Robert Müller
...the world we live in, or whatever the world may seem to appear to be for each and everyone of us, is a little too bright spot in a way too dark void, or else, a little too dark spot in a way to bright sunlight. In its scarce shadow, I spent a little time recently on a volume on Whistler’s etchings, „somewhat of a technician”, as a friend rightfully mentions. And an avid collector of etchings himself.
In 1842, his father, a civil engineer, leaves Massachusetts for St. Petersburg, dragging the family along. Well paid, and working for the court of the czar, Whistler Sr. earns a fortune. He rises, he spends. He dies. All fortune smeared on status, the family, suddenly poor heads back to the U.S. By laying the tracks between Moscow and St. Petersburg, to and fro, and dragging U.S. companies along through the birch and pine forests, Jr. will owe his education to the favor of company leaders owing his dead father a favor. By indebting himself in the marks of Rembrandt and alike, he continues to write the history of manner-ism-s and debt onward. Indebted myself, I am dragged along.
In the meantime, a magic show is announced over and over again, by the minute, over and over again, by the minute, over and over again. The show itself is never performed, yet, the magic lies in its acclamation. A unique position in space and time is proposed, the space comes at a cost, 72 marks east, 1.900 Marks West, the lease for the spot to move around, producing constant hidden marks, scratching abrasions to an environment, decorated for an audience we represent ourselves to...
(Photos: fig1-40 Aaron Amar Bhamra / Laurenz)