For Me, Painting Is Emotion

Piotr Kosiewski: What is painting to you?
Roman Lipski: I have always liked it. At a certain point, it occurred to me that I wanted to paint. Above all, though, I liked the way bohemian life was described.
P.K.: Were you interested in the artist before painting itself?
R.L.: Yes, of course. I left for Berlin at the age of nineteen. I had no plan for my life and did not know what I wanted to do. By training, I am a driver and motor-vehicle mechanic. In Poland I attended the Technical Teacher-Training College in Gdańsk, where I studied subjects including metal cutting. I could not imagine what I should do with myself next. Berlin was meant to be only a stop on the way to America, about which my grandmother had told me a great deal. I wanted to go there. It did not happen, however. I remained somehow suspended. Back in Poland, my brother had a few books, some devoted to painting. They were interesting, but often entirely devoid of reproductions.
P.K.: As was common in the Polish People’s Republic.
R.L.: Yet they affected me very powerfully. I felt that a similar occupation might give me pleasure. At the time, I did not know any artists. I had never been in a studio. My only contact with “that sort of activity” was the technical drawing I had studied in Gdańsk. So I lay in a Berlin Asylantenheim — a home for asylum seekers — wondering what to do with myself. I decided to try painting.
P.K.: Did you think about art school?
R.L.: No. I had no idea at all how to go about it. My first thought was: to paint, you need a school-leaving certificate. Remember, I come from a small town — Nowy Dwór Gdański. I knew little about the world. So I began looking for artists. I also learnt that community arts centres offered painting and drawing classes — the Volkshochschule. That was where I began painting. For the first time in my life I held a brush and stood at an easel… The classes began in earnest, with a nude. For a young man, that was quite exciting. On those courses I felt emotions similar to those I had once experienced doing technical drawings or playing sport. In fact, I had previously wanted to become an athlete. My sister played for Poland’s national team and travelled the world. She was quite well known. I wanted to repeat her success.
P.K.: Is painting connected with emotion for you?
R.L.: Yes, with extraordinary emotion. It dominated at first. Today painting has also become my way of life. I cannot imagine that I might stop doing it.
P.K.: Were you not interested in other means of expression? Did you consider installations or video? 

R.L.: Yes, but in a rather particular way. I did many different things with people I met in Berlin. Later, we founded the Club of Polish Losers. The group included literary figures — prose writers and poets such as Lopez Mausere. Together we formed a theatre group and performed in many places. We even made it to Warsaw. These were group activities, however, and that did not entirely suit me. I feel best doing something alone.
P.K.: And you continued to paint.
R.L.: I was very lucky. At the same time, I never followed the conventional route: learn to draw, then attend an academy where you begin painting, and finally start exhibiting. I completed the course. There I met a teacher who persuaded me to attend a private painting school, a kind of vocational art college. After graduating, I decided not to go to university but to paint and see whether I could make a living from it. Formally, I now have two professions: painter and motor mechanic.
P.K.: And how did that work out?

R.L.: I did many things to survive, because painting did not make that possible. I even became a sailor for a while! I accepted that I earned money in other ways, but I always did so solely to have the time and opportunity to paint — that was my focus. Nor did I participate in artistic life. I did go to exhibitions, but above all I looked at classical painting. Eventually I met a serious collector, Erich Marx. He decided to support me for two years. Thanks to that, I could concentrate entirely on painting. I did not leave the house; I painted. That situation suited me very well. Marx himself is an extraordinary person. Professionally he had nothing to do with art, but it became his passion. At first he collected what he liked, very intuitively, without seeking anyone else’s advice. Later he met Heiner Bastian, Beuys’s former secretary, who became his artistic adviser. Bastian took Marx to the United States and showed him Andy Warhol, Cy Twombly and Robert Rauschenberg. Marx liked their work and began buying it. Today, Marx is an important institution.

P.K.: What does it mean to be an artist in Berlin?
R.L.: It is a fairly easy occupation. There are many galleries and other places where one can exhibit, unlike in Poland. I was surprised by how few galleries operate along the Vistula. You can count more on a single Berlin street. Perhaps I am exaggerating slightly, because things are changing today. Yet in Berlin it is still relatively easy to find someone who will offer you a place to exhibit. At first I showed my pictures in an architectural office. We also formed groups and used vacant buildings. Sometimes exhibitions lived for only a day, or even an evening. That was the point of our activity. What mattered was being able to show your work. If you also managed to notify someone from the press, you might later find an article — that is perhaps an exaggeration; more likely a mention — in the newspaper. Sometimes something sold as well.
P.K.: You describe Berlin as a world of tremendous artistic freedom, but surely it is difficult to avoid such issues as the formatting of art and galleries imposing particular models.
R.L.: I did not know about any of that then. I was free and had the opportunity to do what I wanted. Only when I entered the gallery circuit did I notice that gallerists exert pressure on artists — the better and more prestigious the gallery, the greater the pressure. Sometimes — although I have never personally experienced it — they even tell artists to paint what happens to be selling. I had no such problems with the gallery I worked with for years.
P.K.: You mentioned looking at a great deal of older art. What sort?
R.L.: I was fascinated by exceptional artists such as Rembrandt and Holbein. I remember an exhibition of Georges de La Tour in Berlin very well. For a time I had a girlfriend who studied conservation, and she taught me a great deal. Among other things, I did exercises copying the techniques of the old Flemish masters. Rubens became my favourite painter for a long time. Berlin has none of his spectacular pictures, but it does have several unfinished works. In them, Rubens’s painting technique can be seen wonderfully clearly. To me, they are his best canvases. In fact, when I could not imagine making a living from painting, my dream was to work as a museum guard. I wanted to be as close as possible to those pictures.
P.K.: And what do you look at now?
R.L.: Very varied art. For several years I had an interesting job: I installed exhibitions with a team of people. We must have been good, because our commissions came chiefly from Deutsche Guggenheim, the Neue Nationalgalerie and Hamburger Bahnhof Museum. They were excellent exhibitions. Through them, I came to know the full spectrum of modern art, both Constructivism and, for example, Minimalism, about which I had previously known little. I hung objects, held them in my hands and encountered works by the most important artists. They were extremely varied: paintings and drawings, but also video and installations. To this day, I do not focus exclusively on painting.
P.K.: Landscapes predominate in your work, while the figure appears only rarely.

R.L.: Yes, there was a period when I painted human figures. But many other people did so too. The figure had become devalued. I found it difficult to express anything in those pictures, and I always try to tell a story. Using the figure made me feel that I was reducing things, lapsing into banality. So I looked for another means. It became the landscape, always enriched by an element that introduces unease and poses a question.

P.K.: What sorts of elements?
R.L.: I do not have a single favourite set of motifs. Nor have I ever created anything resembling a programme.
P.K.: And how do you construct a painting?
R.L.: Wherever I am, I am always looking. I also carry a camera everywhere and take photographs. I used to sketch as well, but that was a long time ago. Digital photography is incredibly helpful.
P.K.: Has it become a tool you keep at hand?
R.L.: Yes. To me, it is a painterly tool like a brush or paint. If I find something that suits me, I photograph it and then process the photograph. I do not reproduce it one-to-one on the canvas. I sort and arrange the elements. I enlarge some; others disappear entirely from the picture. Many of my paintings show views of Poland, because they carry powerful emotions. That does not surprise me. I lived here for nineteen years — the first and most important nineteen. But I felt equally strong emotions in the United States. There, too, I found views close to those in Poland: the same chaos and disorder, but also similar people.
P.K.: Muted, subdued colours predominate in your paintings.
R.L.: That is — to put it somewhat jokingly — simply poor painting technique. More seriously, I am still learning to paint.
P.K.: It has been written that your canvases express Polish nostalgia.
R.L.: That is a complete misunderstanding. There is no nostalgia in them. I would rather not comment on my painting, however. Nor do I know whether such explanation is needed. For the same reasons, I do not title my canvases. The pictures speak for themselves. As for your question about colour, I often began with many colours when painting, but ultimately reduced them and opted for a certain monotony.
P.K.: You said painting does not need commentary. Whose commentary? The artist’s, or none at all?
R.L.: The artist’s. Others may comment and write about the work — they have to make a living too. 

P.K.: Did you ever feel that you attracted interest as an artist with Polish roots? 

R.L.: No. In any case, few people knew about them. My debut was very strange. My first exhibition — small but well prepared — was held in a little gallery on Brunnenstraße. Across the street, a much larger gallery was showing works from the Marx Collection. Alongside my pictures were works by Bruce Nauman, Cindy Sherman and others. In that context, no mention at all was made of my being a painter from Poland. My surname meant nothing to viewers either. Many people in Berlin have similar, Slavic-sounding names. The interesting comments made by visitors mattered more to me. Besides, I was not expecting any particular attention.
P.K.: And what significance does colour have for you?

R.L.: A symbolic one. I once painted a picture in which the grass was green. I immediately painted over it because it was a complete failure. What matters to me is building tension and provoking emotion. Things entirely at odds with nature can be found in my canvases. I did that to create tension or surprise.

P.K.: Can a painting surprise the viewer?
R.L.: Yes.
P.K.: You often paint deserted landscapes and wastelands that sometimes recall pictures by Caspar David Friedrich. Is Romanticism an important point of reference for you?
R.L.: I do not allude to any period or artist. I paint what is in my head and what I like, always according to my own vision. For a long time I was dissatisfied and did not identify with what I was doing. Fortunately, I had a master — Max Neumann. First I saw his pictures and was delighted by them. Later I managed to become his assistant: I stretched canvases and swept the floor. But I painted as well, and he critiqued my work. Usually he said nothing. Once, however, he told me to stop painting. I am not surprised; I brought him dreadful things. Eventually I asked what I should do. He replied: “What you like.” That was a breakthrough for me. Why had I not thought of it before? The point, after all, is to paint what one wants.
P.K.: How important is the institution of the master to you?
R.L.: It is indispensable, in every area of life, not only art. Max Neumann was and remains an immense authority for me. At the very beginning, an artist is lost. One does not really know which path to take. One doubts. Many give up. None of the people with whom I installed exhibitions — and many had an academic education — still paint. They abandoned it. They did not know what to do next.
P.K.: They felt they had reached a dead end.
R.L.: Yes. They painted something and exhibited it. Others came and said: it has all been done before. Then you feel you have failed, especially when you are trying to deal with everything alone. In moments of doubt, I could ask my master. I was fortunate to encounter a wise man. I began painting what I liked. I even began copying him. I did so with tremendous conviction and at last began to find my own style. Of course, all this can happen only if you have a little luck.
P.K.: Artists today rarely use the word “master”.
R.L.: I believe a master is necessary if one is to find oneself.
P.K.: And what are we to make of the pressure to discover new faces and figures?
R.L.: Sometimes I returned from an exhibition disgusted. I felt that I was painting poor things, or things out of step with the present. In fact, I am often assailed by doubts. That is also why I very rarely see exhibitions: they dishearten me. I do not want to multiply my questions.
P.K.: You were one of the founders of the Club of Polish Losers. What prompted you? Contrariness, or a protest against stereotypes about Poles?
R.L.: There was no coyness in it. We simply felt like losers. Everyone except me was educated and had achieved something, yet we slogged away on building sites even though we could not lay tiles properly. Some of us had families and needed to bring home money. At the same time, we did not want to give up publishing books, writing poems or exhibiting pictures. Creating was very important to us. We felt like a gang of losers because we managed to accomplish so little. So we joined forces. Leszek Oświęcimski even wrote a manifesto describing the mechanism of our failure.

P.K.: Did you manage, as a group, to overcome that feeling?
R.L.: Not a chance! The losers did not disappoint: they remained losers. In that sense, our project succeeded. We founded the Club as a joke, not to show others that Poles were capable of something. It must be said, however, that many people liked our idea. They thought they were losers too, and that one could take it lightly. Crowds came to the Club as a meeting place — not Poles, but Germans and people from all over the world.
P.K.: You yourself described Berlin as a place of many opportunities. Yet the sheer number of people wanting to make their mark must make it difficult to do so.
R.L.: Up to a certain level, breaking through is not a problem. But if you want to make a broader impact and earn enough for more than living from one month to the next, or to acquire prestige and recognition, the problems begin. The pressure appears: a race to become better known, to exhibit in better places and make more money. And all that brings the need to devise strategies and manoeuvre tactically. That was not what we wanted. We wanted to enjoy ourselves while being able to live from our own work, though we knew we would not achieve it. Suddenly, the Club became popular, was invited onto television and was written about by newspapers around the world. With all this came stress, and at the same time our complexes revealed themselves. Everything fell apart. None of the Club’s founders has been there for a long time. They left or were expelled. Today, only one of us, Piotr Mordel, remains active there. Of course it is not now some jaded institution — interesting projects are still made there.
P.K.: Did the cycle showing figures of uniformed women shooting refer to the condition of failure?
R.L.: Yes, my own. I was generally angry with all women because my family had fallen apart at the time. It was a difficult period for me.
P.K.: And you returned to landscapes?
R.L.: Yes. When I stopped dwelling on the relationship and its breakdown, I began painting landscapes.
P.K.: Half-finished or collapsing buildings often appear in your pictures. 

R.L.: They fascinate me because I can use them to build contrast. Nature is by definition perfect. I am interested in how it combines with what people have created. The result of their work can sometimes be terrible. They produce nightmares that I have sometimes seen in Poland and also in the United States. The opposition of human products to nature is an important subject for me.
P.K.: Are you trying to show loss, the destruction of the landscape?
R.L.: In a sense, yes. Certain elements of human activity stand in constant opposition to what was there before.
P.K.: Today, artists often explain themselves almost reflexively for the fact that they paint. People working with photography or video feel no similar need. At the same time, in popular understanding an artist in Poland is usually identified with a painter, while everyone else is some suspicious figure. 

R.L.: In Germany, all disciplines are treated equally. Beuys’s words that everyone can be an artist seem to have been absorbed. Video, installation and performance are taken as seriously as painting. Everything is judged above all in terms of quality. In Poland the visual arts in general are treated as something inferior. That is changing, of course. The people from the Ładnie Group did a great deal. I value them highly, as well as those who helped them establish themselves abroad, such as the Foksal Gallery Foundation. Their success helped everyone associated with Poland. It is surprising how many people take them seriously. Recently, for example, I was at Volker Schlöndorff’s home. The people I met there told me: it is a great country, and what artists! They do not know the nuances. They do not know who is represented by whom or which gallery stands behind a particular artist. In any case, that does not interest them at all. They focus on paintings, photographs, films and installations. Polish artists have achieved tremendous success. In the West, amid such immense artistic production, simply being noticed is an exceptional art.

P.K.: You speak a great deal about emotion in painting. Do you feel pleasure when making a picture? 

R.L.: Yes, it is a wonderful occupation. Since separating from my family, I have lived in my studio. I have an established routine. I get up in the morning and go to a restaurant for breakfast. Then I begin painting. If I manage to spend the day in that way, I am happy, regardless of the outcome of my work. Of course, it is better when I manage to make something good. I try to paint every day. I dislike repeating myself. Certain subjects remain present, but I always add something new. Above all, however, my manner of painting changes. I am still learning. I recognise the changes myself. I see when certain new painterly codes appear. I have always wanted to paint nature, not to reproduce it straightforwardly but to give it symbolic meaning. Merely copying it does not interest me at all.
P.K.: Is it about creating something from nature, telling a story about it and transforming it? 

R.L.: Probably.
P.K.: And is it an attempt to deal with the dominance of photography, with the flood of landscape pictures and views surrounding us?
R.L.: In my opinion, photography complements painting. Without the possibility of taking photographs, I would not paint in this way. If I only photographed, I would miss the possibilities painting affords. As a painter I have tremendous freedom. I can freely choose what I depict in a picture.
P.K.: Painting is a form of freedom.
R.L.: Yes, of course — absolutely!
P.K.: Could you try to define what a good painting is to you?
R.L.: In a particular situation: after painting a picture, I place it against the wall and feel that looking at it gives me pleasure. At such moments I can say, “This is my painting”, and show it to others. It is not quite so simple, however. Usually, once I have painted a canvas, I lose interest in the work I have just finished. So I put it aside for as long as possible. I want to forget it. Only then do I assess it. My criteria are very simple: “I like it” or “I don’t like it”. There is no intellectual underpinning to any of this. If I decide that a painting is all right and has some value, I am usually not mistaken. Later I see how others, coming from outside, often respond to the canvas very intimately.

Warsaw, April 2010