The artist Constantin Nitsche studied painting at the Düsseldorf Art Academy and now works out of a converted garage studio in Marseille’s 6th arrondissement. His latest exhibition, “Les mains” (“The Hands”), takes place at the Xavier Hufkens in Brussels, three years after his first exhibition, “Oranges et Lavande”. It will run until October 3, and its title is taken from a letter Franz Kafka wrote to the Czech journalist Milena Jesenská, in which he said: “I don’t have enough of you in my hand” (“Ich kann doch nicht genug von Dir in Händenhal”). Nietzsche grafted this idea of being incomplete, of never being able to fully contain something, onto the idea that painting could never fully translate what he saw. In short, creativity can never be fully expressed. Still, he found this Sisyphean frustration endless.
The exhibition includes still lifes and portraits with calm compositions: bright flowers, a yellow screen, the Mediterranean horizon, the silhouette of the painter’s wife next to a crystal ball, domestic interiors and the odd Pinocchio self-portrait. Each work is created through a painstaking layering process, with months of revisions, cuts, and reworkings, with early versions of the paintings often whispering on the surface.
We spoke to the artist from Lugano, where he was on holiday with his family before the opening. He discusses his obsession with cats, how living near the Mediterranean awakened his use of color, and why he doesn’t view his show as a concept album.
I was curious about life as an artist in Marseille. Why are you attracted to this city? How does working there influence your work?
Frankly, we moved because we were broke. We lived in Dusseldorf and my wife and I thought we had to leave that town because it was so gray. I sold a painting and I said, let’s take the money to pay for the move, and we took a chance. In Düsseldorf, my color palette is surprisingly strict. I warn myself not to use too many colors; I don’t know why. I think it’s the German spirit on my shoulders. So moving changed my use of color a lot. I work more freely now.
What is your studio like?
The light in Marseille is beautiful, but my studio doesn’t really have the best lighting… I’m not too picky about light. I mixed LED tubes and natural light. This space used to be a motorcycle garage; they sold wheels and stuff like that. I think they’re selling drugs secretly…this neighborhood is a little rough. A neighbor always called me Picasso, a name I hated. I don’t like Picasso very much, nor do I like his personality. But I think he meant it as a compliment.
I was lucky enough to find that studio. I have been in this space for almost five years and I have been living in Marseille since 2019, so I feel very connected to the city. My French is okay now, although far from perfect. I play basketball with a few young people from Marseille, my kids have friends from Marseille and it’s very important for me to be part of this city. There’s a lot of tourism here: people come, rent an apartment, and then leave… and go to Athens or Bucharest or somewhere else the next year. I care about this city. People are very welcoming. They will usually be friendly if they see you trying to speak their language. You have to make a fool of yourself a little bit. You have to be willing.
The titles of your works are usually in French, but the exhibition is named after a quote by Kafka. Can you talk about the impact of words on you?
I’m not an intellectual at all. My wife always tells me I need to read more and she always gives me great books. I just read a book by Rachel Cusk that blew my mind. But I didn’t read enough. I am a very visual person. All my choices come from what I see. I try not to rationalize my thoughts. If something impresses me, I’ll use it in a painting. I really try to make my choices based on my eyes alone. This is where my strength lies. Reading is definitely not one of my strong points.
Kafka is the only writer who really appeals to me. When he did these things he would say “someone was screaming, but it was so loud that no one could hear him” – he would always give you something and then take it away immediately. In high school we had to read him, and I read everything Kafka wrote because I loved the way it was written. So I quoted him: “I don’t hold enough of you in my hand.” It’s a very beautiful way of expressing the desperation of trying to get more when you can’t get more. This is how I feel about painting. You try, but you never feel like you really capture what you’re painting.
You mean this is an exercise that will never be satisfying? Or can you ultimately achieve a more satisfying level of content in what you convey?
It’s like a dog chasing the postman: he can never catch him. I try every day. I go to the studio every day thinking that today I am going to paint this masterpiece. It usually takes me about 10 months to complete a painting. I juggle several things at once, but I always think that today is the day. I’m definitely chasing a sense of satisfaction that I may never achieve. I don’t know how I got excited from it because it wasn’t really satisfying, not at all.
As a writer, I can relate to this.
I think it’s the exact same thing, just a different medium.
As a visual person, do certain things feel totemic to you, or is there a thread that runs through what you’re trying to portray?
Just like vocabulary. It’s like a word you like, but try not to overuse. Sometimes you use a fancy word twice in a conversation and it makes you look a little fishy…but there’s something about that that’s just part of my vocabulary. I often use my fake plant ficus. I’m going to have to stop at some point, but I’ll use it to start another painting. I think of these things as favorite phrases, favorite sentences, or favorite words.
Totem sounds a bit religious, like an amulet or something. But I actually like that word because these become things that I have a relationship with, like cats. I haven’t asked myself what they represent. Maybe it’s civilization, maybe it’s wild animals. There’s something interesting about cats, so they appear repeatedly in my paintings. You’ll see a lot of cats in Marseille, so they are an obvious subject.
You said it takes you many months to complete a painting. Can you walk me through this process?
I try to do only what is necessary. I once heard an interview with author Paul Auster in which he said that he reread his sentences and deleted every useless word. He peeled things off. It’s kind of like that. I was trapped and I put the painting away. I worked on the other one and then took the first one out. Sometimes I do extreme things. I paint everything out, or try to wipe it off. In fact, it’s quite a difficult process. There was one painting that I had rubbed over so many times that a small hole appeared in the canvas. That’s where I feel most comfortable: when I can rough up a painting. It was a back and forth decision making. Take back decisions, delete, rearrange, add something. It’s a very intuitive process.
Especially a painting, Still life with melonfascinates me. It’s like when a scene in a movie fades out and you can already see the next shot behind it.
I know exactly what you mean.
All other paintings appear to be very complete and intact. There is a sense of a transformation taking place. Tell me about it.
In fact, it was an accident. The painting didn’t work out, which happens to me all the time. It didn’t turn out the way I wanted, but 99% of the time things don’t go the way I planned, which is actually exciting. I like this. That was the painting I struggled with the most. I made this weird composition with a table and a patterned tablecloth, but it didn’t make any sense. But I looked at it and said, don’t touch it again. So be it. You try not to ruin a painting by forcing it to be what you planned it to be. It’s like a child. You have to watch where it goes and be on its side to some extent. I had two kids screaming in the background; I didn’t know if you could hear them. But please don’t write me talking about my paintings like they are my children. [laughs] This is a completely different thing. But in a way you become an assistant to the painting, like a monkey with a paintbrush. This is the best approach otherwise you will feel like you are responsible for everything.
Does hosting a show create a useful endpoint? How do you know when you’re ready?
In fact, I do better without deadlines. Going on a date when a painting is finished is very stressful for me, and I don’t enjoy that feeling at all. Typically, even the toughest cookies are done after 12 months. I try to schedule my gigs in advance. If you offered me a gig in three months, I couldn’t do it. It takes me about a year to prepare for a show, but even then it won’t be a big show.
Even without an exhibition, these paintings would exist. This is not a concept album; I never work on a single project. I get a chance to show my work, surface and send a little “Hi, I’m here!” and then I go back to my studio. Some artists work very differently and this works perfectly for them. But I’d never done that, and I didn’t know if I could remember a subject and a space and create a work specifically for it. I haven’t become that professional yet. I hope I never become so professional!