Christoph Haunschmid

The Sculptures of Margit Feyerer-Fleischanderl

 

As I – let us say – got to know Margit Feyerer-Fleischanderl approximately 20 years ago, working as a paintress and graphic designer, she was interested in photography. All of these fields having to do with art and moving on two dimensions. In 2001, figures, out of ceramic, were created, inspired by a friend and expert, Charlotte Wiesmann. Figures, emerging out of personal surroundings, portraits of good friends, but actually not being portraits per se. More like prototypes, which were inspired by real and alive people close to Margit. Reactions among the "not-portraited people" were different. "Actually, it looks quite like me", "am I really that bold?" The main objective was not to produce an image, not at all of the outer reality. More about the demonstration of inner attitudes, feelings, opinions, which represent a type of person. Some of the "not-portraited people" could probably have discovered some aspects of their personality they might not have thought of before. Or which they haven't thought of that they are visible or at least could be sensed by others. Margit brought suppressed things to the surface. Invisible behind the visible. Desires and wishes as well as things that seemed far in the past and forgotten. I also recognized myself and traits, which I didn't expect to be part of me or of which I thought they have disappeared. It was exciting, virtuous and highly emotional.

This leads us to a generalization, away from specific role models towards abstract figures. Figures, which do not need role models, which do not have specific biographies. Which cross our ways in town, about which we do not know anything, but all of them having a life in the same way as we have our own biography.

Next thing: The need for reduction, the focusing on the essential, at the same time giving the beholder more options, opportunities to speculate, to fantasize. Busts evolved, varying in winter and summer, many clothes and being wrapped up in winter, lots of bare skin, swimmers and people diving into the water. Aspects of disappearance and appearance merging into the game, facets of motion. Margit developed cross-sections, seeming arbitrary. Figures became fragments, reduced to their very parts. The rest imaginable. There is the woman with the red sleeve, with the wild hairdo. She is obviously in a hurry. Running. Arranging the parts in another way, she would stumble or lie, breaking into her components. A great variety of options. Possibilities emerge out of the act of reduction, possibilities for improvisation of motion, also freedom.

A similarity in music leads us to this thought: The American jazz-legend Miles Davis is being quoted that it is not the amount of music notes being played, it is the beautiful ones that count. Celebrating the breaks as elements of tension, the reduction as playground of the imagination in the eye of the beholder respectively the listeners.

From the composition to improvisation. From the stiffness of a snap-shot to motion. You could make a movie out of it, or at least a series of photos. The motion and the conquest of time connected with it, as a further fourth dimension. Freeing the figures out of their stiffness. Reduction as the focusing on the essential, which provides options to question patterns of thinking and categories of emotions.

And one more thing: The figures, that walk through walls, or into the walls, without being clear, if they are ever going to appear on the other side, without being clear, what there even is on the other side, what there is to be expected, if there even is anything on the other side. Disappearance as a possibility. With the head through the wall, the overcoming of obstacles, demanding energy, courage and insistence. Saying goodbye, hurting, but opening up chances. The family, turning their back on something or somebody. For a new start, maybe fleeing, or searching for a better world, somewhere in the future, somewhere far, far away or maybe even somewhere very close.

Margit Feyerer-Fleischanderl tells us stories: hers, ours and those of others.