Biennale Florence 2003.
Alone in the studio. As so often. In the middle of a cycle of works that occupies me, binds me, holds me fast. An invitation to the Biennale in Florence arrives. Uncertainty. Out of the safety of one's own world, one's own head, one's own perception, and in among so many people? I read of more than 800 artists from 72 countries. To be one among so many people? Or one among so many artists? Some of them I have met already, some more than once. So: out of the cycle, out of the work, out of one's own comfort zone as well.
A wonderful experience. That has to do with Florence too — the city where art has been part of everyday nourishment for centuries, and where during the Biennale a further level is added that goes far beyond the usual art fairs. An award such as the Lorenzo il Magnifico medal naturally flatters the ego, as does the attention of the media, right up to a story in the Delhi News by an enthusiastic Indian art editor. Infinitely gratifying, too, were the conversations and encounters with colleagues and with their work, under Tuscan sun, in cafés, restaurants, galleries and historic buildings — the maximum contrast to the hermit's existence in one's own studio. At the end there stood a contract with the Florentine gallery Art Point Black, several valuable friendships, and new opportunities to exhibit.