Impresario or artist?
Andrew Lambirth
Martin Kippenberger (1953–1997) Tate Modern, until 7 May
Right from the start of this retrospective exhibition, the complications set in. In Room 1 are four paintings from the 1981 series ‘Dear painter, paint for me’. One of them strikingly depicts a figure (presumably the artist?) seated on a black sofa placed out in the street and surrounded by black plastic rubbish bags. The painting has the air of a snapshot, and you begin to think, so Kippenberger was into photorealism? But, no, we soon learn from a handy wall panel that Kippenberger didn’t paint these pictures himself, but hired a Berlin sign painter, Mr Werner, to do them for him. Does this make them less/more/just as interesting? While you are pondering the possible significance of this and, at the same time, perusing a mad toy dog done in grisaille by the same Mr Werner, it might be better just to relax and let the images wash over you. After all, Kippenberger was far more interested in the totality of an exhibition (or, come to that, of a career) than in individual art works.
The next section of the same room has the first in a series of replica ‘naughty boy’ sculptures called ‘Martin, Into the Corner, You Should be Ashamed of Yourself’. Here the artist pretends to be self-chastising after the showing of a somewhat controversial abstract painting provocatively entitled ‘With the Best Will in the World, I Can’t See a Swastika’. This particular clothed figure is carved from wood; the two other versions in the exhibition are in mixed media, resin and latex. Nearby is a sequence of 21 small canvases, collectively called ‘Pale with Envy, He Stands Outside Your Door’ (do you get the impression that Kippenberger enjoys his titles?). These are painted by the man himself, but in a potentially bewildering variety of pastiche styles — abstract, figurative, old, new, ludicrous. The titles are equally whacky: ‘Suicidal Oil Piglet’ is one, ‘The Asexual Saltcellar’ another.
Move into the next room, a large space with a cabinet of Kippenberger publications down the middle. This is in more ways than one the backbone of this gallery. The book or catalogue of a show was often more important for this artist than the show itself — in much the same way as the show was more important than the works exhibited. Pay heed, then, to the graphic Kippenberger, but don’t ignore the 22 same-sized paintings round the walls. These are some of the finest in the exhibition, once again richly varied in imagery and style. They do indicate that Kippenberger could really paint when he wanted to — provided they weren’t secretly carried out by an assistant, that is. In one, called ‘2nd Prize’, rolled oats have been incorporated into the paint in satirical reference to Kiefer and Schnabel. Another consists of beguilingly scribbled and geometric shapes with collaged signs, and is called ‘Jeans against Fashism’ (sic). One of the most pleasing is the abstract architectural ‘Supplementary Proposal for a Monument Against False Economies’. Elsewhere, socialist realism gets a look-in. The versatility is remarkable.
Room 3 features seven polystyrene sculptures with Hepworth/Moore holes, wittily called ‘Hunger Family’, and a group of works related to Joseph Beuys, including a couple of rather good paintings with Beuys multiples stuck on them. Then comes a room of works on paper. The watercolours seem disappointingly thin then you discover they’re painted by an assistant. The drawings on hotel stationery done by Kippenberger himself (we think) are much stronger. And there’s an amber latex ‘Martin’ in the corner. Room 5, the first facing the river, is given over mostly to sculpture. This is of less interest, unless you like playing around with furniture and light fittings, and making decorative models of gondolas. The stark self-portrait paintings (K in well-filled underpants) pack more of a punch.
By this point in the exhibition it has emerged that Kippenberger is a big enough artist to deserve his popularity, and big enough to be a genuine inspiration to generations of art students. He is many, he is undeniably various. If you have to emulate someone, and art students generally seem to have to, then he’s not such a bad example. Except, of course, that by his variousness he seems to legitimise pretty well everything. Walk into Room 6, for instance. Here is an installation of ten white on white canvases recessed into the wall, with writing on them. Right. And next comes something completely different: the vast installation of 50 tables and chairs laid out on an artificial football pitch that is called ‘The Happy End of Franz Kafka’s “Amerika” ’, and which undeniably forms the strange heart of this nutritious exhibition.
This serial pairing of furniture is an extended metaphor for human interaction: it’s a gigantic job interview for the circus that’s in town, for the great utopian theatre which will employ all. It looks a bit like a mad bar or restaurant, with mix’n’match décor. There’s a desk with drawers of paintings, another upturned with ashtrays covering its underside. There are two (concentration camp) lookout towers, a lifeguard’s perch and an umpire’s chair. There are two working slide projectors and a couple of large-scale model fried eggs. A lifesize lay figure sprawls in one of the chairs. As in his paintings, so in this installation, styles are generously mixed. (The word of the artist: ‘Don’t worry about style but about what you want to say.’) One desk is encrusted with paint, another is made from the chipboard used to construct the stage in a sports stadium on which the Pope celebrated Mass when he visited Cologne in 1986.
The installation is wonderfully dubbed in the catalogue — which for once is compact and visitor-friendly —‘a rhizomatically ramified piece’, and it was no mean achievement for Kippenberger the cultured nonreader of no fixed abode, the failed writer, failed actor and inordinately successful art phenomenon. It looks very impressive. Before seeing this show, I was uncertain quite what to make of the maverick Kippenberger, punk prankster and anti-art hero obsessed with being famous. Rather to my surprise, I find his work refreshingly positive and astringent. He said: ‘Being able to obscure things, trivialising, exaggerating, these are all ruses for keeping humanity alive, as an individual and in confrontation with others.’ Well, it’s one way of going about it. And Kippenberger certainly went about it. In the end, was he impresario or artist? Revealingly, the paintings look a lot better en masse in the exhibition than they do reproduced in the catalogue. See for yourself. And, remember, it’s the totality that counts.
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