The inner life of the German soul is a gloomy thing. The pristine white fabrics of traditional costumes vie to be the brightest, yet the mood around the lunch table is oddly depressed. And here are Martin Buber and Martin Heidegger, bathed in a glaring green aura; they are seated at a table with two other interlocutors, but the conversation seems to have come to a halt. Paul Celan hovers above another circle like a colorless ghost. Elsewhere, children dutifully playing music in an austere farmhouse parlor seem to be lost in another worlda woman by a window, clad in antiquated garb, takes no notice of them. And then there is the stuff of the unconscious and repression: demons and hobgoblins, grotesque catlike creatures, the dramas of teenage angst, scenes from a Düreresque hellwelcome to the universe of Amelie von Wulffen’s painting.
In her recent solo exhibition “Der
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