Dirk Braeckman’s third exhibition at Thomas Fischer includes a selection of works that stretches across several phases of the artist’s work into the present, showing the artist’s work as a coherent, large-scale oeuvre that cannot necessarily be located in any one, specific point in time, but, on the contrary, seems remote from time. Bringing together photographs taken at various points in time is essential to Dirk Braeckman’s exhibition practice. Unlike the framework of the Venice Biennale in 2017, where he dominated the Belgian Pavilion through a strictly balanced system of hanging, for Dirk Braeckman the exhibition context of the gallery is something like an open area of experimentation.

Text: Maren Lübbke-Tidow

“I dreamed I was leaving on a trip but I forgot my money” serves as a leitmotif of sorts for this exhibition that offers insight into Kasper König’s private collection. The curator never saw himself as a collector, and yet he gathered works of all kinds over the decades: souvenirs and spontaneous purchases, Jahresgaben, exchanged works, and the odd present. In this collection, which emerged en passant, his preference for the conceptual encounters works sometimes with a bizarre sense of humor; unknown artists are placed alongside now established ones. Behind these pictures and objects, which are closely linked to his biography and companions along the way, there are countless tales to be told. The work by Jonathan Borofsky that lends the exhibition its title refers to a moment of conceptual new beginnings and being on the road. By keeping open where the journey might lead, the title also stands for openness and curiosity, which has always been the inspiration for Kasper König and his work.

With works by Dirk Braeckman, Seiichi Furuya, Friedemann Heckel and Brian O’Doherty.

The city is large. The pictures are small. Los Angeles is horizontal. The photographs are hung vertically on the walls. A man is standing on the fence of an illuminated parking lot; he floats as a figure in a canal; hidden by palm trees, he stands on a chain-link fence. Each figure replaces the last; each picture confirms the last.
Each picture could also be the start of a story. But the figures in the photographs only become actors against the backdrop of the sky or in their affinity to the shadows. Or is it the city that moves through these figures? Even if you’re very light, it is impossible to remain more than a brief moment on top of a fence.
The works by Sebastian Stumpf walk a fine line between the act of narration and its strict refusal. Behind them are invisible histories of dwelling, semi-public space, and the power of the freedom of movement in insecure times. The photographs play themselves. Their figures disappear by becoming repeatedly visible; they surface because they disappear.

Text: Lina Leonore Morawetz