Art – Numéro Berlin

In Conversation with Benjamin Heidersberger

Anna Klusmeier — Tue, 29 Jul 2025 10:29:53 +0000

I meet Benjamin Heidersberger in his home. The calm piano sounds playing in the background aren’t just ambient music, they’re The Pentatonic Permutations, his long-term project. By combining a simple scale and a complex algorithm, he programmed a determined sequence of sounds in which no combination ever repeats.

We spoke about time, about being both an artist and the son of one, and about the quiet network of people connected through his life’s work.

If you want to become part of this network and stay connected to Benjamin Heidersberger, use the QR code below to stream The Pentatonic Permutations.

Benjamin Heidersberger: Is it okay that the music is running in the background like this?

Franka Magon: Yes, let’s talk about it directly. Right now we’re listening to your work: The Pentatonic Permutations, right?

Exactly. It’s a project I’ve been working on for 15 years now, and it’s increasingly become a part of my life. That means I live with it, it’s running basically day and night. It’s a bit of an attempt to assign unique melodies to the entire span of time, from the Big Bang until 16 trillion years into the future, and thus create a coordinate system for time. Every melody is unique, and I’m continually expanding it. For the past one and a half years, I’ve been streaming it worldwide with about 2000 hours listened to per month.

This is your art. What role does art play in your life in general?

I come from an artistic household, my mother was an actress, my father a photographer. I myself actually studied physics, biology, and computer science. So I come more from the sciences. At 30, I veered into art.

At first I always worked in collectives, that’s a completely different process, you’re never the sole originator. At some point I felt the desire to create something on my own, and that’s how this project came about. It’s perhaps a bit like a coming-out as an artist. Every artist wants to communicate in some way, to be seen. Suddenly you’re standing there alone in the world and have to take responsibility for what you’re creating. For me, that’s actually been a positive process.

In what way has your parents’ work influenced your own? You took a different path at first, was there a need to distance yourself from art?

I definitely benefited greatly from my parents, they gave me a lot of freedom. From my father I picked up a lot of technical skills, and I got to know photography in depth. He had a beautiful workshop in the castle in Wolfsburg, and I was able to experiment a lot there.

Yes, they’re two parents you really like to have as parents, whom you also like as people. That has an influence — in terms of intellectual freedom, inspiration. But if all is culture, all is intellectual, that’s almost too much of it. Of course you also have to push back a bit against that.

Today, among other things, I manage my father’s estate in the Heidersberger Institute, which I founded together with Bernd Rodrian and the City of Wolfsburg. That’s not always an easy confrontation, because you’re also promoting another artist in a way. But I’ve actually been handling that quite well, still, I’m now trying to gain a bit more distance from it and focus on my own work again.

Still, you remain spatially connected to your parents through your commuting between Wolfsburg and Berlin. What exactly is your relationship with these two places?

Wolfsburg is my hometown, but it’s a prototypical industrial city, and that brings a certain narrowness with it. At some point I wanted to get out. After Hamburg and Hanover, I moved to Berlin in 2010. Berlin is a really amazing city , with crazy possibilities, with crazy people, it’s very impressive. Of course, it also has many downsides , there are too many tourists, and Berlin is often cheap, not in terms of rent but in the sense that what Berliners like is often a bit cheap.

I could also imagine moving somewhere else at some point, maybe to India, which I feel closely connected to. For 20 years now, I’ve been spending my winters there in a monastery.

So spirituality plays a role for you?

Spirituality plays a big role in my life.

I believe that the biggest accusation one can make against capitalism is that it deprives people of the meaning of their lives. I believe that the true task of a human being is to find out who we really are. Not in the sense of doing therapy and approaching it psychologically, but rather to understand and discover this essential core of being that we all share, and to integrate that into life. And I believe that’s what we call a spiritual path.

Connecting this back to your work, The Pentatonic Permutations, with spirituality, questions of infinity or finiteness always come into play. Where does your work fit into that?

So, from the Big Bang until today, only one-thousandth of the total composition has been played. Sixteen trillion years is a pretty long time, but it is finite. That was very important to me, I could have written the program so that it loops after that, but I decided that it ends.

To see it in a more spiritual light: we have to use this finite time we’ve been given. At some point it’s over, or maybe it’s not but we still have to make use of the time we have here on this earth, in this body.

On the topic of time: You had the first idea for the algorithm in the 1980s, with the collective, with your friend Peter Elsner. It was a different idea, of course, but still something similar. What impact did this long period of time have on the final creative process or how the work exists today? It probably differs somewhat from the original idea.

I have to say, I was a different person back then, and perhaps it doesn’t have that much to do with the original idea anymore.

What has remained is the idea of an algorithmically based composition. Even back then, it would have had to run on a computer, otherwise it wouldn’t really make sense.

What’s also remained is the expansion of the composition into the world. That’s what I’m doing now with the streaming. My idea is to create a network of people listening at the same time. No matter where you are, you hear the same thing. And that sense of simultaneity is a very important moment in listening for me.

My intention is that the composition helps people find peace.. There are often phases between the notes where nothing happens, or where you have to really listen. It’s ambient music, it doesn’t impose itself on you, you have to listen carefully, actively observe what’s happening between yourself and what you hear. That’s a bit of the idea behind it.

This connection you speak of also emerges between your home and that of strangers. You are part of the network.

I’m part of this network and probably the one who listens the most. It connects me to the world. Art is also always about being seen. And that’s always a form of the artist communicating with the world. In that sense, I’m also creating a communication offering.

Communication also changes with technological progress. And that has enormously changed the way your work can be experienced today. Has the work itself also changed as a result?

What’s important is that it’s generated algorithmically, meaning there’s a formula behind it. It’s entirely deterministic. What it is not, and that’s also very important to me, is artificial intelligence. It’s just like a world clock.

Even though AI is not yet part of the work, it could of course open up new possibilities. Do you see ways of integrating it in the future?

I view AI very critically. I think it will change us. I think soon we won’t know what’s true and what’s false. And that will bring a huge upheaval, possibly even a tragic one, because we might lose our footing. So I’m very cautious about the use of AI. But I’m currently planning performances across Germany and abroad. There will be a visual extension of the work. I could imagine that it might involve something with AI, but I don’t know yet.

Armin Boehm: To revolt against myself is the most beautiful kind of fight

Anna Klusmeier — Fri, 25 Jul 2025 11:02:00 +0000

When I first encountered Armin’s paintings, I was drawn into them as though entering a fever dream. His vibrant worlds teem with obscure personalities, subtle messages, and an undercurrent of unseen abysses. One could spend hours before them and still uncover new details. The same holds true for the painter himself – an entire novel could unfold in conversation with him. For this issue, I met him in his studio to discuss the theme of fighting, a subject he knows better than almost any other artist.

Ann-Kathrin Riedl: What was the biggest fight of your life?

Armin Boehm: Without sounding dramatic, I’d honestly say the biggest fight was literally for my life – because I almost lost it in an accident. Between the ages of 16 and 21, my biggest struggle was simply to recover. The explosion set my body back by years. I couldn’t do the things others my age were doing physically. I had to reinvent myself, to build a new identity. I felt different – like an alien. For years, I lived with pain, fear, and near-death experiences. Becoming an artist was never my dream or goal. I had very different problems. Maybe you’re born an artist without even realizing it. But that fight for survival, and the confrontation with my own mortality, awakened something in me that had long been dormant.

AR: Was there any artistic influence in your background? Did you grow up in a creative household?

AB: Not at all. I come from a family of engineers, lawyers and businesspeople – art wasn’t a big topic in our house. I was a pretty rebellious child, so my parents only offered moderate resistance when I decided to apply to art school. I think they also just couldn’t picture me working behind a bank counter or in an office.

AR: How did you personally feel that artistic spark?

AB: I’ve been drawing for as long as I can remember. And when I was halfway recovered, I started working with oil paints. As a child, I used watercolors, but they dry so fast. Oil paint was different. There was this silky, beautiful sensation – you could build entire atmospheres with it and completely lose yourself in the process. I walked around like a young bohemian, always dressed in black, wearing a beret. As soon as I got my driver’s license, I started traveling to Paris. I’d go to the Louvre, photograph the paintings that spoke to me, and develop the photos at home so I could study them closely. During my recovery, I gradually got lost in this universe of painting. Maybe it helped that my body was still very restricted – painting didn’t require intense physical effort. My hands were intact, and my eyesight slowly returned. Painting became a world I could immerse myself in. I wanted to live and work in that atmosphere beyond the everyday. I was drawn to the darker, metaphorical paintings of the past, and to the unconventional lives of the artists behind them. After visiting the Louvre, I’d often head to Père Lachaise Cemetery to visit the graves of painters, poets and musicians.

AR: Would you say that art helped you fight your way back to life?

AB: No, for me, art was never therapeutic. It was the doctors, my friends and my family who really helped me through. Right after the hospital, I had to fight to regain my vision – I could barely see. Art only became possible once I’d fought for my health. But once painting became important to me, a new kind of struggle emerged. Entering the art world means stepping into a different kind of battlefield. I applied to art school thinking I’d get in right away. But they rejected me three times. “We see no artistic talent. We wish you all the best in life.” That’s what they said.

AR: Every time I hear that phrase, it sounds so brutal. Surprising it was never changed.

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.

AR: But Immendorff himself was more interested in women than in painting.

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.

AR: And then you built everything from scratch. That takes determination. Did you ever think about taking the easier path?

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.

AR: Was there a moment when you felt you’d truly arrived in that world?

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.

AR: Do you think success always comes when you follow your passion honestly and purely?

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.

AR: Was there ever a goal, or was the journey always the destination?

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.

AR: Could anything still shake you today? When you’ve been through so many battles, do you feel like nothing can really get to you anymore?

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.

AR: To be prepared for whatever comes.

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.

AR: Do you know the feeling of wanting to avoid a fight altogether?

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.

AR: What’s your take on the growing overlap between activism and art?

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.

AR: Does great art always emerge from pain?

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.

AR: People often say pain is the ideal state for artistic creation.

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.

AR: Can you explain that more – how a painting can become your opponent? It’s still your own work, after all.

AB: I often compare paintings to children. You can control them up to a point, but at some stage, you have to let go and follow them – they develop a will of their own. And if you don’t let them go where they want, it causes problems. If, for whatever reason, I can’t engage fully with the painting, it becomes really agonizing. Then I start to see it as an opponent.

AR: How far are you willing to go in that fight? Do you ever give up on a painting?

AB: Yes, there are times when I give up and say, “I’m stuck.” But it’s more like a break in the battle. I’ll put the painting somewhere out of sight, and eventually, I’ll have an idea – it starts speaking to me again. Paintings hold time within them, like it’s been preserved. Years later, I can still see which parts gave me trouble – where I scrubbed things out or kept layering paint over and over.

AR: What kinds of battles are your figures fighting? Or are they even fighting at all?

AB: I don’t like explaining my paintings, because my explanation is just one of many. That would only narrow their meaning. I can only tell you what I see when I look at them. In my political, social paintings, I see types of people I recognize today – though they’ve probably always existed in different forms. The double faces and grotesque exaggerations are just my sober observations of contemporaries. The digital masquerade we take part in today is not so different from the hierarchical masquerades at 17th-century courts – or the moral masquerades painted by Hieronymus Bosch. I try to depict reality without aestheticizing it, and without relying on drugs or substances like the Expressionists or New Objectivity painters did. But I do use a kind of gesture that might recall those times. Maybe we’re fighting similar social battles again today.

AR: Is that something you feel yourself? That you’re more comfortable in the role of the observer rather than being right in the middle of things?

AB: I like the role of the observer because it suits my nature. I enjoy painting cats – they’re observant animals, too. As I mentioned, ever since that failed youth, I’ve had this feeling of being a guest. I never really wanted to participate fully. Once, my music teacher asked me, his face flushed red, whether I actually felt like just a guest in this world. I paused briefly and then said, “Yes. You’ve nailed it!”

AR: Yes, that might actually be crucial – if you didn’t have that feeling, your art would probably be entirely different. I think in general, a lot of people carry something inside them that they’re never able to express, simply because they never learned how to find an outlet for it. In that sense, the artist is, by definition, privileged.

AB: No, I wouldn’t say that. Painting shouldn’t be used as a kind of therapy. In art, everything is just material. Including myself – I’m just material, too. A substance, something I can process through painting. If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll manage to add something to the history of painting. But that’s not for us contemporaries to decide – that’s up to the generations after us.

AR: Maybe that’s why so little of today’s art truly moves people – because it’s all ego-driven, everyone circling around themselves, without taking real risks.

AB: But none of this is new. These experiments with personal emotional states already happened in the 60s and 70s – with well-known results. Simply repeating all that today is the opposite of progressive art. Why should I bother with it? What interests me are radical artistic positions that communicate with me across time. A compelling artistic idea can be sent out in a century long past – like a letter – and you receive it, sometimes centuries later, and continue the work. A painter like Maria Lassnig, for example, really engaged deeply with her own physicality, despair and emotional state – and created radical painting from that. That’s the kind of thing I find compelling.

AR: What do you say to yourself internally, then?

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.

AR: Foolishness? Isn’t it more like naivety?

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.

AR: That’s interesting – this willingness to risk doing something foolish. I think people do that far too rarely in life.

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.

AR: What’s one of your favorite fringe figures – perhaps even from your childhood? I was recently talking about the things I loved as a kid, like fantasy novels, and realized I always sided with the villains – not the heroes – because the villains were more interesting.

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.

AR: Did you ever feel like you had to fight to be loved?

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.

AR: The figures in your paintings often seem isolated. Do you feel that way, too, through your life story and your dedication to painting? Is it difficult for you to connect with others?

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.

AR: That’s beautiful. It really moves me.

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:

First, you are a camel – you load yourself up with knowledge.

Then you become a lion – you free yourself from rules, from duties, from all that you’ve learned.

Finally, you become a child again – who plays freely with all the broken pieces and reassembles them.

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.

G-STAR Blends Anatomy and Art in “The Denim Gorilla”

Anna Klusmeier — Mon, 21 Jul 2025 14:58:45 +0000

Always ready to push boundaries, G-Star has joined forces with the Dutch taxidermy artists Darwin, Sinke & van Tongeren. To mark the opening of the artists’ new Art Zoo Museum in Amsterdam, they are unveiling a 3.5-meter-tall gorilla installation inspired by the brand’s anatomical denim design principles.

G-Star has a rich history of collaborating with top-tier creatives across various disciplines, including Maarten Baas, Marc Newson, Anton Corbijn, and Pharrell Williams. This time, the denim brand has teamed up with Darwin, Sinke & van Tongeren, known for their extravagant and artistic approach to traditional taxidermy. Together, they have created a larger-than-life gorilla sculpture, each muscle 3D-printed and covered with hand-stitched denim skin.

Since 1989, G-Star has been devoted to the fabric, craftsmanship, and culture of denim. As a forward-thinking brand, it holds a unique position in shaping the future of the material. Driven by creativity, G-Star transforms ideas into fabric while staying true to its distinctive path.

This dedication to art and design extends far beyond collaborations, it begins at their headquarters in Amsterdam. Completed in 2014 by architect Rem Koolhaas, the industrial building merges indoor and outdoor spaces, reflecting Koolhaas’s signature focus on environmental integration. The headquarters embody the brand’s love for detail, architecture, and contemporary design, with interiors featuring furniture by Marc Newson and Jean Prouvé. Vintage and modern elements coexist within installations like a G-Star airplane made of recycled denim and a custom-built denim closet. Upon entering the building, visitors are greeted by the custom made Drag Queen Collection, also featured in Numéro Berlin’s PASSION issue.

What makes the G-Star headquarters particularly exceptional is that it also houses Europe’s largest archive of vintage garments. This archive acts as a source of inspiration: by deconstructing old pieces, ideas are uncovered that are reinterpreted into modern silhouettes. The collection mainly includes vintage functional wear like motorcycle gear, space suits, and military uniforms from the 1930s to 1970s, which often serve as blueprints for G-Star’s modern designs. Here, utility becomes storytelling, evoking emotion and shaping future aesthetics.

The Denim Gorilla

The creation of the Denim Gorilla took nearly two years of meticulous craftsmanship, including 700 hours of sewing. In total, 56 square meters of denim were stitched together using 3,000 meters of thread. The result is a breathtaking anatomical study of a silverback gorilla, with every muscle and vein rendered in detailed, hand-sewn denim.

G-Star collaborates with a new artist each year, often from outside the fashion world, allowing for bold and unexpected outcomes. The Denim Gorilla will remain a permanent fixture at the new Art Zoo Museum by Darwin, Sinke & van Tongeren, located in the heart of Amsterdam.

Unlike traditional representations of gorillas in natural history museums, this sculpture strikes a model-like pose. The gestures reference Mannerist art, emphasizing elegance and expressive form, while the muscular silhouette nods to G-Star’s own anatomical design ethos.

The artists specifically chose a silverback gorilla because it is so deeply associated with masculinity. Their goal was to challenge that perception. “What is the most male-coded animal we can think of?” they asked. The answer was: the gorilla. The tension between that hyper-masculine symbolism and their attempt to soften or feminize it made the gorilla the perfect subject. The final sculpture plays with those contrasts, adding layers of meaning.

G-Star’s mission is not just about making denim – it’s about reshaping creativity and sustainability. The Denim Gorilla also inspired the brand’s upcoming Fall/Winter collection, which explores anatomical shapes and movement in wearable form.

More unexpected projects are already in the works. As the brand looks to its next chapter, one thing remains clear: for G-Star, denim is just the beginning. The Denim Gorilla didn’t just make a statement at the museum; it set the stage for G-Star’s next evolution. The striking art piece inspired a new capsule denim collection launching in September 2025, focusing on anatomical fits and body-following silhouettes, marking a return to raw denim aesthetics and late ‘90s style. This renewed vision aligns with the appointment of Dutch-Caribbean design duo Rushemy Botter and Lisi Herrebrugh as the brand’s first creative directors since Aitor Throup’s departure in 2018. Under their creative direction, G-Star is poised to redefine itself once again, beginning with the debut of the first RAW RESEARCH collection at Paris Fashion Week next January.

HAUTE COUTURE WEEK IN PARIS: FROM SCULPTURAL ROMANCE TO RADICAL MINIMALISM

Anna Klusmeier — Thu, 17 Jul 2025 10:21:01 +0000

CELINE – READY TO WEAR

Michael Rider presented his striking debut collection as Creative Director of CELINE, marking a powerful return to the house. “Coming back has been incredibly emotional for me. And a complete joy,” he shared. Under his vision, CELINE reasserts its core values: quality, timelessness, and style – elusive concepts, often spoken about but rarely embodied with such clarity. Rider and his team worked to translate these ideals into a wardrobe that reflects attitude as much as identity. “I’ve always loved the idea of clothing that lives on,” he says, pieces that resonate beyond a single season, becoming part of a life, a memory, a history.

With this first collection, Rider manages to capture both the utility and the fantasy of fashion – the now, the past, and what’s still to come.

SCHIAPARELLI – BACK TO THE FUTURE

Daniel Roseberry’s latest collection for Schiaparelli blurs the boundaries between past and futurism with a haunting black-and-white palette. Inspired by Elsa Schiaparelli’s departure from Paris in 1940, the collection reimagines a world on the edge, poised between elegance and upheaval. Gone are corsets; in their place, sculptural silhouettes and surrealist trompe l’oeil textures evoke both restraint and release.

The entire show can be conceived as a surrealist trompe l’oeil, from the makeup to the fabrics, and fantasy pieces that dazzle: A reworked “Apollo” cape in black diamanté starbursts, a 3D-embroidered “Squiggles and Wiggles” dress, and the dreamlike “Eyes Wide Open” gown with iris cabochons and a silk tulle train.

“It’s too easy to romanticize the past. It’s too easy to fear the present,” say the show’s notes. This is couture that resists nostalgia, asking instead how archival memory can shape a post-technological future: One free of screens, shaped by hands, and grounded in imagination.

GEORGES HOBEIKA – THE NEW ORDER

Georges Hobeika is presenting its newest collection „The New Order“ This Bezeichnung is wegweisend in the presentation. In heavy and uncertain times we are gifted a momentum of stillness by reminding us of true craftsmanship while Beauty agiert as a werkzeug to create and resell.

The collection is finding its roots in elegance while boldly staying true to tradition and its ambiguity between weakness and strength. While masterfully honoring Couture Fashion and adding value to it, the pieces stand out as individuals – grounded and resolute.

After 30 years of existence the House of Georges Hobeika shows once again how true couture is desirable, timeless and never not relevant.

RAHUL MISHRA – BECOMING LOVE

In Sufism, love grows through seven steps: attraction, infatuation, letting go, respect, devotion, obsession, and finally, the loss of self into something bigger. It starts gently and grows until there’s only stillness.This collection traces that journey. The clothes flow like lines in a love story, inspired by Gustav Klimt’s art and brought to life with traditional Indian embroidery. Rahul Mishra’s team of almost 2000 fashion workers uses age-old techniques with silk threads, pearls, beads, and sequins on fine fabrics like organza, tulle, velvet, and satin. Every piece is shaped by careful metalwork too. Each garment honors slow, skilled work and the people behind it, sharing India’s artistry with the world.

CHANEL – FALL-WINTER 25/26 HAUTE COUTURE

With this collection, CHANEL invites us to wander through a refined pastoral dream. Staged in the Salon d’Honneur at the Grand Palais and envisioned by Willo Perron, the show recalls the quiet elegance of Gabrielle Chanel’s salons at 31 rue Cambon. Inspired by the fresh breeze of English countrysides and Scottish moors, the garments consist of reimagined winter classics through a lens of freedom and natural harmony, featuring natural shades of ecru, ivory, brown, green and black.

Tweed is, of course, a central element: Transformed into featherlight mohair, bouclé mimicking sheepskin, and illusionary faux fur. Soft, earthy hues in ecru, green, plum, and black echo the landscape’s palette. Wheat motifs, long symbolic of abundance in Chanel’s lexicon, are woven into chiffon, buttons, and embroidery, while floral details and gilded lace nod to the sunlight breaking through grey skies.

At the end, the cold English day turns into sunlight, magnifying its reflections with jewel-buttons, embroidery, gold and silver ennobled lace and a flounced dress in orange tones lamé. This is couture rooted in nature, crafted with clarity and emotion, basically modern feminine elegance with room to breathe.

ROBERT VAN DER KEMP – THE CALL OF THE WILD

Robert van der Kemp forms a personal homage to nature and human craftsmanship with his haut couture collection the Call of the Wild. In Collaboration with a collective of Brazilian Indigenous artisans and friend Thayná Caiçara and inspired by the lush vibrancy of the Amazon rainforest and its winged inhabitants, the collection evokes the beauty of both Earth’s flora and fashion’s flamboyant. Materials are reimagined: discarded fabrics become majestic corsets, jungle-dyed silks, sculptural plissés, and art collages stitched from feathers, beads, trinkets, and memories. Each of the 32 looks stands as a one-of-a-kind creation. Telling stories through the act of upcycling and celebrating of real-world beauty and resilience.In an era of excess, RVDK reminds us that luxury can be ethical, rebellious, and radiant. A couture that’s transforming the discarded into the divine.

GIORGIO ARMANI PRIVÉ – NOIR SÉDUISANT

Far from being monotonous, black offers an entire spectrum of nuances and possibilities while seemingly only being one shade. Giorgio Armani has always been drawn to it, as it represents synthesis, graphic purity that transforms every silhouette into a timeless mark. In this collection, the designer captures black’s most elegant, nocturnal, and seductive side, while once again exploring the dialogue between masculine and feminine.

Introduced by fluid garments with vivid embroidered accents, black takes the runway in a series of reinterpretations of the tuxedo and tailcoat, in sculptural jackets worn on bare skin or blazers styled with a white shirt, bow tie, and slim-fit trousers. Graced by black reoccurring hats, the models do look like they came straight out of classic and elegant fashion illustrations.

ROBERT WUN – BECOMING

Robert Wun makes a powerful statement with his Fall/Winter 2025 collection, Becoming. This body of work is an ode to the quiet, often unseen ritual of getting dressed. Those delicate moments when we shift from private to public, gathering courage as each layer goes on. Inspired by the beauty of the incomplete and the almost-ready, Wun plays with unfinished edges and fluid shapes that echo the in-between space of transformation. Becoming is more than clothing; it’s an emotional narrative about how what we wear shapes who we are on life’s significant days. With masterful cuts and thoughtful storytelling stitched into every look, Robert Wun invites us to witness not just fashion, but the deeply human act of becoming something new.

VICTOR & ROLF – ANGRY BIRDS

Victor & Rolfs newest collection reinterprets the concept behind their FW98–99 show: presenting two versions of the same garment, yet never revealing the same silhouette. Each set was shown first as an exaggerated form, stuffed with colorful faux feathers, followed by its raw counterpart, leaving an aftertaste of luxury and fantasy.

The feathers, symbols of wealth and refined taste, are not mere accessories here, but architectural elements, essential in sculpting the couture silhouettes and in exploring the tension between presence and absence.

„Angry Birds“ offers us exuberant spectacle followed by its softened shadow. The show serves as a powerful reminder that quietness and exaggeration can not only coexist but also elevate each other’s beauty.

MAISON MARTIN MARGIELA – ARTISANAL COLLECTION 2025

Glenn Martens presents a deeply architectural and art-historic collection for Maison Margiela, drawing on the gothic verticality and sculptural austerity of medieval Flanders and the Netherlands. The show was held in le Centquatre, which reflects the approach of archaic times and atmosphere. Of course, also the garments took deep inspiration from Gothic structures such as towers or saintly figures of church facades and also draped fabrics that create optical illusions and elongations of the physique.

With reinterpretations of flemish floral leather wallpapers and Dutch still life paintings as overlays, embossed fabrics or 3D collages, this narration is continued. Brushstroke-inspired trompe l’œil pieces nod to Symbolist painter Gustave Moreau, while lace and veiled drapery mimic skin and marble sculpture. As for materials, the house went to vintage leather, costume jewellery, plastic and even metal boxes, that are transformed into couture details and face coverings. The iconic Tabi boot is reborn with claw toes and wedge plastic sandals.

Set against palatial paper collages and a deconstructed Smashing Pumpkins soundtrack, the show is a haunting, tactile reflection on art, memory, and metamorphosis.

RAMI AL ALI – GUARDIANS OF LIGHT

Marking a historic debut on the official Paris Haute Couture Week calendar, Syrian-born, UAE-based designer Rami Al Ali unveils Guardians of Light – The Living Craft of Damascus, a powerful and personal ode to heritage and artistry.

Rami Al Ali’s couture vision is steeped in the rich visual language of Damascus: Courtyards, painted ceilings, and mother-of-pearl inlay, rendered in brocade, sequin, and hand-embroidery. Drawing from the carved wood of Al-Azm Palace and the geometric harmony of Khan As’ad Pasha, Rami Al Ali reimagines the quiet grandeur of Damascus in couture form. Historic homes like Bayt Nizam and Bayt Farhi inspire silhouettes where memory becomes material: brocades gleam with embroidery, sequins echo Iznik tiles, and beading reflects mother-of-pearl inlay. Each piece is a talisman, each veil a whispered verse, an ode to heritage, elevated through the craft of couture.

This is not nostalgia, it is a reclamation of craftsmanship as living heritage and guardianship of that more so. With his debut, Al Ali assumes the role of designer and guardian, bringing Syria’s artistic soul into the haute couture conversation with quiet power and grace.

GERMANIER – LES JOUEUSES

„Les Joueuses“ is Kevin Germanier’s way of serving bold looks while playfully inviting us to forget about hard times. The garments are full of polka dots, leopard prints, stripes and certainly not lacking in color.

The show is set against a backdrop of brightly shining balloons, enhancing the celebration of play, color, and the endless possibilities of imagination. Beyond the visual satisfaction, the set once again reflects Germanier’s commitment to sustainability: the balloons were previously rejected due to flaws, feathers were recycled from past collections, and the entire set design will be reborn next season, fully upcycled into sequins.

Germanier’s latest collection marks a clear step outside of his comfort zone. It’s vibrant, full of light and joy, while true craftsmanship is evident in every piece. You can truly feel the designer’s deeply rooted desire to redefine couture — while staying true to the essence of Germanier.

“SPINE BOUNDARY”: IN CONVERSATION WITH LIANG FU (FEAT. PASSAGE)

Anna Klusmeier — Fri, 13 Jun 2025 11:37:48 +0000

Art is subjective and always political. With his latest installation “SPINE BOUNDARY” at Hermannplatz, Berlin, Chinese born Artist LIANG FU cleverly portrays the concept of the absent presence of the body and evokes memories tied to a fading way of life. Through the absence of physical form, it reflects both human and animal bodies retreating into shared oblivion, while contemplating the displacement of traditional agriculture by industrialization. What was once a space of labor and life now stands as a silent shell, confronting us with the absence it contains. PASSAGE is a Berlin based curatorial platform, that partnered with LIANG FU to bring his vision through his installation to life. Read more about them later in the interview.

In a few words: What is your personal connection to Berlin?

I kept hearing friends talk about the differences between the art scenes in Berlin and Paris, so I visited a few times, met some artist friends, and also stayed in Berlin.

What does (creating) art mean to you?

Engaging, questioning, living

Tell us about your usual approach when creating a sculpture. How does it differ from the process of painting?

In sculpture, I tend to approach the work by considering the materials and their historical context, while in painting, I focus more on the perspective and language of the image.

You were born in Sichuan, China. In what way did your upbringing influence the work you do today?

Of course, I have been reflecting on this question especially after moving to France, because French and Mandarin are vastly different languages. I see painting and sculpture as separate languages, and this has made me think about how to communicate the meaning of my work through the artwork itself, so that people don’t need a specific cultural background to understand it. This has been the language I’ve been trying to refine in my creations this year.

“As a new generation chinese artist, being influenced by different cultural backgrounds allows my work to resonate and connect with diverse audiences, and that is what I find most meaningful.”

Since you live and work in Paris, what is your connection to Berlin, especially its art scene?

I make time to visit Berlin every year. It seems to have more underground spaces and a strong influence from underground culture, which gives experimental artists greater room to survive and create. In contrast, Paris offers fewer such spaces. I believe this is closely tied to the art ecosystem and economic factors. Although Paris has become more international in recent years, the rising rent makes it increasingly difficult for many artists to sustain themselves—especially those in the experimental phase, who need more space and resources to take risks and make mistakes.

How did you end up partnering with PASSAGE? What is your take-away from working together with them?

Victor Auberjonois first reached out to me on Instagram with an invitation to exhibit, and after some discussions between him and my representing gallery, Nicodim, we began exploring the uniqueness of both the space and the project. I’ve always been drawn to historically charged or atypcal spaces—they inspire me deeply. I believe that artworks dialogue with different meanings depending on the space they inhabit, and I’m constantly seeking new contexts and interpretations, which often lead to fresh insights and reflections in my practice.

Tell us a little about the background and philosophy of PASSAGE as a curatorial platform:

PASSAGE was founded one year ago, inspired by Lucio Amelio’s legendary Parisian space Pièce Unique which was conceived in 1989 together with Cy Twombly. Reviving that radical concept, PASSAGE reimagines the act of exhibition as a distilled encounter, presenting a single artwork at a time to invite focus and reflection while offering a brief escape from daily routines.

Each presentation revolves around a single artwork, offering a lens into the artist’s practice. We create highly considered, often scenographic environments for every show, pushing the presentation of contemporary art into an immersive, experiential direction. The exhibition space itself becomes an artwork, a kind of sculpture in the public sphere.

PASSAGE is instinctive and independent. We are medium-agnostic and exhibit both emerging and established artists based purely on our curatorial interests. We don’t represent artists in the traditional sense, but sell on commission, allowing us to maintian freedom to collaborate with whomever we admire. Each show is a collaboration with the artist in which we treat all aspects such as writing, documentation, and archiving as integral to the project.

We hold a vernissage open to all on Hermannplatz for every of the monthly exhibitions in the space on the U-Bahn platform below.

Why did you choose the U-Bahn station Hermannplatz as a space to showcase the artworks? What reactions or emotions do you hope to evoke in passersby?

Hermannplatz is quintessentially Berlin – raw, eclectic, and full of energy. The mayor of Neukölln once described it as home to the most diverse population in Germany.

Architecturally, the station is striking. The interplay of grey-green and yellow tiles, the generous ceiling height, and the echoes of a complex historical past give it a unique presence. Symbolically, it is a powerful location, connecting the U7 and U8 lines, which run East-West and North-South, linking many major neighborhoods of the city.

This station is a place of motion and repetition but also solitude and sometimes even despair. We are interested in how contemporary art can quietly interrupt that flow, offering a moment of contemplation or emotional resonance amid daily transit.

Art doesn’t require prior knowledge. It lives in the perception of the viewer. By placing it in a public, unexpected setting, we invite anyone, even someone who has never stepped into a gallery, into a brief moment of introspection. We are not trying to elicit specific reactions. We are creating conditions in which something, however subtle, might unfold.

What are your future plans for the platform?

PASSAGE will carry on its monthly rhythm at Hermannplatz, while extending its presence beyond Berlin. For the first time, we’re sharing that PASSAGE is expanding to Mexico City, where a former taco stand will soon become our second exhibition space.

In September, we will present a very different project: a group exhibition featuring around 40 artists in one of Berlin’s most iconic locations.

Looking ahead, we hope to invite fellow curators to shape exhibitions within our spaces, building a multi-city, international platform that brings contemporary art to everyone – through windows, in transit zones, and always in unexpected ways.

Tell us about the meaning of SPINE BOUNDARY. How does it convey a political message?

This sculpture further explores the transformation of the relationship between humans and nature through metaphor. The horse stall, once a space of labor and close interaction between humans and animals, is now reimagined as a hollow shell — symbolizing disciplined nature, the erased body, and the alienation brought by industrialization. By reinterpreting this structure, the work turns a once-living space into a symbol of control, loss, and historical rupture.

The coal-covered floor and rusted walls are not only material choices but also symbolic expressions — they carry the traces of time, the corrosion of power, and the slow collapse of traditional structures under modernization. Through the use of discarded, repurposed materials, the artist transforms forgotten remnants into metaphors of memory, history, and political inquiry into existence.

In essence, SPINE BOUNDARY does not convey political messages directly, but through its use of material, metaphor, and spatial reconstruction, it raises profound questions about domestication, control, forgetting, and disappearance.

“The political message lies subtly within the structure and materiality — a poetic critique and spiritual resistance to the mechanisms of power embedded in our contemporary reality.”

How should people feel when walking past / looking at SPINE BOUNDARY?

I never want to impose how I think people should feel. What I find more interesting is listening to what they tell me they feel.

PASSAGE is a curatorial space inside a train station. How does the public display of your art change the way you went about creating it?

Yes, I would consider the size and safety of the artwork since it’s in a public space. Other than that, I feel quite very free to create.

We couldn’t help but notice the piece’s resemblance to symbols of femininity/motherhood, such as the depiction of a pregnant belly or something emerging from a vulva. Did these topics play any role in your process of creating the artwork?

Of course, I noticed these elements and felt excited because they add more layers of interpretation and complexity to the work. They also allowed me to step away from painting practice and think about other issues. Last year, I worked with ceramics, a different material, and this year, in this sculpture, I used animal skin, which is also related to the body. This gave me a new understanding of bodily perception and is part of my exploration of the relationship between materials and perception in my creative process.

What are your hopes for future dialogue between humanity and art?

I hope to see many works that explore different aspects of humanity. Human nature is complex and ever-changing, which is probably why we are always fascinated by it. But I believe the simplest reason is that a good artwork is one that moves people.

Madame Dalmatien Studio

Anna Klusmeier — Wed, 04 Jun 2025 16:13:36 +0000

ART DIRECTOR REM MASCIA PHOTOGRAPHERS JEAN FRANCOIS VERGANTI X ANAIS NOVEMBRE

Suede ballet flats with eyelets ALAÏA

Anatomy bag in zebra-print pony calf leather SCHIAPARELLI

Mickey Block Heel Ufo Pump COPERNI x DISNEY

Rendez vous d’exception, « L’HEURE DORÉE » Millésime 2025 GUERLAIN

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Aviator sunglasses with a lightweight metal frame LOEWE

Bubble Chain Necklace in Brass LORO PIANA