gallery that was pretty up-and-coming at the time. I also started taking part in art fairs early on. The gallerists told me they thought I was a good artist and wanted to work with me long-term. I felt like I had been welcomed into a family. I thought we were going to fight together for a position in painting. But then I had a year where I just didn’t make good work. I had a crisis. Suddenly, someone said to me, “Hey, look at your gallery’s website—you’re no longer listed as one of their artists.” The gallerists had just dropped me without a word. That’s when I realized what kind of shark tank I was in.

I eventually found another gallery that showed my work. And when a bigger gallery saw my paintings there, they asked if I wanted to exhibit with them. And the whole game started again. The moment you’re no longer interesting, for whatever reason, you’re discarded.

Despite all that, I believe an artist should stay true to their own genetic code – deal with the things that truly grip them, that they feel compelled to pursue. Promises don’t really count for much. One time, a major curator visited my studio and promised me a big solo show in his institution. That was huge. But later, his chief curator worked against me and the show never happened.

Still, I kept working for myself and kept going. For many years now, I’ve had a younger artist working as my assistant – he’s like a brother to me. That’s loyalty. A kind of loyalty I’ve otherwise only experienced in family. That solo show eventually happened – in another city.

AB: Of course not. But if you’re doing something out of passion, if you truly love what you do, then you can endure the pain of the inevitable setbacks. Just keep going. That at least increases your chances of success.

AB: The journey was always the destination. I never had a “strategy.” Since the accident in 1988, I’ve lived like an animal – always in the moment. That’s not meant to sound romantic, but it’s true. I don’t have a goal in the traditional sense – I just work, and then, from that work, a new goal emerges. In painting, you’re also working on a kind of human development. Art, in some way, is tied to becoming human.

AB: Quite the opposite. The most important thing I’ve learned from my battles is how vulnerable I am. I don’t like “coolness.” To me, it’s more a sign of insecurity. Experiencing defeat, rejection and pain – and growing through it – that’s the real secret of struggle. It’s a choice whether or not you see yourself as a victim. I always refused that role. I never wanted to be a victim. Of course, you should always expect that something might happen, but you shouldn’t live in fear. I take care of my health. I try to stay in shape – mentally and physically.

AB: Maybe also out of vanity. I like when my suits fit well, so I eat healthy to stay slim. I don’t drink alcohol because I paint much better when I’m sober and well rested. When I’ve had alcohol, I can’t make good decisions the next day – like how to combine colors.

AB: Sure, I know that. When Johann König recently offered me my first solo show at his large gallery in Kreuzberg, I agreed. But secretly, I doubted whether I could handle the space – especially with my dense, politically charged paintings. I wasn’t sure if they would work on those walls. I was terrified of failing. In the middle of preparing for the show, I was also dealing with very painful private issues. Naturally, I thought about relocating the exhibition to smaller rooms. But I transformed the weight of that personal crisis into something else through painting. I used the negative energy to create something positive – like in judo, where you use your opponent’s force to your own advantage.

AB: I find the blend of art and activism problematic because you’re not really centered in yourself when you join a collective movement. My temperament doesn’t suit that. As I’ve said before, I’m pretty stubborn and not exactly group-compatible. I’d constantly have to compromise within an activist movement, and that’s not my thing. I think activism in the art world often is little more than virtue signaling. Marketing, really. I’m tired of people who parade their good intentions “on behalf of others.” Usually, it’s just about their own egos – or money. I prefer to look at actions, not words. I’ve had bad experiences with well-meaning talk.

AB: Pain is just a state of being, like exhaustion or ecstasy, joy or lust, fear or boldness. As I’ve said, I can use all these states for my painting. But a painting can also cause pain – every painting demands something from me. I have to devote myself to it and sometimes put my own feelings aside for the sake of the work.

AB: I think pain has something isolating about it. Everything inside me contracts when I’m in pain – and that sometimes helps me focus better on painting. I might even see different colors or choose more extreme tones because of that pain. Of course, it depends on the kind of pain. Emotional pain – grief, despair, depression, heartbreak – has often led to intense works of art. It isolates you, draws you away from people and society. Personally, I’ve often started new chapters in my painting after painful moments in my life.

Sometimes, a painting can feel like an opponent – when I’m stuck. A painting has its own logic. I’ve often learned that I can’t simply impose my will on it. I have to understand where the painting wants to go. If that doesn’t work, it becomes the classic battle with the canvas. That happens. I’ve had to cancel exhibitions – even during peak times – because I just wasn’t getting anywhere. I couldn’t access the work, and that was painful. It can be paralyzing.

AB: I know I’m a rather analytical person. That can actually get in the way of my painting. So I make a point of allowing foolishness and spontaneity. I let go of control and give chance more room in order to arrive at different images. I pick up things spontaneously – fragments from conversations, the internet, films, books, words, slogans, memes – anything. The result takes on something collage-like, playful. I often paint best when I’m on the phone or have people over and we’re talking. Because then I can’t overthink the painting as I’m making it.

AB: Both can help me. In the end, they’re just dismissive terms that suggest the painting has failed. But failure always involves risk and a sense of falling. As I said, I’m not a strategic painter. I don’t care for art that always plays it safe, that tries too hard to look like postmodern, international, glittery, design-like art – with no local character. That kind of art ends up being sleek and stylish, but it disturbs no one.

AB: I find it fascinating – this willingness to do something foolish. I think we do it far too rarely in life. Foolishness can be refreshing, especially for someone like me who tends to overthink. So, I often just start doing something first and think about it later. In my painting, I like to experiment with “stupid” subjects. Even if I end up discarding them, maybe a line or a bit of color remains – something that disrupts the image. It leaves a kind of crease, a kind of wound.

I’ve noticed there’s a growing need to control how one’s biography, work and persona are presented to the outside world. Less and less is left to chance. AI filters remove facial and bodily flaws. Maybe one day this will be called the Botox era. Personally, I’m drawn to the imperfections in people, and the awkward or illogical parts of a painting – those are what spark my interest. That’s how I find a way into a work, or connect with a person. I like the overlooked images, the fringe figures – both in painting and in life.

AB: I tend to be drawn to the villains, too. Like in the James Bond films – the one with the eye patch and the cat. The villains are often portrayed with much more psychological complexity. The Joker in Batman is another example – he seems so heartbreakingly real. Film noir, or the characters created by David Lynch or John Ford, always remain morally ambiguous – just like people in real life. I don’t have much hope when it comes to humanity. But I do believe that art holds the potential for growth and becoming truly human, if one dedicates themselves to it.

AB: I had pretty strict parents and was a terrible student. My teachers didn’t like me, and my parents usually sided with them. I remember that drawing and my imagination already helped me as a child to be liked. Later, when I fought my way back into life, I had to fight for acceptance – to avoid being seen only as a victim. My accident happened right when I hit puberty, so on top of the usual identity crisis, I also had an existential one.

Wanting to be unconditionally loved through your art can be dangerous in this era of influencers and likes. There are so many temptations through market strategies – it can interfere with the work just as much as political activism can.

I think, contrary to Joseph Beuys, we need to re-enter art. Bazon Brock wrote beautifully about this. As I said before, I live in my own cosmos, a world that requires effort to enter and ultimately offers no promise of happiness. On the contrary – painting often leads to disappointment. You spend a lot of time alone, often unseen and even less understood. I don’t believe in reflecting on what makes you happy or what happiness even is. You work, you stall, you work some more – and then you die.

AB: It’s actually the opposite. I used to just want to be left alone. So many people messed with me – doctors, teachers. I wanted to get as far away from all of that as I could through art. Into a space where no one could interfere. I do enjoy being around people, but I rarely attend openings and avoid big events in the cultural scene. But the people I’ve met there who became my friends – I have very deep and intense relationships with them.

All I can do is encourage people: Just do your thing. Don’t orient yourself by what others expect of you. Courage is the sexiest thing there is. I love people who are brave. And in everything I do, I always try to be a little braver than I actually am.

AB: It’s much easier when you don’t take yourself too seriously and learn to play with your own identity. Who are we, really? For a few years, we wander around thinking we’re something special. Then we just vanish. Nietzsche had this fantastic metaphor in Zarathustra:

When I feel that almost childlike freedom in me to play – with what’s inside me and around me – through painting, that’s when I can work best. Having gone through defeat and pain is part of it. I even have to destroy my own certainties again – revolt against myself. That’s the most beautiful kind of fight.