— Looking around, there’s such diversity in materials — from 3D structures to watercolors and printed posters. How are these elements connected?
— They’re not necessarily connected by material, but rather by content. My choice of material always results from the content I want to convey. It could be anything — watercolors, 3D prints, posters. Some works are painted, some printed, some both. These intersections form a kind of network, not a hierarchy.
— Your work often moves between design, architecture, and visual art. Is there a piece here where these connections are especially strong?
— That’s actually a cliché I don’t fully agree with. My work is always about art, but it borrows strategies from other fields. For instance, the neon works in the courtyard resemble signs from shops or casinos in Las Vegas. I use these functional forms to create sculptures that aren’t traditional — like a chair, a car, or a sign — but still clearly artworks.
— What makes you approach art in this way?
— I believe you understand more when you break away from the expected ways of looking. It’s a simple thought: why hasn't anyone asked if an artwork has a taste? That kind of question shifts your perspective. Even if the answer is “it doesn’t matter,” just asking it expands how we think about art. And that’s what art should do — open your mind.
— Berlin is full of visual stimuli — graffiti, street art, urban chaos. Does this aesthetic inspire you?
— Not directly, but inspiration can come from anything if you move through the world with open eyes. Of course, in a city where so much is happening, you’re exposed to more. I’ve had a strong connection to Berlin since the early '90s. I mainly live in Frankfurt, but Berlin still inspires me — though 20 years ago it felt even more like the Wild West. There’s a lot of Berlin-bashing now, but the city still offers freedom and mental space compared to many others.
— Do you think Berlin still has these spiritual gaps and creative openness?
— It depends. I still find exciting work, whether it's at the Neue Nationalgalerie or in smaller galleries. It’s not about high culture, but about people doing something out of genuine interest. If you’re here constantly, you might take it for granted. But coming from outside, like I often do, you see things anew.
— Since 2016, you've been collaborating with writers — sometimes political, sometimes abstract. How has this evolved?
— Interesting you ask. Just yesterday, a journalist reminded me of a speech I gave when I received an award. I spoke about a neon sign I saw when I first moved to Frankfurt. It read, “Things happen here that others shouldn't know about.” That made a huge impression on me. It might have subconsciously led to my fascination with neon. My first neon work was actually for a friend's pizzeria, though it didn’t say anything about pizza. It just said, “Free parking. Free coffee. Freedom.”
— Many of your works play with language and meaning. Is there a piece in this exhibition that shows that clearly?
— Yes, especially the large archway in the courtyard. It has Arabic writing on it — a language many people in Berlin might understand, but not your typical gallery-goer. In English, the sentence would be: “In two days tomorrow is yesterday.” It reflects on the idea that when you think about the future, it quickly becomes the past. The text fits perfectly with Arabic script — it’s flowery, entangled. Plus, the work was first shown in Saudi Arabia, which also explains the language choice.
— As you walk through the exhibition, you discover many small details. Is there something specific visitors should look out for?
— Yes, look closely at the well sculpture. Chlorine drips slowly from the clown’s nose. It’s subtle, and it might not be visible at first glance. But once you spot it, you understand the mechanism.
— I heard someone describe the exhibition as a bit melancholic. Would you agree?
— That’s not necessarily negative. The exhibition does have a lot of self-reflection, maybe even self-portraiture. It invites a critical, but also personal, look inward.
— And why clowns?
— Clowns are perfect metaphors for layers of perception. They wear masks, they’re funny, but often melancholic. Many of my works explore how we see things and what lies beneath appearances. Clowns embody that contrast — joyful on the surface, but often sad underneath. That duality reflects how I see the role of art and artists in society.
