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| “Everyone’s responsible to themselves, and the others will always be competition” Margarita Zieda Interview with Berlin gallerist Michael J. Wewerka | |
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| Margarita Zieda: You're one of Berlin's most experienced gallerists. You established your gallery in the former West Berlin in the early 1970s, and you're one of the very few still in business as a gallerist today. How did it all begin? Michael J. Wewerka: I started out just like so many others. Usually, the people who set out to create a gallery either have money, or else their relatives are artists, as it is in my case. You start collecting works, and at some point it seems that's not enough. There's a wish to exhibit the works. And then you set up a small gallery and you're very pleased if some people actually come along. And then, once you've started exhibiting art, you learn how exciting it is. M. Z.: What were your initial intentions when you opened your gallery? M. J. Wewerka: I didn't have any concept. Then, as now, I simply exhibit the work I like. M. Z.: And what do you like? M. J. Wewerka: Back then, at the very beginning - that was in 1974 - I had a colleague who invited me to join him. I already had the idea of setting up a gallery, and my colleague, who was very much into naive art at that time, said we should do it together. But that wasn't exactly the kind of art I wanted to exhibit, and so I decided to open a gallery of my own. My first exhibition consisted of modern graphic art, which I exhibited as a block. Then came Robin Page and suchlike works. Of course, I was keeping an eye on what was taking place in the art scene of the time. But in those days I still had ambitions, and I imagined I could make artists famous all by myself. I thought I'd choose the artists myself and make stars of them. But that's actually very difficult. Those artists are still active today. But back then, one of my colleagues, who'd already been working in galleries for some time, said: "If you're going to exhibit these same artists all the time, then your gallery's never going to become famous." And then I started exhibiting work by artists who were already well-known. M.Z.: Was it, and is it still, practically impossible to make an unknown artist famous with the help of a gallery? What are your conclusions in this regard: how do the stars really come about? What are the mechanisms? M.J. Wewerka: It's very hard for a gallery to create a star. It all happens if someone suddenly attracts the interest of a bank or the Berlin Guggenheim, or something like that. Then, suddenly, the artist becomes interesting to many people. This is shown by the example of Neo Rauch. It always has a lot to do with contacts, and considerably less to do with the quality of the art itself. M.Z.: Do you have an idea about how the banks become interested in one particular artist or another? M.J. Wewerka: Very often, it's a case of personal contacts. But this is true for any gallery. If you're working as a gallerist, then a kind of regular circle of collectors develops, who buy something from time to time. And new collectors appear, too. The gallery is successful if it sells works. One may ask whether all this clamour about contemporary artist Jonathan Meese is a good thing. Actually, it makes my hair stand on end, but it works for them. M.Z.: Do you have an explanation for the emergence of the German superstar Jonathan Meese? M.J. Wewerka: No, I don't. He's a very pleasant person, a great guy. We're acquainted. But the fact that Meese jumps around a lot is good for his gallery. Because then they can do other things as well, which are helped by the interest created by the earlier hype. Of course, the successful galleries attract the successful artists, and they draw in others, who are perhaps not so famous. There are some artists whose works people are waiting for, queuing up for. What this means is that the customer is after a work by the artist that hasn't even been painted yet. This is the case with Schleimer and Rauch. For the gallerist, such a situation is ideal, of course. But all this hullabaloo concerning Meese, that's really not my kind of business. M.Z.: But how does it function? Who brings it all about? The media, the galleries? M.J. Wewerka: The galleries present it, and the media write about it. They're all seeking concepts; they accidentally come upon it and then they have something to write about. Media people are media people: they're always looking for something to write about. And then a person becomes known, and at some point the banks or the major collectors join the game and buy the works. That's how it works. But it's never possible to spell it out beforehand. There are no recipes. There really aren't. M.Z.: So you're saying that the market is essentially irrational? M.J. Wewerka: Absolutely. M.Z.: Nevertheless, it also has a good many rational things. All of these great art markets and fairs. Which of these are the most important, in your view? M.J. Wewerka: Yes, if you want your gallery to be really well known, then you have to take the works to the art fairs. I've taken part in the Basel fair twelve times already, but don't forget: I've been in this business for more than thirty years now. I've shown works in Cologne, Los Angeles, Paris, Madrid. The Basel fair is the most important one. And the Cologne fair. Each of them is important in its own way. There are gallerists who take part in every fair. And you know how much it costs? Even just to take part in the Basel fair, you have to pay 30 000 euros. Well, OK, the little stall costs 10 000 euros. And that's only the participation fee. Add to that all the additional expenses: travel costs, transport, living costs. In order to break even, you have to sell works for at least 60 000 euros. It's only starting from here that the profit begins. A fair of this kind is an enormous money-destroying machine. It's a market. In principle, it's no different from a flea-market or a weekly market. There are stalls with goods that you want to sell. It's no different from hotdog stands; the only difference is that it has "culture" written above it. Apparently, just at the moment the new Miami fair is the best place to sell. M.Z.: And the brand new "Frieze" fair in London, which the Berlin fair regards as its most serious competitor? M.J. Wewerka: Yes, I've attended that one as well, but not as a participant. But you know, that, too, is interesting. In my view, this is the problem at the moment: everyone's looking for something new. New galleries, new art, new writers, new curators, new artists. Which means that offering anything else is no longer at all simple. All the works exhibited here in my gallery are very good ones. For example, the work by Marcel Oldenbach ("Das Erbstueck" MZ). But the hype at the moment is all about the need for something new. Many of the new ones are really very good artists as well, but the problem is that there are fewer and fewer people saying: OK, I'll choose something that's already developed and make my collection from that. M.Z.: Talking about the hype you mention, ten or fifteen years ago this applied to the new art from Eastern Europe, which had become the subject of serious interest in the West. Now the level of interest has fallen to zero. For example, Latvian gallerists consider that they're not even permitted to enter the market. Do you have an explanation for why this has happened? Is it that the new art from Eastern Europe had a problem marketing itself? Was it that it couldn't establish a competitive label? M.J. Wewerka: I can see two problems here. One is the high-mindedness of those who put together exhibitions, who say: what are we supposed to do with this stuff? That's one serious obstacle. And the other thing, which I personally see as a serious problem with contemporary art from Eastern Europe, is that, instead of developing and shaping their own ideas, the artists always tend to join that which is taking place in Western art. It'd become interesting for me if Eastern European artists were to begin developing their own language, their text. The new Vienna fair was very interesting. This fair is oriented to new art, and is itself new: this is only the second time. The fair had quite deliberately invited Eastern European art: there were Latvians, Romanians, Bulgarians. All in small stalls one after the other. And it was clear that in Eastern Europe there is this looking towards the West, this orientation towards that which Western artists are doing, and a tendency to create something similar. I consider that a problem. M.Z.: What is your gallery's experience with Eastern European artists? M.J. Wewerka: When I'm choosing works, I never consider where the artist comes from. I'm always interested in the art itself: whether it seems good to me or not. If it's good, then I'm happy to exhibit it. In my gallery, I've exhibited French, Japanese and Korean art. The artists from Eastern Europe include, for example, Ilya Kabakov, whose works I was showing when nobody yet knew what pigeonhole to put them in. Of Latvian artists, I've exhibited work by Leonards Laganovskis. That was after 1991, almost 15 years ago. I put together an exhibition and sold nothing at all. Yes, if I had as much backing as the New National Gallery, then I'd be able to do wonderful things, a whole lot more. But I always need to reckon with making do with the money I have, and at the same time the things I do have to satisfy me. M.Z.: Germany is an unusual country where Eastern Europe has become joined with Western Europe, whether any of those involved like it or not. How has gallery life changed since the unification of Berlin? M.J. Wewerka: You won't believe this, but at that time galleries in Western Europe were not state subsidised. There were about 50 galleries, of which a handful were important, but these, too, were not subsidised by the state. On the other hand, the situation was very clear. All the people working with serious artists were known. For example, Lupertz. At that time, he had an enormous shop. Everything was clear, people had good opportunities to take part in the fairs, even though all this, too, was unsubsidised. It's not the way people usually think: yes, the old state of affairs in West Berlin. But, yes, the climate has become harsher. Competition has increased, and the standard has gone markedly downhill. By this I don't mean the standard of the art, but that of the gallery-goers. In former times in West Berlin, there was always a certain clique interested in art. Nowadays, there are a lot of passers-by looking in, with money to buy something. M.Z.: A year ago, it was precisely in the Berlin media that the East-West conflict came to a head. Can this be observed in the gallery scene, too? M.J. Wewerka: You're proceeding from the idea that there's a great deal of theory behind it all. But, you know, that's not the way it is: there isn't really all that much theory underneath it all. It's simply about people doing things. But it's clear that this division does exist. There are galleries in the Mitte, in the area previously part of East Berlin, and there are the old western galleries. It's no accident that my gallery is here, in the former Western zone. At the time the Mitte developed, some of my friends initially moved to Auguststrasse. Who knows, maybe I'll do likewise. M.Z.: And why haven't you tried this? M.J. Wewerka: I have no wish to ingratiate myself. But it's not really connected with East and West. I don't make this division. I knew Berlin when it was still united, and for me it means a return to normality. I have no problem with races, or with East and West. M.Z.: But I suppose there is a different perspective. What is it that distinguishes the gallerists of Mitte from those of Charlottenburg? M.J. Wewerka: The old Western gallerists don't focus so much on the young artists. There are some gallerists who've moved to Mitte. At the same time, I somehow want to keep to the view that it's important not where a gallery is located, but what it does. Unfortunately, the public doesn't make such a distinction, and so it becomes a problem. Those who visit the galleries on Auguststrasse don't come to Charlottenburg. And vice versa. I can't really tell you why that is, because in the end it's silly. But I have to say that sometimes I have the impression that galleries are turning into a kind of substitute for religion. In a sense, it's like a kind of praying to the gods of art, like marching through. I know many gallerists, because in the days of West Berlin I was the chairman of the union of galleries, and they say: well, yes, these people just walk through, chatter, make the floor dirty, pinch the catalogues and end up not buying anything. Nowadays, this kind of thing has lessened, but at one time, this sort of tripping from gallery to gallery was really quite weird. Auguststrasse has good galleries. A lot of gallerists have moved to Berlin from other cities. It's a scene with young curators, artists and so on. Berlin has the classic and the new scene at the same time. M.Z.: And how would you describe your own? M.J. Wewerka: Gallerists are always solitary figures. No kind of joint effort can function in this business. Everyone's responsible to themselves, and the others will always be competition. OK, in West Berlin the galleries had joined to form a union, but in essence it's everyone for themselves. After all, it's about selling. Nobody's going to say to the customer: my dear man, go and buy something from my neighbour. On the other hand, if you simply want to be a salesman, then you should do something else: sell furniture, hotdogs or cars. That's the strangest thing about galleries: on the one hand, it's a shop, and on the other hand it has ambitions in the sphere of culture. A gallerist is a person engaged in art and culture. But he has responsibilities towards himself: to be able to pay the rent, to pay his employees, and so forth. So, the only strategy in the gallerist's line of work is to sell as much as possible, in order to be able to do good work. If you open the paper tomorrow, and there's a successful gallerist earning good money, then you should know that there's only a few such people. The majority of galleries are only able to break even, at best. M.Z.: How do you explain the success of the most successful galleries? M.J. Wewerka: They've chosen the right artists at the right time. They're gallerists with an excellent eye, people who've been able to tell, right from the exhibitions of work by students at the Berlin University of the Arts, what could develop from each artist. If it works out, and the major collectors join in, then that makes it easier. M.Z.: Do the major art markets also construct the situation in art? M.J. Wewerka: There are some very shrewd people, and so in the end the whole thing is being pushed to some degree. In Germany, too, it happens as it did with Rosemarie Trockel. Both sides raise the price of the works, and, of course, there are no rules in this regard, until they reach the kind of prices about which she'd always been thinking. You can do that. It's a matter of having a great deal of money at your disposal. But, oh my God, those galleries that work in a normal way are in a different league. M.Z.: What are your observations: what do people most willingly buy? M.J. Wewerka: People don't buy with their eyes, but with their ears. That's a problem, at least today. It's enough just to say "Leipzig School" and you'll see the customer's eyes light up. The Leipzig School must be good, and so they buy it. It's clear that some galleries draw a benefit from that. That's the case with the highest prices. But here, in my gallery, people develop a linking for certain things, and then they either buy them or they don't. I don't exhibit "hot" stuff, but I'm satisfied. What I do here, and what I've always wanted to do, is to exhibit artists of medium age, who've been working for some time. For example, take that solar work over there: when the sun shines on it, it starts making a musical sound. The little drum starts to play. The solar apparatus is broken at the moment, however... That's an eternal question: what makes a good gallery? Is the fact that art that hasn't been shown for a long time is now being displayed once again, a good thing for people? Is that a good gallery, or has it already become a museum? M.Z: How would you answer the question of what a good gallery is? M.J. Wewerka: Well, yes, I'm one of the oldest Berlin gallerists. There's only one gallerist older than me still holding exhibitions. We're the ones who are still here, in spite of it all. These are exhibitions that the young gallerists turn their noses up at: oh, my God, all this old stuff! But, in my view, this, too, must be present. How else might the young artists find out what Tony Craig and his generation did, what kind of art was created before their own time, if there weren't such exhibitions. I no longer have a passion for new names. Although there's a Christian Sauer over there. He's a really young artist, studying at Berlin University of the Arts. M.Z: Various non-commercial institutions, such as the New National Gallery, the NGBK and others, try to maintain and develop the process of art. How to you view the role of the small galleries? What is possible in this format? M.J. Wewerka: The major exhibition-holders are covered by the press. It's because of them that interest in contemporary art has grown during the past 15 years. On the other hand, of course they divert attention away from the small galleries. The people who just went to the "Melancholies" exhibition say: well, now I've satisfied my interest in art. Why, then, should they go anywhere else? The media, too, make it that way. The newspapers write practically nothing about art galleries. In this regard, the present situation in Berlin is crazy. The largest daily paper, Der Tagesspiegel, is a disaster: contemporary art galleries are not represented at all. Only the museums and the big names. And it's no a matter of the analytical level, but about the limited information. If they do start analysing, then it's all over-analysed. If they do something, then they do it very thoroughly. The standard is OK; it's just that the number of things they look at is too limited. Earlier, we had an art paper in Berlin, where anything and everything was discussed and analysed. I'd like to have this kind of forum to talk to others: after all, I can't always talk to myself. Or with advertising leaflets, as it is today. But the galleries provide the soil for the art scene as a whole. They're growing all the time, then disappearing, growing and disappearing. All artists have started with small galleries in their time. The great exhibition halls: that's just the best part of the garden. Although it's impossible to generalise about galleries in this sense, either. There are very small galleries concerned with quite local things, and then there are larger ones dealing with particular styles. Very few galleries have been bold enough to do something better than the rest. After all, there are countless galleries that have never become talked about. And they're not the least bit worried about it: they're satisfied with their customers, and they hold exhibitions between three and ten times a year. This involvement with art raises one's quality of life. This is true for everyone. Whether you're buying, selling or just looking. M.Z.: Two years ago, you closed down your gallery on Budapeststrasse, in its time a very well-frequented West Berlin locality, and now you've reopened it at an entirely different location: Berlin's most elegant design shop, Stillwerk. In this kind of setting, isn't art automatically interpreted as a design object? M.J. Wewerka: My previous exhibition was very much in accord with this design house. It was an exhibition of works by my uncle, the world-famous artist Stefan Wewerka - these bent chairs. I was very happy to hold this exhibition, and I must say that his works suit this location admirably. M.Z.: Who are the people coming into the gallery, now that it's located here in the shop? M.J. Wewerka: They're people with money. And they come to buy something. And then perhaps they also take a look at some works. The gallery's location is excellent, but at the same time Stillwerk is undeniably a temple of consumerism. That's not something I like very much, I should add. M.Z.: Do you have a circle of regular customers? M.J. Wewerka: Yes, you could say that. Generally, the gallery sends out about a thousand invitations, and then about a third of the people actually come for the opening of the exhibition. Some people buy something, others move on. M.Z.: How would you describe your customers? What kind of people are they? M.J. Wewerka: It's a bourgeois clientele. Young and old. Collectors. There are also quite spontaneous buyers, who suddenly take a liking to something and decide to buy it. Even though it had never entered their minds before that they should buy art. My best years were the seventies. At that time, I was showing LaFontaine, Kabakov, Katazo, working with good, internationally renowned artists. Nowadays it's no longer like that. OK, the artists whose works you can see here nowadays are also good artists, but in those days, quite apart from that, they were all relevant as well. But in those days, I had a great deal more energy. Nowadays, I prefer to go out to dinner with my wife. | |
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