Current Exhibitions
Gaia – Australian Landscape
Tilmann Krieg
6-27 September, 2025
The sky glows a pale grey, tinged with deep blue tones. A few white cumulus clouds populate the
vast expanse of sky, grey on the undersides and bright white where they face the radiant light of
the sun. The light is shining in the silver-blue spectrum, but it is not warm.
A cold, harsh wind stirs the branches and tops of the plants. This is the wrong moment to wake
up, I tell myself, and I’m about to close my eyes again, when I see a friendly face above me,
smiling at me. This face, a manifestation of the landscape’s spirit, reassures me and encourages
me to embrace the day.
A face and a figure, like a thin pen drawing on a white background—one of the manifold
phantasmagorias that can unexpectedly and suddenly bark at the viewer, smile at him, or look at
him with concern—powerless freaks, ingeniously painted by the beings of the sky on their mighty
tent. They are harmless, unless they hurl lightning. But that is not the case at the moment.
They are frightening because they appear so knowing, gazing at the intimidated observer so
wildly, angrily, indifferently, or compassionately, as if they already knew their terrible fate. Their
shuddering is transmitted to the delinquent, and no matter how warm and friendly the late
afternoon sun’s green hues shine on the treetops, the gaze of the giant cherubs in the sky does
not bode well!
It’s time to wake up, shake off the annoying ghosts of sleep, and immerse yourself in the objective
representation of the real world, where cloud faces. Spiteful bird calls do not determine the course
of existence, but by alert action, courageous action, and resistance—offering the things that
come, without allowing mascaras and ghostly faces to induce despondency and anxiety!
My world is different. The shapes of treetops, the profiles of leafy branches, the profile lines of
treetop groups, individual plants—they all take on personalities and characteristics in my
imagination that are recognizable, but not always the same—similar to how, in encounters with
people, the people are familiar and identifiable, but their interactions, their characters, and their
basic mood can be different each time.
When I look out the window, I walk through the forest: I know each one. Single
plant, and yet their current state surprises me anew. Are they
in a good mood? Are they well-disposed towards me? Do they, in turn, recognise me on
this day? Golden sunlight may illuminate them and make the vast, gnarled old
gum trees appear in a friendly light when one approaches them from outside. And that may
change abruptly; upon entering their circle, one practically becomes
a part of their group, no longer seeing them from outside, from a distance, but finding oneself
amid their Thing, in their personal, intimate sensibility. Wanderer, are you coming to Sparta…
Some of the trees demand respect. At least a growled greeting. Others demand distance; their
retreat into muddy, boggy marshes leaves no doubt. From a distance, one can feel respect. From
a distance, one may approach with respect and make eye contact. Crude fraternisation is not
their thing. Observe from a distance, you light-hearted little human! Try a few drawings, explore
our character, our structure, and our existence, which outlasts yours by decades…
This old wood, these blackened roots: when they were formed, my grandfather was probably
passing the exam that qualified him to study medicine at Heidelberg University. He had long since
gone to his Creator. The trees are still here. I lost the horizon in this landscape long ago, I’m sorry!
In the forest, verticals dominate, although horizontal lines are the foundation of humanity: the
dividing line between water and sky, for example, or the rugged structure of the Black Forest hills.
One’s path, which disappears into the distance between the vineyards that stretch strikingly and
beautifully into the realms of heaven, ensuring their owners‘ survival and their connoisseurs‘
incredible experiences.
Readers may forgive me for temporarily straying from the Australian landscape and delving into
my native Baden-Württemberg. The Australian landscape is not like that, although it is
magnificently impressive. Landscape—no matter how soulful and sweet—is never man’s romantic
friend. It is hostile, life-threatening, and closed off as soon as the wind turns cold, the ground and
water freeze, and there is not enough rain to fall, or a rockslide from the mountain peaks thunders
down into the valley.
Seeing the landscape is almost impossible. One always carries the filter of one’s imagination with
oneself. Landscape speaks, landscape enchants, landscape terrifies. I’m practically incapable of
viewing landscapes neutrally; a filter always blocks my perception of the magnificent: a filter
of romanticism, wildness, courage, imagination, boldness, dream world…
This is how I perceive landscapes: a projection surface for my ideas and desires, a romantic
backdrop with a feel-good quality, a showcase of the achievements of nature that creates and
sustains us, a connection to God and his creation.
A cosmos of incredible value and partially preserved authenticity, a cathedral that simultaneously
clarifies and preserves our source and our future destiny. As I write about it, I simultaneously
experience a deep sense of gratitude for being able to continue working in such reasonably
acceptable condition. And this applies equally to the magnificent Australian nature as well as to
the familiar and poetic Baden landscape on my doorstep. Landscape is one of the great themes
in photography. I have succeeded in creating an image that conveys a sense of the fascination
and grandeur of nature and landscape.
Photo: Michelle Bowden #Visuall