You Can Paint Anything. A Conversation with Gerhard Richter: Sabine Schütz

Sabine Schütz: A little over a year ago you caused a great stir with your cycle of paintings October 18, 1977. This group of fifteen paintings, done in your earlier technique of blurred black-and-white photographs, dealt with the deaths of the RAF terrorists in Stammheim Prison and sparked a controversial and emotional discussion that went far beyond purely artistic debate. Did you pursue a direct political agenda with these paintings?

Gerhard Richter: No direct political agenda—certainly not in the sense of “political painting,” which was always understood as leftist, as art that exclusively criticized so-called bourgeois-capitalist conditions. That was not my concern.

SS: But the subject was not only very explosive—it was also explicitly left-wing…

GR: …which can now be considered completely buried…

SS: …exactly, and it’s already history. One could ask why you released these paintings in 1989 and not ten years earlier.

GR: Probably the time gap was necessary. But I can’t really explain exactly what reasons prompted me to do something then rather than earlier; such things don’t happen according to a plan, but more unconsciously. What seems important to me is that the paintings now, with the collapse of the socialist system, have a different, more general dimension they didn’t so obviously have before. On the other hand, I’m reluctant to talk about the “message” or “intention” of the paintings—I don’t want to limit them through interpretation.

SS: But do you now see the terrorists only as victims of a false idea that was bound to fail?

GR: Definitely. Nevertheless, I also feel a certain sympathy for these people and their desperate will for change. I can very well understand when someone finds this world unacceptable. They were also part of a corrective that we will miss for the time being. We will have to find another one—other forms of criticism that are less sentimental or superstitious, but more realistic and therefore, I hope, more effective.

SS: This cycle has been described as a revival of history painting, which has been largely ignored by modern and contemporary art. Would you agree with that classification?

GR: It doesn’t interest me much. Even when I thought while painting that the works could be seen as history painting, that is, as something reactionary, it didn’t matter to me. That’s more a problem for theorists.

SS: In your diary you once said that one can’t really paint the way you do—without a subject. How was it with this cycle? Did it have a subject?

GR: Yes, in this case there was one. But that “black note” was more about the abstract paintings and the general sense of powerlessness and helplessness, which can itself become a subject. On the other hand, sometimes you have enough motivation that such questions become irrelevant—you just paint.

SS: When you start a painting, do you always know what you want to paint? Could one call you a conceptual artist?

GR: No, I’m not that, and I certainly don’t always know what I should paint or how the painting will ultimately look. Even with the October cycle I didn’t know what kind of paintings would result. I had a huge selection of photographs and very different ideas: it was all supposed to be much broader, much more connected to the lives of the people depicted. In the end, it came down to this small selection—nine motifs—and very focused on death, almost against my intention.

SS: Especially from a painter who—granted, it was 25 years ago—once painted toilet paper, one wouldn’t necessarily expect engagement with such a content-laden subject. The record player is also, in itself, a banal object. But it seems the relationship to your subject matter has changed considerably in the meantime?

GR: Not considerably, because a roll of toilet paper is not necessarily a humorous image. It’s not as if I’m now old enough to only paint sad things. But of course the record player is a very loaded image, since the viewer knows it was Andreas Baader’s record player, that the murder weapon was hidden in it, and so on. That doesn’t make it a better painting, but it does get more attention because you can attach a narrative to it.

SS: But the fact that it used to be about a roll of toilet paper or a clothes dryer, and now it’s about a record player with a very specific political meaning, clearly points to a decisive shift in consciousness.

GR: Naturally. Back then I was younger and part of a completely different spirit of the times, and in that sense the works could be much more different from each other. But what strikes me now is more the similarity—that not so much has changed. There is the same apparent indifference and lack of statement. A roll of toilet paper or a clothes dryer are, just like the record player, a kind of “poor people’s pictures,” like many other meaningless, banal motifs.

SS: The motif has a very different significance in different works. In October 18, 1977, for example, the motif has a completely different content than in most of your earlier works. Could one say that each of your work groups has its own individual relationship to subject matter and reality?

GR: I’m sure that’s true, but all the different works at different times have a fixed basis: me, my attitude, my concerns—which express themselves differently but never change essentially. The differences are more superficial, and the talk of my lack of style or opinion was partly polemic against trends I reject. Or they were defensive statements, to create the climate in which I can paint whatever I want.

SS: But you have also demonstrated that it can be irrelevant what one paints. With the clothes dryer, the deer, or the housewife, you’ve shown that it doesn’t matter.

GR: But one could also see them as thematically connected, in which case it’s not irrelevant. These subjects—clothes dryer, family on the sofa, deer—are also very selective.

SS: Didn’t that also have an ironic note?

GR: I never think of it that way. If I allowed people to claim it was ironic, it was to keep the peace. Because, of course, I was attached to the motifs in some way. I didn’t see the clothes dryer as ironic; it had something tragic about it, because it addressed life in a housing project without the possibility of hanging laundry outside. That was my own clothes dryer, which I rediscovered in a newspaper, so to speak objectified. Or the families—I often knew them. And when I didn’t, they at least resembled families and destinies I knew.

SS: Didn’t that have something to do with bourgeois narrow-mindedness?

GR: Certainly. But what does that mean? I can’t do much with the term—it’s too arrogant for me

SS: What interested you, for example, about the motif of the deer? After all, today you can hardly paint a deer without the association of “bellowing”—that is, kitsch.

GR: The deer can’t help it if it’s badly painted, like a bellowing deer over the sofa. It’s a beautiful animal like any other. Of course, especially for us Germans, with our special relationship to the forest, the deer has symbolic value. As a youth I wanted to become a forester, and I was thrilled when I could photograph a real deer in the forest. Later I painted it, and the painting was a little less romantic than my youthful photograph.

SS: Even Neuschwanstein Castle, in its sugar-baker style, inevitably evokes associations with kitsch.

GR: In reality, the castle is ugly—terrible. But it also has that other, seductive side: the beautiful fairy tale, the dream of grandeur, bliss, and happiness. And that is the truly dangerous side, which is why it is such a prime example of kitsch.

SS: In the bomber paintings I see a critical stance toward war…

GR: …which they certainly are not. Such paintings can’t do anything against war. They only show a very small aspect of the subject—perhaps only my childhood feelings of fear and fascination with war and such weapons.

SS: Can one be aesthetically fascinated by a weapon? Isn’t it always also about horror, about fear?

GR: It’s a mixed feeling, and it’s pointless to suppress the fascination.

SS: Many years ago you once described painting as a “moral act.” What did you mean by that?

GR: Even then, it was a powerless attempt to express that it’s not about making beautiful pictures. It was a claim about the significance of art—its enormous importance, which I ascribed to it; and the fact that art today is produced and consumed in unprecedented quantities already shows an irrational longing for art, an almost religious yearning. And if art could completely satisfy this longing, that would be a great advantage. It would be like “pure faith,” saving us from falling for false beliefs, religions, and ideologies.

SS: You keep emphasizing your anti-ideological stance. What does ideology mean to you?

GR: A current example is the ideology of socialism in the GDR. Against all reason, people believe in such a thing—making themselves and others unhappy. That’s already a kind of mental illness, and, it seems, an incurable one. It would be much more important to recognize ourselves, to see how we are, what we can do, why we kill, why we are good, and above all what is possible. Instead, we “believe.” That’s a luxury we can no longer afford on this endangered planet.

SS: Don’t those who claim to have insight and proclaim salvation in fact know they’re lying?

GR: Certainly not, because ideology controls minds so thoroughly that there’s no way to see facts objectively; and the more the facts oppose the ideology, the more ruthlessly it exerts its power. Only in behavior—unconsciously and instinctively—can one sometimes escape it. For example, when Honecker wears cashmere, he’s actually quite natural—he forgets his belief or bends it a little.

SS: So you’d like to abolish belief altogether?

GR: Unfortunately, that’s not possible. We need it to survive. It motivates us—without it nothing would happen. Belief is an indispensable human trait. If I say, “I believe tomorrow is Tuesday,” that’s already an act of belief, since that Tuesday exists only in our imagination. And if I then claim the weather will be nice tomorrow, the dangerous side of belief shows itself—because then you take it as a certainty and act accordingly. And if it turns out cold and rainy, it already looks worse. Intellectuals are much more at risk than “ordinary” people or artists—they’re clever, skillful with words, and can construct excellent theories. They can partake in the overwhelming power of words. Almost everything is initiated, forbidden, or permitted through words—explained, glorified, or falsified with words. So we should be skeptical and remember that there is also another significant form of experience. What we experience non-verbally—seeing, feeling, hearing, or otherwise—gives us a certainty or knowledge that can lead to better actions and decisions than any theory can.

SS: But a theory can also develop empirically…

GR: Yes, of course it develops from experience and is corrected, confirmed, or rejected by it. The problem is that a theory can be so logical in itself, so complicated and differentiated—almost as complex as life—that you’re bound to fall for it, because it’s so convincing or so beautiful.

SS: There’s a film about your work called My Pictures Are Smarter Than I Am. Why?

GR: They should definitely be smarter than I am. I shouldn’t fully keep up with them—they have to be something I don’t completely understand anymore. As long as I can grasp them theoretically, it’s boring.

SS: You were called “inconsistent” very early on, because you’ve repeatedly changed levels in terms of both subject matter and especially “style.” You’ve called yourself “uncertain.” Or is it also about proving to yourself and others that you can do anything?

GR: No, it’s not like that. Painting from a photograph can be learned. And so much that is conceivable as artistic expression I haven’t done—I’m actually relatively limited and a bit one-sided: always only oil painting. Inconsistency is only a consequence of uncertainty, which I may suffer from, but which I also see as unavoidable and necessary.

SS: So perhaps uncertainty is the general theme?

GR: Maybe. In any case, it’s part of me—as a prerequisite. We also objectively have no reason to feel secure here. Only fools are certain—or those who lie.

SS: And the pictures don’t lie?

GR: No, they make no claims—they don’t make statements, they can’t fool us. They’re as little dishonest as a tree, though often less interesting.

SS: Style changes, stylistic breaks, quotations, and perhaps irony—these are all phenomena that, since the term has existed, have been called “postmodern.” Do you engage with that? Do you see yourself as a postmodern pioneer?

GR: I don’t think so—it hasn’t interested me much. But in a certain way one could call me that, because I never had the consciousness of belonging to the avant-garde, and that was never my aim. The avant-garde was mostly too dogmatic and aggressive for me.

SS: In 1976 you began painting abstract pictures to make something whose appearance you couldn’t imagine beforehand. You developed a completely new method for yourself. Was that an experiment?

GR: Yes. That began in 1976 with small abstract paintings, which allowed me to do everything I had previously forbidden myself: simply putting something down arbitrarily, only to realize that it can never be arbitrary. This was to open a door for myself. If I don’t know what’s going to emerge—no fixed image like a photograph I’m copying—then arbitrariness and chance play an important role.

SS: How do you manage to steer chance so that a very specific picture with a very specific statement emerges—since that is your stated aim?

GR: I don’t have a very specific picture in mind—instead I want to end up with a picture I hadn’t planned. So this working method with arbitrariness, chance, inspiration, and destruction produces a certain type of image, but never a predetermined one. The picture should develop out of a painterly or visual logic, emerging as if inevitably. And by not planning the result, I hope to achieve a harmony and objectivity that any random piece of nature (or a readymade) always has. It’s also a method of using unconscious processes as much as possible—I want something more interesting than what I can think up.

SS: Jürgen Harten has written that your paintings are the “painting of painting,” essentially a painted commentary on painting.

GR: No, that’s not true. If I listen to Bach, I could also say: this is music about music, because it’s based on a tradition, so harmonious in itself that every note relates only to the others. That would mean, in the end, that it wants nothing and says nothing. Chess. Who would that be good for?

SS: For many artists the painting action, the process, is at the center of their work…

GR: It’s always only about seeing. The physical action can’t be avoided, and sometimes there’s a necessity to paint with the whole body—but in the service of the work. But these “actionists”—you can see what comes of that—

SS: In a catalogue of the Aachen Art Association twenty years ago, Klaus Honnef wrote that “bonne peinture” is dear to you. What is the place of painting in your work?

GR: Back in art school, I would have liked to paint as well as the painters I admired then: Manet, Cézanne, Velázquez. But I couldn’t. Later I realized it was good that I couldn’t, because it’s about something else. That’s probably what was meant by “bonne peinture.” I no longer know exactly what it is—probably something like pure painting.

SS: So it’s not about painting that deals only with itself and its own conditions?

GR: The starting point is always a concern: to form an image of the world. And for this image, painting is only a means (which is why you can never say of a bad picture that it’s “well painted”). Still, painting and pictorial means are fundamentally important. You can see this in well-intentioned pictures with lofty content that nevertheless remain entirely unenjoyable. This enjoyability has nothing to do with luxury—it’s something essential.

SS: Does enjoyability have something concrete to do with colors, brushwork—with technique?

GR: More with seeing, I think. The rest comes easily—it’s not a problem. You can paint anything. Seeing whether what you’re doing is good or not is harder. But it’s the only important thing. Duchamp also showed that it’s not about manual skill—it’s not about what you can do, but about seeing what it is. Seeing is the decisive act—it ultimately puts the maker and the viewer on the same level.

SS: Many of your pictures involve another medium—photography—as an intermediary…

GR: …but it’s not another medium—it’s essentially the same. Of course, for me early on an image was only an image if it was painted. Later I was very surprised that I could see a photograph as a picture—and in my enthusiasm, often as the better picture. It works in the same way: it shows the appearance of something it is not—and much faster and more precisely. That has certainly influenced my way of seeing, and also my understanding of production: for example, that it doesn’t matter who took the photograph.

SS: But especially in the black-and-white photo-paintings, it’s emphasized that they are photographs—that they are clearly pictures after photographs.

GR: I wanted to bring that photo-likeness into the paintings—because of the credibility that black-and-white photos in particular convey. They have something documentary about them—people believe them more than any other image.

SS: Isn’t that a false belief?

GR: Of course it can be. The truly real reality is always the one we see and experience directly.

Note

Translated from the German 2025.

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