Because my trip overlapped with the Cologne art fair, I hung out in that city for a few days, looking at art, alone and with others, drinking beer, alone and with others, and watching artists drunk and sober behave badly.
Each morning I ate muesli in a hotel breakfast hall that had previously been the chapel of a monastery, whose colored stained glass filtered the rays of sunlight streaming into the room and made me feel vaguely blessed, and also like I was a tropical fish in an overly warm tank, the light coming through the colored glass heavy, like water, as I moved from the buffet to one of the long wooden tables where monks had once eaten.
One evening I went to a talk organized by the curators of the art fair, to be given by the German artist Michael Krebber.
Go ahead and look him up. If something Krebber said got a chuckle from an audience member bold enough to break the silence, he shot that person a murderous look. Krebber presented bad iPhone photos of his paintings, projected on a large screen, photos that were taken in poor light, cropped randomly, with the paintings at angles so you could barely see them.
All the paintings in that show were made in the same tiny broom closet. In the dark. And some were made with both hands, left and right, although I am right-handed. His question. Because clearly not everyone can fail and be hailed a success.
