Günther Holler-Schuster


Gustav Schörghofer



Martin Nimmervoll

Notes on Katharina Stiglitz’s Le Temps Discret

— Günther Holler-Schuster

In her art Katharina Stiglitz does not limit herself to the photographic medium. While staying within the context of that medium, she often pushes it in the direction of three-dimensionality and installation art. She turns photography into a conceptual medium that expands various borders. Photography also becomes the epitome of the visual. Ultimately it can be related to what is recognised as the primary site of the visual: visible reality. In the visible reality around us, the visual has no medium, is quasi unmediated. First painting, then the technical media of photography, film and video, have allowed images to be viewed independently of location and time. Photography represents at least a frame of the operator’s actual visual impression. Even if it initially occurred in black and white, here one appears to be closest to reality.

One could speculate as to what extent the formation of the photographic image shares structural similarities with the formation of memory images and dream images. These too seem to have appeared within ourselves at one time or another and were ‘developed’ with mental effort. Here ‘developed’ can only mean the moment in which images enter our consciousness. It would be an oversimplification to equate the physical / chemical steps of developing photographs with the neuronal processes in a human being in the moment when the visual originates. Nevertheless, the comparison can reveal an essential aspect of why photography became established as quickly and successfully as it did.

The images that accompany us are endogenous and exogenous. These are images that originate in ourselves, such as memory and dream images, and images that arise outside our own sphere, including images from the media and from art history. The involuntary memory described by Marcel Proust directly applies to the endogenous images, which are difficult for us to control. The involuntary memory ‘chooses its own time and place for the performance of its miracle.’ — [1]

Naturally, at some point endogenous images must have been to a certain degree exogenous images which were temporarily overlaid, only to resurface later. So if the hawthorn hedge at Combray reappears at the sight of the same bush in the seaside resort of Balbec, one senses the transformation from external to internal image.

Taken further, Proust’s image of the hawthorn hedge leads us to the visual arts — and to Katharina Stiglitz. Stiglitz is concerned with the origin of the visual, the venue of images, and the individual’s inner world of images. The original images in her work become so abstract as to be barely legible. Legibility is possible only in the eye or consciousness of the viewer, which is related to the fact that the images seen reconnect with one’s own consciousness and in the best-case scenario are capable of generating new images. Thus a kind of loop is created.

The series Souvenir 1 (2009) uses oval porcelain photo boards reminiscent of portrait plaques on gravestones. They display foam formations that have the indeterminateness of early childhood memories. They alternate with photographs of closed eyes in the REM phase of sleep. Concrete images, or memories, gradually emerge from this foam-like state. The place where images originate — the sleeper, or rather, the sleeper’s eyes — is linked with the image itself, i.e. the foam formations. The eye as the organ of vision, and as the zone in which the external merges into the internal and vice versa, is presented as the central organ, which is involved in various ways in the production of the image.

In Temps Discret (Digital), white porcelain thimbles are positioned on the white wall in such a way that they add up to a highly schematic relief image of a hawthorn hedge. But it would be almost too much to call it an image.

‘Temps discret’ alludes of course to Proust’s temps perdu, but also to discrete-time data in physics, i.e. data that are measured at specific intervals. Data get lost and blanks appear. These blanks also occur in dream images and memory images. Bridging the gaps results in a kind of poetisation of reality that is expressed both in the porcelain photographs and in the thimble relief.

The primary venue of the visual is, as mentioned above, visible nature. The visual begins to be defined only through the mediation of different image processes. Stiglitz’s work makes strikingly clear that these communicated images are not the only venues of the visual. Here one should definitely keep in mind the images that occur in dreams. Proust introduces his opus magnum, In Search of Lost Time, with a meditation on falling asleep, semisomnolence and dream images. He describes the sleeper’s situation in elaborate detail:

‘The sleeping one embraces the flow of hours, the order of years and worlds. When a man is asleep, he has in a circle round him the chain of the hours, the sequence of the years, the order of the heavenly host. Instinctively, when he awakes, he looks to these, and in an instant reads off his position on the earth’s surface and the amount of time that he elapses during his slumbers.’ — [2]

Everyone carries around in an imaginary picture archive the life he or she has lived so far. It is to be expected that images will show up involuntarily in one’s dreams and mix with other images, building their own pictorial logic and troubling or delighting the sleeper. The orientation or disorientation, however brief, experienced on awakening comes from these images. Dream images have a structure similar to that of memory images. Sigmund Freud talks about the material of dreams and dream thoughts, both of which are expressed in images. The hidden structure of the image memory in our body is responsible for the formation of such visualisations. They are also traces of a culture’s dominant collective images. The merging of the collective with the subjective visual world essentially shares responsibility for the illogical structure of the dream. The same applies to memory images.

As noted, Proust distinguishes between involuntary and voluntary memory. The former is critical here, but again and again the latter interferes conjunctively. Real places, objects, smells, and so on can evoke these unpredictable memory images. Mostly they are fragmentary or distorted, or both. Proust assumes that these triggers are prerequisites for the rediscovery of lost time. In the famous hawthorn hedge passage, the sight of a bush inescapably prompts nostalgic longing. When the narrator notices a hawthorn hedge near the seaside resort of Balbec, he at once becomes lost in his imagination. The village of Combray, where he had first seen a similar hedge, in connection with a key incident, is preserved in the detailed view. The viewer returns there in his imagination and experiences a biographical Ausdruckszusammenhang in recalling Gilberte, whom he had seen for the first time behind that hawthorn hedge. In such image structures, time and place as well as causality are linked with a total absence of logic and merge into a new reality.

Katharina Stiglitz visualises these both natural and mysterious processes with great sensitivity. She attempts to access a deeper dimension of the act of remembering — and a primal form of reality. When Proust compares a book to an optical instrument which the author passes to the reader so that the reader can see himself more clearly, that is more than one should expect from a book. Stiglitz’s work seems to be the same kind of instrument. In both cases not only does one find enlightenment about oneself but one can also poetise the unenlightenment, which can be very comforting.

Samuel Beckett, Proust (Grove Press, 1994), p20

Marcel Proust, Swann’s Way (Dover Thrift Editions, 2002), translated by C. K. Scott Moncrieff, p3

Time shifts in the photographic work of Katharina Stiglitz

— Roland Schöny

Exhibitions are transient. Yet in the course of its brief existence an exhibition has the power to change the way we view an individual work of art, or to reinforce certain semantic characteristics. And so it was at the exhibition of photographic works by Katharina Stiglitz on the ground floor of the Neue Galerie Graz in fall 2009. The busy street outside was visible through the gallery’s large storefront windows. This created a striking correlation between the works on exhibit and, beyond them, daily life with its adherence to utterly different criteria. Many other art galleries and museums have transparent external walls, so of course a similar effect would also have been possible elsewhere. The constellation can thus be read as paradigmatic. It shows that modernism’s white cube, which Brian O’Doherty called an archetype of 20th century art, exists merely as a concept. It is rarely implemented in its purest form.

‘The ideal gallery subtracts from the artwork all cues that interfere with the fact that it is “art”,’ O’Doherty wrote. ‘The work is isolated from everything that would detract from its own evaluation of itself.’ — [1]

In Stiglitz’s show at the Neue Galerie, however, the inevitable correspondence through the storefront windows between the artworks and the uneven rhythm of whatever was going on outside seemed not to interfere with the works’ message. On the contrary, it intensified their overarching narrative as a visual translation of other, varied and above all decelerated modes of perception and image formation, in a stratification of constellations of the in-between.

To draw attention to one of the works, the artist placed it on the wall between two windows. Separated from the waking state of urban life just by a glass membrane, the work depicts a specific state of consciousness which even in the immediacy of real life can only be experienced indirectly or as a reconstruction. The round-shaped black-and-white photograph shows a human eye in rapid eye movement (REM) sleep.

This stage of the sleep cycle is virtually impossible to capture through photography, especially by focusing on the eye. The eye generally symbolises the perception of external reality. It stands for the gaze, and thus control over a situation. But during sleep the eye remains closed. While the body gradually unwinds in the course of its regular recalibration of a real or imagined alternation between day and night, achieving ultimate relaxation during REM sleep, the eyelid and eye muscles continue to be physiologically active. Changes to the eye area are hardly noticeable from the outside, with one exception: Irregular eye movements that look like nervous twitches will occasionally take place during REM sleep. But the muscle tone of the eyelid remains taut and therefore the changes to the eyes cannot be translated into static single-shot photography.

In light of this phenomenon, Katharina Stiglitz’s photographs can be read more as a visual narrative about plunging into and emerging from sleep than as a visualisation of a state of consciousness or the largely uncontrollable movements of the unconscious. The works explore the differences in perception during sleep and in the waking state, as well as the interstices between them. The closer the eye of the camera gets, the clearer it becomes that the target is a zone of consciousness that eludes static, technical reproduction. Here one of the inherent characteristics of photography — the recording of a specific moment in reality that can never reoccur in its entirety — is taken to a symbolic level. For the flow of sleep is readily conceived as unique and individual, but sleep as a state can be portrayed only indirectly, for example through the image of closed eyes.

In his famous book Camera Lucida, Roland Barthes discusses the uniqueness of the photograph: ‘The Photograph mechanically repeats what cannot be repeated existentially. In the Photograph, the event is never transcended for the sake of something else: the Photograph always leads the corpus I need back to the body I see; it is the absolute Particular…’ — [2]

Barthes is talking about individual photographs, not photography as a medium. Since a photograph refers to something that used to be real, ‘the name of Photography’s noeme will therefore be: “That-has-been,” or again: the Intractable…’ — [3] But the concrete name starts to become blurred in a close-up of the state of sleep, from which, moreover, all the details that could locate the sleeper in time and space have been erased. Individuality, for example that of the face, vanishes. The abstraction of the image gives it a symbolic character. The category replaces the sleeper and the all but impossible glimpse of the concrete state of sleep.

Stiglitz’s photographs are not about individual people. Their primary focus is on modes of perception in the interference zone between waking and sleeping, including various alertness changes and radii. This is also expressed through the gradations in the view of the external social reality and its particularity within the macro gallery space. In her work Stiglitz conceptualises the translation of modes of perception or awareness, hence of consciousness, and especially those layers that are hidden in dreams, into the language of photography as a recording medium.

This is a familiar theme, of course. It is a recurring topos in art history. Sleep is frequently depicted as the vehicle of dreams, often with erotic associations as in the case of Sleeping Diana Watched by Two Fauns, and may also be fraught with threatening male projections. In the codes of Romanticism ‘night,’ ‘sleep’ and ‘the dream’ stood for projection screens, but also for zones in which the longing for wholeness and orientation could be fulfilled. As capitalism was being established outside, energies were focused on the reinterpretation of reality. Throughout the history of art we encounter this phenomenon in various semantic contexts as myth, as a place to regain orientation, or as a link to deeper layers of the psyche.

Whereas sleep has long been present as myth or allegory, retaining its referential nature, at the forefront of Stiglitz’s conceptual work are the processes of perceiving and constituting images that are either filed away or retrieved from memory. Indeed, the crucial source of inspiration for the artist is Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time, written between 1908—1909 and 1922. In the labyrinthine structure of this definitive modern novel ‘memory’ is developed as the main leitmotif, as a structure — forming element in language. Other challenges emerge in the realm of the visual arts, however, because here the system lies outside verbal coordinates. The issues raised concern the origins of the formation of images and their visual comprehensibility through photography, a medium designed to depict existing signifiers.

Photography’s potential was being explored already at the beginning of the 20th century. The medium, which was still relatively young, opened up a range of opportunities for attempts to experiment with representing levels of consciousness that could not be rationally measured. The remarkable notion extended to the possibility of constituting new realities in this field of technical image production. In the 1930s Man Ray wrote, ‘Surrealism has so far been the only force capable of bringing luminous, impressive, true forms out of the darkroom.’ — [4]

Stiglitz does not go that far. Her work remains rooted in reality insofar as it merely calls attention, through formally appropriate approaches, to potential ways of generating images and visual processes in the deep structures of consciousness, beyond the immediately visible. These images, however, remain highly fragile and can dissolve even as they are being formed. Between the two extremes of deep sleep and active wakefulness are spheres where dreams stemming in some way from real experiences are reproduced, assembled and partially remembered, as Sigmund Freud demonstrated in The Interpretation of Dreams.

This hallucinatory activity based on snatches of recalled reality peaks during REM sleep. The transitional stages are often referred to as semisomnolence, a term no less broad and vague than the phenomenon itself. In the various contextualisations, concrete ideas about the term semisomnolence seem to gradually diffuse in line with Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle in physics. But that by no means diminishes the usefulness of the term, which provides the frame for a method of approaching a phenomenon, as do Stiglitz’s photographs and three-dimensional installations, which are also an attempt at Spurensicherung (securing evidence) and the recording of coming into being and passing away.

Here the artist’s work invites reflection on the medium itself. Her methods vary but Stiglitz consistently adheres to the paradigm of image-producing processes that suggest stability despite being characterised by fragility. In her extensive installations this is expressed as the morphological representation of both the incipient stage and the simultaneous dissolution of the formation process — just as in the moment of forgetting — which are comparable to the emergence of granular contrasts on photo paper in the dim light of the darkroom. Imprecise exposure or the wrong chemical treatment of the photo paper could have dramatic consequences, just as any attempt to interfere with the process of remembering would. Leaving aside the old gelatin silver process, it would be the same if improper handling reduced a digital photograph to uncorrectable pixel noise, or if the colours of a print were to gradually fade. Fragile materiality and semantic expression meet at the interface between the interior and the exterior, between semiconsciousness and awareness, between falling asleep and waking up, and thus between acceleration and deceleration.

The transfer of signs generates a field of reciprocal electrical charges, and from that Stiglitz’s sleeping eye on the wall between the windows of the Neue Galerie drew its magnetic energy, oblivious to the daily routine outside. There is still the question of whether these works contain social references beyond the distinction between art gallery and urban space. They can indeed be read from this perspective because their examination of the state of semisomnolence is underscored by a plea for heightened awareness and an expanded frame of personal reflection through deceleration.

Brian O’Doherty, Inside The White Cube: The Ideology of the Gallery Space (University of California Press, 1976 / 1986), p14

Roland Barthes, Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography, translated by Richard Howard (Hill & Wang, 1981), p4

Barthes, p77

Man Ray, Sur le réalisme photographique, Cahier d’art 10 (1935). Quoted in Christopher Phillips, ed., Photography in the Modern Era: European Documents and Critical Writings, 1913—1940 (Metropolitan Museum of Art / Aperture, 1989)


— Gustav Schörghofer

When I look out the window on one of those February days, I see a pale grey sky. Roofs are white surfaces. Facades are faded. The eloquent diversity of the visible is shrouded in silence. Behind the windows of the building opposite, women sit at their desks in heated rooms. They get up and walk into another room. They vanish, then reappear.

The art of Katharina Stiglitz is not eloquent. No stories are told. Much — nearly everything — is shrouded in silence. Yet these photographic works and installations leave their mark on the viewer. The muted images trigger memories. What had vanished now resurfaces. The stillness of a surface allows a glimpse of a mesmerising world.

This other world can be sensed behind closed eyelids. Under wrinkles, a body. Thimbles scattered over a white surface hint at an image. Something bubbles through the bright stillness of the porcelain photographs. In these works memories arise from foam, from an intimation of nearly nothing.

Stiglitz works with great precision. Her art demands from the viewer a sharp eye and a fine ear for the faint tunes struck in these works. They evoke in the viewer a distinct sound, a distinct view. Images evoke images.

Einige Überlegungen zu den Arbeiten von Katharina Stiglitz und Martin Nimmervoll

— Andrea Hubin

Spuren sind Protokolle einer Berührung. Sie sind Zeichen, die keine eigentliche Existenzform im virtuellen Raum haben. Also anders als beispielsweise Buchstaben, die als Zeichen funktionieren, egal auf welchem Papier, egal in welcher Schrifttype, oder ob sie überhaupt gedruckt sind, kommen Spuren nicht ohne das konkrete Material aus, in das sie sich eingeprägt haben, oder eingeprägt wurden. Denn Spuren kommen nicht (von) allein: Dort in dem Material wären sie nicht, wenn nicht ein anderer Körper sie ›mit Nachdruck‹ hinterlassen hätte. Ein Kontakt hat stattgefunden, ein Kon-Takt: eine gegenseitige Berührung mit nachhaltigem Effekt auf zumindest eine der beteiligten Parteien. Quasi ein Kontaktekzem. — [1]

Diesen Assoziationsraum der Contagion, Ansteckung oder der Allergie, bei der das System (über)reagiert, je nach Widerstandsfähigkeit, oder ist die Infektion gar wechselseitig? — werde ich später noch brauchen.

In dem Ausstellungsraum, in dem wir uns gerade befinden, gibt es viele Spuren zu sehen. Sei es die Kerben rund um das Schlüsselloch der niedrigen Tür der Abstellkammer, seien es die Zigarettenstummel, die (zumindest gestern noch) rund um die Fußmatte im Eingangsbereich (am Treppenabgang vom SPÖ-Vereinslokal) lagen. Die Galerie ist eben kein virtueller Raum (oder White Cube), sondern ein Raum mit Geschichte und Geschichten des Gebrauchs. Hier trägt sich die ausgestellte Kunst von Katharina Stiglitz und Martin Nimmervoll mit einem weiteren Portfolio an Spuren ein: Wir haben Abdrücke von Borsten (Halmen) des Sommerbelags der Lande-, oder korrekt Aufsprungbahn einer Skisprungschanze in Örnsköldsvik, Schweden, eingesammelt während eines dortigen Studienaufenthalts. Das akribische Abzeichnen von Staubflocken hinterließ wiederum den zarten Abrieb der Bleistiftmine auf großformatigen Papierbögen. Ebenso könnte man die Erstellung eines Fotos als eine Kette an Ereignissen erzählen, bei denen gefilterter Lichteinfall mit den fotosensiblen Oberflächen von Film und Fotopapier interagiert. Ließe sich beispielsweise dieser chemische Prozess als Allergiegeschehen denken, als (Über)reaktion des Systems?

Zudem zeigen die ausgestellten Fotografien noch mehr Spuren ihres Entstehungsprozesses: weil sie nicht beschnitten sind, also nicht in das den Bildinhalt privilegierende Standardformat eingepasst sind, kann man technische Details der Apparatur erahnen und auch Schäden / Fehler (Abnutzungserscheinungen / -spuren!) des benutzen Geräts entdecken, wie beispielsweise der — nicht mit endgültiger Sicherheit — als Abriebflocke des Metallgehäuses der Kamera identifizierte kleine runde Fussel, der links oben am Innenrand mancher Bildkader sitzt. Die Technik wird also mit abgebildet, oder besser gesagt, sie zeigt sich in den Spuren. Denn Spuren verweisen auf die Realität, die sie erzeugt hat, eben nicht durch Abbildung (= Ähnlichkeit). Im Gegenteil, in einem Bildmedium konkurrenzieren sie sogar mit der Bildfunktion und verstellen oder stören zumindest den Blick auf die abgebildete Realität.

Letztendlich hält dieser Moment der Störung oder Ablenkung noch eine weitere Fährte für uns, die wir uns in diesem Raum versammelt haben, bereit: den unkonventionellen, oder zumindest anspruchsvollen Habitus der Bildbetrachtung, zu dem einige der Werke auffordern. Wir beugen uns zu den am Boden abgestellten Videomonitoren hinunter, pendeln enerviert vor den Glasscheiben der Bilderrahmen hin und her, um einen Winkel zu finden, in dem keine Reflexion unseren Blick stört, oder schweben in so radikaler Nahsicht mit unserer Nase vor den großen Papierbögen, dass Sorge besteht, unser Atem könnte ein paar der Staubflocken fortblasen oder verschlucken. Könnte man diese Vorgänge als Spur der Sehangebote im ansonsten lässig organisierten Körper des Publikums lesen?

Denn Eingangs sagte ich zunächst, dass es ›in dem Ausstellungsraum viele Spuren zu sehen‹ gäbe, aber ist das denn die angebrachte Umgangsform mit Spuren? Ist nicht vielmehr Lesen der angezeigte Modus der Auseinandersetzung? Über eine Gruppe an KünstlerInnen, die sich in den 1970er Jahren für Spuren interessierten, die eine ›Freude am Winzigen — an Fragmenten, Reduktionen, Modellen‹ teilten, sagte ein Theoretiker, der für sie das Label der ›Spurensicherung‹ erfand, sie rechneten ›mit dem Einverständnis des Betrachters [und der Betrachterin], der Teilchen auf eine Erkenntnis oder Gestalt hin ergänzt‹ (Günter Metken, Spurensicherung, 1996, S.14). Ein radikaler Minimalismus auf der Ebene der ausgestellten Zeichen — Kerben in weißem Papier, helle Schatten in schwarz glänzenden Flächen, Videos in denen sich fast nur das Gras bewegt, außer man verfügt über die ausreichende Konzentrationsspanne, um zu bemerken, dass wohl auch die Kamera ein Mikrofahrt unternahm — verweist auf die reiche Komplexität des Geschehens, das andernorts stattfindet, das den Spuren voranging, oder im Vorgang des Auslesens losgetreten wird.

Eine Kunst, die sich mit Spuren beschäftigt, geht von engagierten BetrachterInnen aus, die sich mit dem / der KünstlerIn gemeinsam dem Fährten lesen verschreiben; die sich anstecken lassen, Fragen zu stellen, Indizien nachzugehen und einen Blick zu entwickeln, der keinen Punkt fixiert oder ›alles auf einmal‹ erfasst, sondern der sichtet und damit dauert. Um die Eingangsmetapher nochmal zu bemühen: Es ist ein infiziertes Schauen, das auch von der ›hohen‹ Warte des Hochstands gezwungen ist, sich der (kulturellen) Prägung der beobachteten Umwelt (Kreuzungspunkt!) unterzuordnen, oder dem intensiven Studium der Galerie kleiner Staubflockenporträts verfällt, um die Möglichkeit der Einzigartigkeit von Staub zu kontemplieren.

Von mir kommt jedenfalls die Empfehlung, sich anstecken zu lassen.

Ist eine allergische Reaktion! Das Immunsystem wehrt einen ansonsten nicht gefährlichen Kontaktstoff ab.


— Martin Nimmervoll

Die Anwesenheit der Spur zeugt von der Abwesenheit dessen, was sie hervorgerufen hat. In der Sichtbarkeit der Spur bleibt dasjenige, was sie erzeugte, gerade entzogen und unsichtbar.

Lesen wir eine Spur, rufen wir die in uns gespeicherten Erinnerungen und Assoziationen an die Personen, Gegenstände oder Begebenheiten auf, die diese hinterlassen haben. Die Spur ist Referenz — eine Entsprechung der Erinnerung in der Realität.

Diese Formel ließe sich als immer präsenter Grundzug in Katharina Stiglitzs Arbeitsweise behaupten, ohne dem noch viel hinzufügen zu müssen. Jedoch bietet die oftmals strenge, kühle, gar minimalistische Formensprache ihrer Arbeiten demjenigen Betrachter, der bereit ist, sich auf sie einzulassen, einen solch tiefen Reichtum an Assoziationen und Verweisen, dass nie Gefahr besteht, sich in jenem Formalismus zu verlieren.

Eine der Strategien in Katharina Stiglitzs Arbeitsweise war es von Beginn an, den künstlerischen Gedanken, der einer Arbeit zu Grunde liegt, bis an die Grenze der Wahrnehmbarkeit zu führen und dem Betrachter fast nichts als eine abstrahierte Andeutung zu überlassen. Ihre Arbeiten sind oft nur flüchtige Hinweise auf die Anwesenheit eines größeren Zusammenhangs. Gerade der scheinbare Formalismus, gar Ästhetizismus und die strenge Reduktion in ihren Arbeiten verführen das Publikum, ihren Verweisen zu folgen.

Bei genauerer Betrachtung sind Katharina Stiglitzs Arbeiten jedoch eine radikale Abkehr von jener Strenge und exogenen Autonomie, die uns vielleicht auf den ersten Blick begegnet. Wo uns die Lesbarkeit auf Grund der Zurückhaltung in ihren Arbeiten erschwert wird, springen dem Betrachter Assoziationen bei und ermöglichen es, den eigenen Spuren zu folgen.

Dass die Referenzen in Katharina Stiglitzs Arbeit jedoch niemals beliebig sind, erschließt sich durch die konsequente und stringente Auseinandersetzung, die in ihren Arbeiten sichtbar wird. Immer wieder wird die Entstehung unserer Bilder- und Erinnerungswelten hinterfragt, während gleichzeitig unsere Assoziationen sanft in bestimmte Richtungen geleitet werden. Durch die poetische Subtilität ihrer Arbeiten schafft es Katharina Stiglitz, die trennende Linie, die oftmals zwischen dem Besucher und den Arbeiten einer Ausstellung liegt, unbemerkt zu überwinden, ohne sich dabei großer Effekte zu bedienen.

In ihrer raumgreifenden Installation Zum Vergessen für die Startgalerie des MUSA zeigt Katharina Stiglitz die Spuren einer fiktiven Ausstellung an den Wänden des Galerieraumes. Die Umrisse der verschwundenen Bilder, die hier sowohl als Rückstand als auch als Fährte verstanden werden wollen, scheinen wie die Sichtbarmachung jener Abwesenheit, die zu füllen wir uns so sehr bemühen, wenn wir versuchen, uns zu erinnern.