Foreword
Often it will be that I will value a work only for the sum of ideas and fantasies it spawns in me.
Charles Baudelaire>>>

Proposition
Through the voice that is writing to make heard the sound of the artist to be portrayed and to show his inner field of vision. Let us take in the beginnings, the early works, to examine his state of being in a clear light. We see before us a work which vacillates between the axiom “less is more” and baroque, intellectual exhaustion of available means. Symbol calligraphy encounters urban foundlings ­ material characters communicate with archaic battlefields ­ digital typography meets the monogram of a rivulet‘s bed ­ a bold collage between nature and decay begins a discourse with itself, amidst the writing pertaining to it. And so the preoccupation with oneself takes on a blood-stained, archetypal dimension. The user interface of the brain which we see here is a system expanded by knowledge in order to glean news. Work the semiotic general store into an etiquette manual of newly structured pages with universal values. Instead of facile iconolatry, adjust the perfect plan with pixel ornaments. A Yes inside an emotionally charged brain, to formatting movements anew ­ because only the means by which change is brought about will change.
And so this portrait is a word-mask of tatters and image positions gone wild from this œuvre of finely worked proportions and a rehabilitation of folkloric knowledge. For every organ should at all costs be freed from this all-engulfing obsession with “hysterical now” and be given a proper place to grow.
A work that does not even use common grids. Excavations bound up in the negative ­ a quilt on which the fairy tale layer is stitched to the comet’s tail, a desert melée in old German handwriting, runes knotted into images of synapses.>>>

Work methods
Give the stringent ghettos a shot of enlightened hard-tackling. The puck screams on moss, on steel on pixelled … A Yes with souvenirs of ideas, blissful and drunken drawing up of high-level exercise lists, safe beneath the pillow, on top wayward dreams and freely improvised bebop. Next morning at breakfast bury old postcard reminiscences down below, do away with old philosophies and feed on new life. Tested the whole ballyhoo with photo shots and sketches, built it up in conversation and let it fade away. Just keep your nerves with all the traps, the wrinkles, keep waiting, the snapshots are the first side wings in the smith’s apron. The organic reaction to the new idea is as yet wobbly, disected, still more trumpet sounds from other media, streaks in a terminal cerebral land, still more scribbling of notes out of arbitrary motor activity. More divisions must be made.>>>
The artist in his foundry of ideas produces thoughts, works, knows that he is familiar with no more than a tiny fragment of accumulated civilisation. But does not become morbid. The current stand can be the subject matter of his shunting yard. He knows his model railway of codes, he is the signalman of his locomotives, knows his trains out of casual genius, knows his intents well preserved. They are still there, the spirits and minds with drawing boards, whereas one knows that the strands of inspiration are woven in many ways and cannot be unravelled on demand. And so to gathering ­ what we have, we have ­ all torn up and layered then, manoeuvred into aesthetic imagery. To be suspended in one’s capabilities as the fertile producer and to be the product‘s observer all in one. It is no invention, instead the mobilizer holds the material, an initial freeze frame with a watermark in time merges into fuzzy imagery, then the language of the imagery is translated by our thoughts, is no longer merely a metaphor for the visually orientated observer. Wring a system out of idle talk, flotsam from our daily lives becomes the mainstay of a message, cementing the spiritual component with an almost superstitious obsession. And so, find fortune, find beauty. Wring some other raw material with writings from the earth, erosion in the senses, from the visual goggle box full of cubism and trigger-happy bad rhymes. As a voyeur of the media he can understand the jokers in the corridors, but these images should be broken up, with complex conceptual surprises. Circumnavigate these once again, judge their effect with discolouring, transcend with technology, and then, final proof of life inside installed images, polished, engraved, cast.>>>

Fabscape
The artist imagines a non-material work of art, surfing in the non-linear medium of the net. His hand goes to the mouse ­ finger pressure, click, a window opens, a limited supply of layers whirls through the web. Let the following be facts: the silhouette of the Town Band of Bremen, a symbol level out of alchemy and the periodic system, genetic codes, thirdly an industrial landscape.
Storeys, stories, periodic or even alchemical courses of events, glowing codes of bacteria and breeds of dogs on a prefabricated landscape.>>>

The method
Take the material, the qualities and let them loose all over, rhythmically, with a sure aim, in auto-reference to eachother. A construct of ideas whose instruments comprise separation. A game full of repetition. Seized the insoluble problem of analogous logical evolution. Inside the loop of auto-references the problem and its solution become displaced. We receive the answer to an ever-changing question.
Metal ­ temperament ­ animal. Songs like “we can find anything better than death, anywhere” ­ and below, a landscape alternating between the grid of everyday routine and wild shots plotted into the blue. The prefabricated picture is expanded here ­ evolution by bacterial activity at the computer. Elements ­ species ­ metals, drag, separate and divide into layers to cheat the quarrelling of the character symbol industry.>>>
Fabscape is a “print” too, a limited number of possible correlations, is in its presentation a symbolic panel, fragments of possibilities, installed within steel frames. When these picture products splash into the observer’s dimension, burble overhead with their categorizations, inhale the raw particles and remix them, they remain observer-in-chief. However, the image creator remains conspicuous. Somewhere an inaudible tape would seem to be heard grumbling with the artist’s last ideas, would cast a primeval shadow of a commentary, or sometimes only a sentence which lingers on as an umbilical cord connecting the first scribblings of ideas at the outset of his work. Yes, first flotsam on a wobbly table ­ now after its launch, anchors aweigh ­ a schooner beating to windward ­ there goes a scent ­ which says: Tourists know not where they have been, travellers know not where they are bound (Paul Theroux). Ahoi.