Tag: Contemporary art

Imprint

This web­site is not used for any com­mer­cial pur­pos­es; it serves pure­ly pri­vate inter­ests. No adver­tis­ing ban­ners appear.

To pro­tect my pri­va­cy, I would like to refrain from men­tion­ing my pri­vate address and tele­phone number.

How­ev­er, you can always use the email address below to get in touch.

Name: Burkhard Zimmer

Email: love@stillarismus.de

Liability for content:

In accor­dance with Sec­tion 7 Para­graph 1 of the Ger­man Tele­me­dia Act (TMG), I am respon­si­ble for my own con­tent on this web­site. How­ev­er, Sec­tions 8 to 10 of the TMG do not oblig­ate me to mon­i­tor stored or trans­mit­ted third-par­ty con­tent or to check it for legal­i­ty. This does not, how­ev­er, release me from the oblig­a­tion to block or remove infor­ma­tion in accor­dance with applic­a­ble laws.

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The story

Blob upon stain to stillarism

Cre­at­ing art with dig­i­tal tools – what could that look like? This ques­tion arose for me towards the end of my pro­fes­sion­al life, trig­gered by a par­tic­u­lar expe­ri­ence. Despite my artis­tic train­ing, I had worked in mar­ket­ing for a long time and done a real­ly good job there. Iden­ti­fy­ing new devel­op­ments, solv­ing prob­lems cre­ative­ly, trou­bleshoot­ing – that was where my strength lay.

I rec­og­nized ear­ly that a dig­i­tal rev­o­lu­tion was immi­nent, which would force us to rethink our approach. Not just in mar­ket­ing, but in almost every area of ​​dai­ly life. This includ­ed arts, which remained my pas­sion. That’s where I want­ed to con­tin­ue my research.

But it was­n’t the time yet. I still went to work every morn­ing, but I had almost noth­ing to do. My desk­top was emp­ty. I had del­e­gat­ed all tasks, relin­quished respon­si­bil­i­ty. Now I stared at the walls and watched my younger col­leagues bus­tle busi­ly down the hallway.

My inac­tiv­i­ty was dri­ving me half-mad; my brain want­ed activ­i­ty, but I had noth­ing to offer to it. To appear “busy” nev­er­the­less, I opened my iPad every day and played around with it.

And so it was this morn­ing. Sud­den­ly, my gaze fell upon a pho­to­graph. At some point, I had pho­tographed a paint­ing table, cov­ered in splash­es and drips of paint. A ran­dom, colour­ful pat­tern on the touch­screen? Not quite. Because when I looked more close­ly, I dis­cov­ered a female nude in the “jum­ble.” ​​A tor­so, like those known from the antiquity.

That inter­est­ed me. I began to exam­ine the sea of ​​blotch­es more close­ly, zoom­ing in. I saw even more shapes and pat­terns with­in them. An ani­mal, for exam­ple, an apple, and peo­ple strolling by. It was aston­ish­ing how my brain trans­formed the patch­work into some­thing meaningful.

I opened the colour droplet images in a graph­ics app. There, I could give the pat­terns and stains a con­tour with sim­ple, some­times ten­ta­tive, strokes. I began to play with the pat­terns and dis­cov­ered more and more shapes and images with­in them. The sketchy lines ensured that the poten­tial view­er would see the same thing as I did. The inter­play of the iPad, the sty­lus, and the stain pho­tos stim­u­lat­ed my brain. They helped me unleash my cre­ativ­i­ty and fantasy.

I spent the next few days at the office exper­i­ment­ing on my iPad. The dig­i­tal pen was my most impor­tant tool. I added more blot pho­tos. Here, too, I could dis­cern mys­te­ri­ous fig­ures, ani­mals, and plants with­in the blots and stains, and care­ful­ly edit them. These jour­neys of dis­cov­ery were not only enter­tain­ing, but also deeply sat­is­fy­ing. A kind of med­i­ta­tion that kept me from get­ting bored. Hours could pass as I cre­at­ed dig­i­tal images that were bare­ly dis­tin­guish­able from tra­di­tion­al paintings.

Paint­ing and draw­ing were nev­er my thing dur­ing my art stud­ies; I pri­mar­i­ly worked con­cep­tu­al­ly. I’m con­tin­u­ing that with dig­i­tal paint­ing now. Because behind it are nei­ther brush­es, paints, nor pen­cils, but a cre­ative con­cept: mak­ing chance occur­rences tan­gi­ble using dig­i­tal tools.

I call this par­tic­u­lar way of work­ing artis­ti­cal­ly stil­lar­ism. I owe the term to an Ital­ian col­league and his ref­er­ence to the Ital­ian words stil­la (drop) and stil­lare (to fil­ter out, seep through, trick­le, reveal a secret).

For fur­ther dis­cov­er­ies, here’s a col­lec­tion of links:

https://www.jitter-magazin.de/die-klecksographie-zwischen-fingeruebung-und-seelenschau/

http://www.apophänauten.de/?/page_SpektrumDerApophaenischenKunst/page-Zufallsstrukturen/

https://www.mutmalerei-katrin-uffelmann.de/

https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Klecksographie

Gallery

Thousand Times “I love you”.

A Rose Is A Rose Is A Rose

Not just thrown aside, not just casu­al­ly said. With love, the bou­quet of ros­es too, cat­a­pult­ed onto the colour­ful ground of real­i­ty.
Slapped down, smashed down.
Affec­tion at rock bot­tom, run­nin’ out, does­n’t stand still, gath­ers like a sea of ​​last drops some­time pours forth in the bright hue of the own inner voice and a new begin­ning emerges.

(Text Andi Sub­stanz,
engl. by The Phogue)

Explain orange to me

Erklär mir Orange

Whoa! What’s dear to my heart?
In the area very close to the Bro­ca site, thus we pour it out in words describ­ing the pas­sion along sweep­ing lines, set­ting no lim­its in the process from orange to deep brown.
Every­thing finite, ulti­mate­ly ends in dust and ashes.

(Text Andi Sub­stanz,
engl. by The Phogue)

Cat State

cat state, burkhard zimmer, Münster

Let’s allow us a sec­ond, third, fourth look!
Rec­og­nize Schrödinger’s cat in all liv­ing things.
Alive and equal­ly dead.
Until we lay down the mea­sur­ing stick – ram it into the ground as a way­mark­er towards the dis­patched sui­cide mis­sion.
Keep our hands free to han­dle black and white, paint­ing with all the shades of gray in between. up in stages, down in stages,
lis­ten to the sound,
rec­og­nize the melody of the world.

(Text Andi Sub­stanz,
engl. by The Phogue)

a.o. for any

a.o. for any

[with­out words]

Where is it, the love?

liebe_burkhard_zimmer

Fall­en down close to the trunk,
Lay­ers of paint bro­ken down to the base,
primed with love on stretched fab­ric
called out for search in faces out of con­sid­er­a­tion
seen in reflec­tions beneath the sur­face.
Dead threads resem­ble red lines applied,
divid­ing line hori­zon.
Falls like domi­noes,
make way for the way towards orbit
illu­mi­nat­ing the black.

(Text Andi Sub­stanz,
engl. by The Phogue)

Oops, that’s the pom-pom!

[with­out words]

Burkhard mit Vogul
Burkhard Zimmer
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