Buch Monika Fioreschy: Strip-Cut-Collage

Monika Fioreschy: Strip-Cut-Collage, Bild: München: Hirmer, 2016.
Monika Fioreschy: Strip-Cut-Collage, Bild: München: Hirmer, 2016.

Zerreißen, Zerschneiden, Zerfetzen, um durch Wiederzusammensetzung Neues zu schaffen: Bahn für Bahn trägt die österreichische Künstlerin Monika Fioreschy Streifen gerissenen Papiers auf Ihre Leinwände auf und schafft so großformatige abstrakte Arbeiten voll ausgeglichener Formsprache, die bei näherer Betrachtung ungeahnten Detailreichtum offerieren.

Papier ist das Hauptmedium des neuen Werkzyklus von Monika Fioreschy, wobei in der Reduktion der Materialien und Formen die Kraft ihrer Arbeiten liegt. Zeile für Zeile folgt das Auge dem Verlauf der Collagen, der Betrachter wird zum Lesen ihrer Kunst verführt. Die strenge Regelmäßigkeit der Werke wird durch Farbwechsel, Faltenwürfe, Lücken und Überklebungen unterbrochen, wobei sich der wahre Detailreichtum erst bei intensiver Betrachtung offenbart. Kunsttheoretiker Bazon Brock führt in seinem – die ganzseitigen Werkreproduktionen begleitendem – Essay aus, wie Fioreschys Ausbildung in der klassischen Webkunst sich in diesen Werken wiederfindet und welche Rolle die Arbeiten im weitere Œuvre der Künstlerin spielen.


Hirmer, München

München, Deutschland


240 S., 134 Abb. in Farbe


Seite 23 im Original

Strip-Cut-Collage. Fields of Ideas

[Each line accompanies an image of Monika Fioreschy]

Formats in space, flowing aids

Something must come out of this movement

You shoot arrows into the sun

Left less completely

Perfuse with white blood as before

Another comes and does it

Mathematics of loving couples – so much methodical interest

With my view on to spacious gardens bury me and dig me up

With climaxes on which the light sucks

Certainly lasts until next time

Construction in the universal

Who dig over the sea when half asleep

Approached God through the mouth

Where the air breaks apart in strands

The owner is permitted to poach

Everything seems to be fleeing here

Belongs to the rain so skilfully straight

That makes thick milk from the mists in autumn

On a sunny day in November

This point is skinned

And where the sea yields, where legs anchor

Sacred shadings

General motif of silence

Grey is dominant in the balance

The noise of car horns wafts into the points of triangles

Idea and wood

And blown thin in two voices, what was going ahead jointly

Underlies that with appearances

He thus makes right royal use

Maître de naissance, my grave is a pair of pyjamas

Stone driver bunch of salty hairs sank and sank

Threats of black importance

Payload of the November clouds

For a day I could invent life, for longer it’s not enough

In the upper deflection

And the gentle depth of the flesh

A shining solitude

For the moon as white as ancient of our moods

I abandoned forced sadness and began the streaming

When the brain seeks new paths

Like laws of gravity he cleared out the streaming

For a hand-warm photo laid obliquely in me

Singability, especially regarding the flowing twilight

The root that carries you

Can hardly hold themselves

Take account of every relationship

Gently milk the gutter

Eumenides knit the sea wool of the waves

Intending discovery

Relaxed canvas of this eye

Where today fatigue consummates true wonders

I have the pain changed into microphones

In the fighting face of the fragmentary

Then flared radiantly up into ash

Under rebellious brightness

A desire for totally disused rust-eaten systems

On a river of boiling pitch

Where do the points of the compass come from

The young status floats

Sphere-green wind eight months old

Here the goats have black breasts

A handkerchief flew between us

Picasso’s eye trust, strongly aqueous

That is death from a lack of principle

Decisive movements in rags