A Thing Can Matter Without Meaning Something

On Forms, Signs, and Effect

Sometimes, when someone stands in front of one of my works, I am asked what it means.

I understand the question.

When something is representational, there is first a familiar way in. We recognize a tree, a figure, perhaps a place. From there, further questions can follow: Why is this particular thing shown? What is happening there? What might it stand for?

With a black line on an almost empty sheet of paper, that first point of reference is missing.

Then it is easy to assume that the line must stand for something else.

A path, perhaps. A crack. A boundary.

Such connections arise for me too. Sometimes a form reminds me of something that played no part at all while I was working.

But not every line begins with a thought that it is then meant to make visible. Often it develops from a movement, from speed and pressure, or from the resistance of the paper. Sometimes it is only while working that I find out where it might lead.

The line can become important without standing for something else.

This difference stays with me.

To Mean Something

Two uses of the same word are surprisingly close to each other.

Something can mean something.

Something can mean something to me.

They sound almost the same, yet they do not describe quite the same thing.

A sign can have an agreed meaning. But if a piece of music means a lot to me, I do not need to find a clear statement in it.

Perhaps I could say when I heard it or why a certain passage moves me every time. I could talk about rhythm or harmony. Memories may play a part as well.

That would explain some of it.

It would still not be the piece itself.

With music, this seems obvious to me. One note changes the next. After a loud sound, a pause can suddenly have weight. The relation between sound and pause can matter without either having to stand for something else.

I find something similar when I paint.

I put a dark mark on a light sheet of paper.

From that moment on, the surface changes. One side carries more weight. The empty space beside it seems larger or tighter. A second line can strengthen the first or step back. Sometimes a small shift is enough, and something that was calm before begins to tilt.

The mark does not need to represent anything.

It is already doing something in the image.

Perhaps that is why the question of meaning sometimes comes too early. It quickly directs the eye towards something behind what is visible.

A dark area may remind us of loss, a line of a path. Such readings arise.

But we can also stay with the surface itself.

A dark form takes in light differently from the paper around it. Its edge ends abruptly or disappears into the fibres. It moves closer to another form. Between them, a narrow strip of light remains.

All of this is already there before anyone decides what something might stand for.

Perhaps some things do not have to stand for anything else at all.

They can be visible without being incomplete because of it.

What Language Adds

My works are not entirely outside meaning anyway.

I give them titles.

With titles, language enters, and language is not without consequences.

A word can draw attention to something that was hardly noticeable before. A form suddenly begins to suggest a particular image. A movement that had remained open before now reminds us more strongly of a body or a landscape.

That is why I am careful with titles.

I do not want them to explain what is in the image. At the same time, I cannot pretend they stand neutrally beside it.

A word brings something with it.

The same is true of the person standing in front of an image.

No one comes without language, memories or earlier images. A form may remind someone of something I never intended. Another viewer may see something that I myself had not noticed.

For me, it only becomes difficult when an interpretation appears so quickly that it hardly leaves room for anything else.

I know this even from my own works.

Once I have seen a branch in a line, the word cannot easily be removed again.

The branch is now in the room too.

Sometimes the word is faster than the form.

Perhaps that is also why I hesitate to give definite explanations.

Not everything that reaches us has to contain a message.

A certain light in a room can remain in memory for a long time. Or a voice whose sound I remember more clearly than what it said.

We can try to explain why something like this became important.

Sometimes that works surprisingly well.

And still, a small distance remains between the explanation and the experience.

Being difficult to explain is not in itself a sign of quality. A random mark gains nothing simply because nobody can say what it means.

A work can be very clear and still not make a definite statement.

With my own work, this question becomes concrete in a particular way.

I know how it came into being. I know the paper I used, where a movement began and which part was added later. Sometimes I still remember exactly why I stopped.

That knowledge is part of it.

But it does not automatically explain everything that happens in the image.

Even while I am working, a mark can create relationships that were not part of my initial intention.

The material plays a part in this too.

Ink does not flow in a certain way because I want to see something in it later. Paper absorbs water according to the structure of its fibres. An edge breaks open. More pigment gathers in one place; another area dries lighter than expected.

There is nothing mysterious about this.

These are processes.

But they produce something I have to react to.

Perhaps this is why I am not very interested in the idea that an image has to make an already finished thought visible.

Then the thought would already be complete before the image had even come into being.

Some art is made this way.

My work often starts differently.

I have a direction, sometimes also a fairly clear idea. As soon as the first mark is on the paper, the situation has changed.

Something has been added.

A form places weight where there was none before. That alone changes what happens beside it.

Something does not have to refer to something else to gain weight.

Its effect does not begin only once it is interpreted.

When I look at a finished work, I can say many things about it.

I can name the material and format. I can describe how it came into being and perhaps say which thoughts were important at the time.

There is one sentence I still hesitate over:

This image means …

Of course art can tell stories, evoke memories, or take a position. Some forms are deliberately signs. But an image does not always have to work in this way.

With some works, another question interests me more.

What is happening here?

There is black.

Beside it, the paper remains unmarked.

A line ends at a point where it could have continued. More space remains between two forms than I first intended.

None of this has to be a riddle.

A line does not have to stand for anything to have weight in the image.

Perhaps significance sometimes lies exactly there.

Not in a message behind the form.

But in the fact that it has an effect before we turn it into a sign.