Art is a wild horse.

If Minnich is avant-garde, exploring the border between colour and object, then it is a slightly tedious avant-garde. But this is not to his detriment. As we know from Pessoa, tediousness can take us to some strange places, and this candy of a book makes the case.

Minnich’s painting, neither hyper-intellectual nor market-heavy, is beautifully provincial. Rooted, stubborn, unconcerned with proving anything. And that is precisely how it ends up proving something, by the most unexpected routes.

Through the wonder of the photographs – ridiculous ones too (a stork, tit mountains...) – that punctuate his psychedelically pretty painting slates, a strange force begins to rise and pour out. There is a blend of cliché restraint and non-sequitur directness. Nothing asks for your permission here.

The effect is something like "A Man Whose Teeth Were All Exactly the Same".

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Artist
Bernd Minnich