The reliefs, which are around one and a half meters high, depict typewriters transforming into bodies, animals, plants, and hybrid beings. Once instruments of language and administration, they now appear as organisms and ritual objects—poetic, grotesque, and critical at the same time.
Flowers, skulls, or masks grow out of the keys. The machine becomes a vehicle for power and myth, violence and poetry. Each work explores the tension between technology, language, and the body, revealing how closely bureaucracy, war, literature, and desire are interwoven. The result is a tableau in which the typewriter itself becomes the narrator—a totem of modernity, somewhere between fascination and eeriness.
„Gloria“
A black pig figure, opened up, hollowed out, filled with meat—a double pig, a pig inside a pig. “Gloria” shows the mechanics of obsession: how pornography is consumed, ruminated on, reproduced. The machine of lust functions like a typewriter: it hammers away, it repeats, it produces insatiably.
The work refers to the transformation of the body into a commodity, to the aesthetics of exaggeration, repetition, and reification. “Gloria” is a sarcastic exhibit—an animal body as a metaphor for human desire, which is repeatedly devoured and excreted in the industrial image production of pornography.
An image of the excesses of a culture that recognizes in the pig both the sacred and the abominable—and in it, itself.
„16 ooo oo1 „
During excavation work near my studio on Kulmerstraße in Berlin, a German steel helmet was unearthed—a relic of war that I incorporated into my work. Added to this is a dot representing the estimated 16 million civilian victims of World War II, resulting in “16,000,001”: a count into the absurd, an individual number against the anonymous masses.
The typewriter, the helmet, and a boulder combine to form a bitter metaphor: command and obedience, war and statistics, machine and man.
A mechanism that kills and counts—and in counting, causes the killing to disappear.
„Continental“
Wood, bark, nature grow out of the old typewriter—as if the paper had returned to its origins. At its heart sits the owl, guardian of the night, symbol of silence, knowledge, and transformation.
The machine becomes the bearer of a romantic story: of waiting for darkness, of longing for the moment when language falls silent and images rise.
“Continental” is not about technology, but about memory and twilight, about the pulsing of life in the material that was once a tree.
„Trivalwurm“
A worm grows out of the typewriter, a distorted Ouroboros that devours itself in an endless loop. Its body is covered with colorful images from pulp novels, icons of cheap sensationalism.
Here, the trivial becomes an organism, a creature that feeds only on its own waste. Mass literature, whose words are exhausted in their sameness, gives birth to a being without memory, without future.
“Trivialworm” is thus more than an object—it is an allegory for the culture industry: the endless production of images, myths, and stories that only stabilize their own cycle. Entertainment as self-consumption.
„Wächter und Hund“
Metal forms grow out of the typewriter like organisms—a technoid vegetation that has long since developed a life of its own. Radiator grilles and machine parts form heads, snouts, masks: guardian figures, half human, half animal.
The work tells of the transformation of technology into nature – or rather of a nature that now appears only as technology. The “vegetation” made of steel and aluminum is a new myth: plants that do not breathe but control; animals that do not hunt but monitor.
“Guardian and Dog” is thus also an image of the present: of the machines that accompany, protect, and control us – and at the same time an allegory of power and subordination. The dog as a symbol of obedience, the guardian as a symbol of domination.
The typewriter at the bottom becomes the primal scene of this mutation: language gives birth to technology, technology gives birth to control – and from the words grows a vegetation that towers above humans.
„Gläserne Blüten“
A network of stalks and tubes grows out of the typewriter, translucent like an artificial herbarium. Inside them are leaves, feathers, fragments—preserved traces of nature, frozen like relics in glass.
The work evokes the age-old longing to preserve and capture nature – just as botanists press flowers or researchers seal samples in ampoules. But at the same time, it is an image of ambivalence: beauty is preserved by being removed from life.
“Glass Flowers” is thus a paradox of modernity: humans want to immortalize nature, but transform it into an archive and a quotation. What remains is a silent iconography of loss—the flower that no longer wilts is also the flower that no longer blooms.
At the bottom is the typewriter: language as a conservatory that describes, frames, and fixes the world. But like the glass tubes, it too remains only a shell—an attempt to give permanence to the transitory.