It was abso­lut­e­ly for­bidden to stop. On the old Bundesstrasse B5 from Berlin to Hamburg, on the stret­ches of high­way bet­ween the two zone, it was not per­mit­ted to over­ta­ke ano­ther vehic­le if a rail­road-crossing was ahead. One was awa­re of the omni­pre­sence of a cou­ple of Volkspolizisten — the People´s Police — on the street, hiding behind a buil­ding. Or they would signal from insi­de their poli­ce cars for dri­vers to stop, to inspect their vehic­le regis­tra­ti­on papers and driver´s licen­ces, open up the trunk, etc., and impo­se a fine. It was not only becau­se of this that one lacked requi­si­te lei­su­re and rela­xa­ti­on to obser­ve and reco­gni­ze, every once in a while, what was glim­psed out of the cor­ner of one´s eye by the roadsi­de while dri­ving through the­se places on end­less jour­neys, from Staaken to Nauen, and else­whe­re too. Accompanying the pas­sen­ger through the Interzone were archivec­tu­ral­ly mono­tous two- and three-storey buil­dings, behind high walls or woo­den walls pain­ted with inex­pen­si­ve East Bloc paint.

These con­s­truc­tions, most­ly uti­li­ty buil­dings stem­ming from the Nazi years, ser­ved as housing during the era of the German Democratic Republic (GDR) for its poor occu­p­iers, mem­bers of the once glo­rious Soviet army. Driving past, one saw women hur­ry­ing in front of the walls that blo­cked the grea­ter part of the view, women dres­sed exo­ti­cal­ly com­pared to German stan­dards, has­tening home or bust­ling toward barracks´entrances. Often they had to wait on the side of the streets for traf­fic to pass.
In win­ter one could see them wrap­ped in muff­lers to ward off the cold and damp­ness or wea­ring thick coats to cope with incle­ment win­ter. Standing at seve­ral places along a high­way that was poor­ly repai­red, ridd­led with innu­me­ra­ble pat holes, were Soviet mili­ta­ry poli­ce signal­ing the right-of-way to inco­ming or depar­ting mili­ta­ry vehic­les or giving pede­stri­ans an oppor­tu­ni­ty to cross. Sometimes, too, one could reco­gni­ze very young, Asiatic loo­king sol­diers wal­king around the barracks›entrance. Here they were, repre­sen­ta­ti­ves of the gre­at Soviet power asser­ting its might to this point far­thest west, sym­bo­li­zing for the West German or for­eig­ner pas­sing through live evi­dence of the rea­li­ty of the Cold War.

As ent­ry to the inner-German boun­da­ries ope­ned after rem­oval of the poli­ti­cal cor­set-strings, and the for­mer occu­p­iers from the Soviet Union slow­ly but sure­ly released the ter­rain to the nati­ves, one´s own land and sur­roun­dings beca­me the sub­jects of curious explo­ra­ti­on. Field-work had pre­vious­ly been con­duc­ted else­whe­re. In the old catch­word of clas­si­cal eth­no­lo­gy, »stran­ge cul­tures« (The Savage Mind, Claude Lévi-Strauss) was a term employ­ed to encom­pass gene­ral­ly what were its cho­sen are­as of rese­arch. But it has beco­me exten­ded now, in recent artis­tic endea­vors, to app­ly to one›s own cul­tu­re. Laurenz Berges does not neces­si­ta­te exo­tic count­ries to encoun­ter »the stran­ge cul­tu­re.« His curio­si­ty for the­se ter­rains got fil­te­red, first, through a pha­se of inten­se preoc­cu­pa­ti­on with the work of emi­nent American pho­to­graph­ers like Walker Evans, Robert Frank, William Eggleston, and Lee Friedlander. Coincident with this was a year spent as assistant to the New York pho­to­grapher Evelyn Hofer, whe­re he was intro­du­ced to the dra­ma­tic light of this very sou­t­her­ly metro­po­lis, with its gre­at inten­si­ty of life. Thus, after stu­dies at the University of Essen and the Academy of Art in Düsseldorf (Master Student under Bernd Becher), he was pre­pared to encoun­ter his own histo­ry. The stan­dard for good pic­tures gar­ne­red during the­se »app­ren­ti­ce years« was uncon­di­tio­nal avo­id­ance of clichés.

How can one avo­id cli­chés? The old idea of »pho­to­gra­phy« actual­ly meant the pro­duc­tion of a pic­tu­re by aid of light (Greek phos, geni­ti­ve case pho­tos) that inscri­bes a sign of its own (Greek graphein). During this pro­cess, one should pay careful atten­ti­on not to allow one›s men­tal idea, i.e. ever­y­thing one alre­a­dy knows befo­re one sees, to inter­fe­re. Of cour­se one can­not strict­ly adhe­re to this »stan­dard of puri­ty.« Nevertheless Laurenz Berges attempt­ed to work as litt­le as pos­si­ble with sym­bols, i.e. with alre­a­dy well-known signs that stand for alre­a­dy imprin­ted images, while working five years with the Russian bar­racks in East Germany. He pla­ced hims­elf insi­de the rooms and wai­ted until light crea­ted an atmo­sphe­re that inte­res­ted him. He wai­ted until weak day­light fil­led the spar­se rooms with volu­me. This careful con­s­truc­tion of the rooms by aid of day­light flowing into them could be com­pared to the work method of Paul Cézanne.

This inven­tor of Cubism and foun­der of Modernism, who stem­med from the Impressionists, wai­ted a long time with Nature — most­ly in the Provence — until its colors gra­du­al­ly tur­ned into forms on can­vas or paper, giving what had been seen in Nature a cor­po­re­al form in the pic­tu­re, to resem­ble Nature more tru­ly by bypas­sing men­tal pre­con­cep­ti­ons, in con­trast to space as delinea­ted with tra­di­tio­nal employ­ment of artis­tic per­spec­ti­ve. This pro­cess was sus­tained by an uncon­di­tio­nal desi­re for ver­a­ci­ty, to come as clo­se as pos­si­ble to Nature, to crea­te pic­tures whe­re what is depic­ted lives. If we men­tio­ned abo­ve that pho­to­gra­phy is the art that draws with light, one has to add this qua­li­fi­ca­ti­on to the images of the East German bar­racks: day­light sof­tens the linea­ri­ty of nar­ra­ti­on and logic of the seen histo­ry. With its illu­mi­na­ting »smo­ke­scree­ning,« it crea­tes room for atmo­sphe­re and remem­be­ring mindfulness.
What were the cir­cum­s­tances of life that the­se pic­tures tell about? In most of the spick-and-span, aban­do­ned quar­ters the­re are only a few objects left, pie­ces of fur­ni­tu­re, inex­pen­si­ve orna­men­tal and deco­ra­ti­ve ele­ments. Various beds, mat­tres­ses, flower pots, curta­ins, arti­fi­ci­al-woo­den wall-panels, flower designs appli­ed with a paint-rol­ler as sub­sti­tu­tes for wall-paper, and again and again clas­si­ci­stic door­way-con­s­truc­tions arran­ged like altars, make up all the com­pon­ents of a still-life of histo­ry. In most cases, the rooms had remain­ed int­act upon their occu­pants› depar­tu­re. An excep­ti­on is that view of a box-like room who­se rhom­bic-pat­ter­ned and ocre-hued wall-paper has been bad­ly dama­ged (Fig. p. 11). The reason beco­mes appa­rent once one looks at it more clo­se­ly. Probably the walls were bad­ly dama­ged when the woo­den (?) flo­or was remo­ved. Now, one views the room›s naked flo­or-base fil­led in with loo­se gra­vel. The door­ways, acting as gates into dark­ness, into the not-visi­ble — and espe­ci­al­ly their pen­dants: the win­dows as sources of day­light — play a pro­mi­nent role on the stages of memo­ry erec­ted by Laurenz Berges.

The thought of emp­ty stages beco­mes more asser­ti­ve as an expli­cit the­me when Berges brings in the spa­re light from left and right to the fore­front in gent­ly dim­med per­for­mance rooms (Fig. p. 21). In bet­ween the light shafts, the nar­row, slight­ly con­vex depths of a came­ra obscu­ra open up. The flo­or­boards, still dren­ched with flo­or wax, reflect the light›s glow like glit­te­ring ice-floes. The flo­or-planks, forming a rec­tang­le of the stage, point simul­ta­neous­ly to the emp­tin­ess of the room›s main body, which usual­ly con­ta­ins mea­ning and play. We reco­gni­ze cle­ar­ly here how inten­se­ly the pro­se of ever­y­day life speaks to us. Only on second glan­ce does one note, to the right and left, an emp­ty flag-hol­der flan­king the sup­ports of the stage-setting.

But gene­ral­ly one can sta­te that Berges has con­scious­ly renoun­ced sym­bols loa­ded with defi­ni­te con­tent. In this way, he avo­ids the dan­ger of depic­ting a fore­go­ne mea­ning, of what one has alre­a­dy deci­ded befo­re see­ing any­thing, due to an over-employ­ment of well estab­lished images. He would like to chall­enge rather than enter­tain. This chall­enge is main­ly con­tai­ned in the dischar­ge of ener­gy that one has to employ to ima­gi­ne, with the aid of what has been left over: a few spar­se props, what kind of life was led in the­se habi­ta­ti­ons. The pover­ty of the walls, the fur­ni­tu­re dee­med as a bare neces­si­ty, the small sink are com­pli­men­ted — as though they have been touch­ed up by a fri­end­ly hand — by efforts to add appe­al­ing orna­ments, like flower designs or bright­ly colo­red wall-paper. These attempts to beau­ti­fy are also cle­ar­ly expres­sed in the con­cre­te column in the midd­le of the room (Fig. p. 37) cover­ed with »Sprelacard« (a sur­face-coa­ting com­mon­ly used in the G.D.R.) and deco­ra­ted with a rhom­bic orna­ment, or by the pyra­mid-like door­way (Fig. p. 63), dis­gu­i­sed by a light brown pla­s­tic-she­eting of imi­ta­ti­on sand-stone.

It is no coin­ci­dence that this series of bar­racks pic­tures com­men­ces with a sce­ne of a cor­ner of a room domi­na­ted by an win­dow frame at an acu­te right-ang­le, wit­hout cross-bars, who­se view out­side is obscu­red by a color­less, almost trans­pa­rent sur­face of a curtain (Fig. p. 7). The emp­ty room›s cha­rac­ter is fixed in its nar­row bot­tom-half by a waist-high panel, pro­ba­b­ly again made out of Sprelacard. While the sur­face of the wall sur­roun­ding the right-ang­le of the win­dow is natu­ral­ly rather dark, the right half of the wall is bright­ly illu­mi­na­ted by the glow of inva­si­ve day­light. It is as though one has here a view of the emp­ty artist›s stu­dio of Caspar David Friedrich, as descri­bed by the pain­ter Kersting, his fri­end. In the bar­racks rooms, the actors — the pain­ter Friedrich and the heroes of the glo­rious Soviet Army — have dis­ap­peared. Laurenz Berges gave life to the­se rooms only with day­light. This is the only visi­ble actor. With incor­rup­ti­ble cla­ri­ty it illu­mi­na­tes the rooms, sear­ches for traces of the absent peo­p­le, and at the same time warms the impo­ve­ris­hed dwel­lings with the soft­ness of living light.

If one con­tem­pla­tes to what ext­ent the medi­um of pho­to­gra­phy is capa­ble of artful seduc­tion and fal­si­fi­ca­ti­on too, the ques­ti­on of the »Remains of the Authentic« (the title of an exhi­bi­ti­on shown in Essen in 1986) is more than jus­ti­fied. The old, dila­pi­da­ted mir­ror that›s been left — we encoun­ter it in dual form, once in light blue and again on bright­ly colo­red, flowe­red wall-paper — con­fronts us as a clas­sic con­vey­or-of-mea­ning out of the pic­to­ri­al ico­no­gra­phy of Western art histo­ry. The mir­ror as por­tal to ano­ther rea­li­ty, as the slo­wing-down accom­pany­ing the unme­dia­ted pro­cess of per­cep­ti­on and com­men­ta­ry, beco­mes mere­ly a small-sca­le doubling — obey­ing the laws of phy­sics — in Laurenz Berges› work, a tau­to­lo­gy of what is pre­sent. The skillful posi­tio­ning of the came­ra cau­ses the pape­red wall oppo­si­te — an iden­ti­cal view — to appear in the mirror›s field of visi­on as a small-sca­le trans­lu­cent image on the sur­face lying behind. The lite­ra­ry or meta­phy­si­cal enri­chening of mea­ning has been avo­ided by just this design of the image. The authen­tic appears once more in its small-sca­le form and hence remains ful­ly open to the viewer›s perception.

In con­clu­si­on let us turn again to Caspar David Friedrich›s emp­ty stu­dio. The emp­ty bar­racks rooms in East Germany beco­me his­to­ri­cal dwel­lings in Laurenz Berges› pic­tures, »Places of Remembering« (Virginia Heckert). But the traces of histo­ry are not only pre­ser­ved by pho­to­gra­phy, by doubling. They have been for­med into real images. The most important fac­tor in their for­ma­ti­on — and to a cer­tain ext­ent also in »actu­al« histo­ry — is day­light (as we have alre­a­dy stres­sed seve­ral times). The view of the sink and, abo­ve it, the trace of a mir­ror that had once been moun­ted the­re have been for­med in mani­fold ways by light, which falls in through the unvi­si­ble win­dow thro­wing a weak shadow of an almost imper­cep­ti­ble cross-bar upon the small white por­ce­lain sink and absent mir­ror. The day­light has taken the place of the mir­ror as gate­way to a dif­fe­rent, per­haps bet­ter world. As a natu­ral, living force in the crea­ti­on of form, it over­co­mes, pushes asi­de and super­se­des the Vanitas motif in a his­to­ri­cal pro­cess of making an image. It allows past events to beco­me acces­si­ble again. The sto­ries of the peo­p­le in the bar­racks at Karlshorst, Schönwalde, Potsdam, Wünsdorf and other places are made acces­si­ble by Laurenz Berges› pic­tures and thus tend to get a reprie­ve from for­getful­ness. In his ren­un­cia­ti­on of heigh­ten­ed per­spec­ti­ve, of hasty pla­cing of mea­nings, by trus­ting to the bur­geo­ning of an image by careful­ly model­led day­light, a cycle has come about of »almost epic great­ness« (Virginia Heckert).

Laurenz Berges, born in 1966 in Cloppenburg, Lower Saxony, stu­di­ed at the University of Essen and was assistant to the pho­to­grapher Evelyn Hofer in New York. He gra­dua­ted from the Academy of Art at Düsseldorf as Master Student under Professor Bernd Becher in 1996.

This book appears on the occa­si­on of the exhi­bi­ti­on: Laurenz Berges — Photographs 1991–1995, held at the Oldenburger Kunstverein (May 7 until June 18, 2000) and at the Kunstverein Recklinghausen (January 13 until February 18, 2001).

Translated by Marc Svetov, with assis­tance from Petra Schreyer