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Jörg Immendorff

JÖRG IMMENDORFF WAS A FIGHTER, and I miss his presence. News of his death last May came as no surprise; after struggling against the crippling effects of ALS for almost a decade, he died in his sleep at the age of sixty-one. What has proved more difficult is the fact of his silence. Immendorff was one of the ballsiest artists I have ever met. He lived his life to the fullest, and even when he was confined to a wheelchair not one word of self-pity passed through his lips. He didn’t give a damn what people thought; all he wanted to do was paint, teach, and enjoy himself on the weekends. Yet he cherished the individuals who believed in his art, gallerist Michael Werner chief among them. I joined his tribe rather late, when I moved to Cologne in 1991. Convinced that Immendorff was one of great painters of postwar Europe, I knew that the best way I could spend my time was in writing about his

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