Or: Could you reserve that for me, please?

I recently visited Rudolf Reiber (link) in his studio here in Stuttgart. I stumbled over his work because the German collector Rik Reinking covered him in the Art Radar (link).

While I really wanted his work “Dark Matter”, I also got interested in the work “48.085″, a series of 49 drawings, executed over 49 nights, depicting a certain area of night-time sky, as seen from the roof-window of his condo during an art-grant he received. (The image shows the artist in front of the artwork at an exhibition in Stuttgart, August 2008.)

Reiber went through the process of painting the stars he could see in black ink on white paper. For naming the work, he then went through the process of counting all the stars he had painted (give or take a few).

What I like so much about it is that it could be seen as a return to the very early days of astronomy, when astronomers actually had to work this way in order to determine the movement of celestial bodies. But it could also be seen as a symbol for the desire of man to know the number stars shining down on us.

And of course, it could be seen as the fraction of an endless scientific and emotional process triggered in humans by the very way our universe is set up.

In fact, it’s much easier than that: I like the work because it fuels my imagination. And it really fits the pieces by Lasse.

The talk with Reiber was extremely pleasant and I will revisit him again before I go on vacation. And since I really want this work, I decided to follow what seems to be a standard collector’s procedure:

I reserved the work.

It felt weird because, in a sense, this probably is the common denominator of collectors of art and tourists: Always ready to place a towel on a deck-chair very early in the morning. Now, let’s not speculate about the motivation to actually use that deck-chair … gallerists may have a different opinion on this than collectors.

On a more serious note, reserving the work helps. It feels like you bought it without having done so. And if there is no sense of regret: great! And if there is: Phew!

No regrets here. So this may well be the next piece in my collection. And I’d love that.

Or: We’re hiring.

I promised I won’t do that too often but with this one I have a personal agenda as well: Independent Collectors is looking for a highly motivated “contemporary art enthusiast” with journalistic background for on-platform dialog, to  moderate forums and to give general editorial input.

You should have some experience in the fields of contemporary art and moderating, or other abilities that make up for it. The official job language is English. And yes, it’s a paid job.

If you are interested, get in touch with us: job@independent-collectors.com

PS: To be located in Berlin is a bonus, but not mandatory. And we’re looking for software developers, too.

Or: Indoor photo challenge

I don’t know how other collectors feel about this, but I have a desire to show the art that I own to other people. The question is: How do I best photograph it?

I’m not only an amateur collector, I’m also an amateur photographer. One of the first tips I got was to photograph artwork outside on a bright day or inside and move it towards the window. Which surely works to have them lit nicely. But I have a sense that it is very important to also show where the artwork lives.

To me, artworks are a bit like people. To the right, there is a portrait photo of me. It even has been done by a professional photographer. Yet, what does it tell you about me apart from the fact that I wear glasses and a goatee?

It doesn’t show you who I live with. It doesn’t show you who or what I’m influenced by. It doesn’t show you where or how I live.

Below is a set of three pictures showing you a little more (not who I live with, though).

To the left is what my “home office” looked like a few months ago. In the middle you can look out my kitchen window (in winter) and on the right I have selected a bunch of books from my bookshelf. Still not a very complete picture, but better than a portrait.

Artworks are similar, in my opinion. Before I buy art, it lives with the artist. I try and find out the history, the influences and the reasons for its existence. Once I have it, it lives with me. And it does so for specific reasons. If I photograph the art I live with, I want people to get at least a sense of what that “living together” looks like. Which brings me back to the beginning: How do I achieve that?

I had a look at how other collectors do it and there are three very nice examples over at Independent Collectors. The first is by Christian Pfaff (link) from Hamburg, showing a very crowded corridor. I just love that! The second one is by Nina Grams (link), who photographed a broken artwork right where it dropped on the floor. The third one is by Christian Schwarm (link), photographing Nina Canell’s “Morasco Circle” + Peter Piller’s “Ungeklärte Fälle” + his couch.

So finally, here is a picture of my tiny collection (13/°° and 11/°° by Lasse Schmidt Hansen) and how it is parked in my apartment because I’m planning to move soon:

How do you photograph your art? Do you agree or disagree with me? Post links to your pictures in the comments or register at Independent Collectors and show them there. I’d really like to see some samples!