






ᴍʏ ɴᴇᴡ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ғᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀɪʙᴜᴛᴏʀ ᴍᴀɢᴀᴢɪɴᴇ !
ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ғᴏʀ ᴀʟʟ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴡᴏʀᴋ!
ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs sᴜᴄʜ ᴀ ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴜʀᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛᴀʟᴇɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ.
ᴍʏ ɴᴇᴡ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ғᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀɪʙᴜᴛᴏʀ ᴍᴀɢᴀᴢɪɴᴇ !
ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ғᴏʀ ᴀʟʟ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴡᴏʀᴋ!
ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs sᴜᴄʜ ᴀ ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴜʀᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛᴀʟᴇɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ.
Berlin: Mike Corkill (Born 1969)
He hated interpretation. Interpretation ends the amazement
By Andreas Unger
06/16/2011, 10:48 p.m
What do you do when you become famous and earn a lot of money?” a friend asks him. "Then I wouldn't be able to paint anymore," says Mike Corkill. He's afraid of being discovered.
Unfortunately, he hates the gallery business: it consists only of people standing around, drinking champagne and talking about pictures, but not painting themselves. Nevertheless, he gets down to work: for months he paints on 19 large pictures. On the afternoon of January 30, he found out that the exhibition wasn't going to happen for the time being. he drinks wine He goes to his studio and drinks more wine. At midnight he leaves and does not appear again. His friends and his lover Christine go to the police. They put missing persons notices in shops and cafes. "Mike Corkill, 5'5", brown corduroys, long black coat, black boots. Disappeared since Sunday, January 30th. Last seen in Manteuffelstrasse.” On March 30, he was found drowned under the pier of the theater ship in Urbanhafen. Nobody knows how it happened. He was disappointed, drunk, hurt and sick. But he was also newly in love, full of energy.
He hated
interpretation. Because interpreting ends the amazement. Now his friends
console themselves with the fact that the amazement at his paintings
continues: clowns, punks, pitchforks, devils, angels, knights, bears,
palm trees, pyramids, saints, bombs, skeletons, policewomen, guitarists,
koalas and anchors.
Mike Corkill got up at 8:30 am every day,
put the big espresso machine on the stovetop, did 30 push-ups and 50
sit-ups in the kitchen, took the espresso to the studio and opened his
journal. He wrote down everything that was incidental but important. Who
he had met the day before. What he would have to buy today. How much
money he spent yesterday and on what. He wrote it down so precisely
because he often forgot everyday things.
On the last Thursday evening of every month, when admission to the museum was free, he looked at paintings in Berlin museums. Goya, Zille, Grosz, Dix, Bosch. Comics and the church paintings of the 15th century, everything was important, exciting, magnificent.
But Mike Corkill wasn't the least bit educated. He had a craving for images of old Europe. Maybe that had something to do with his background. Born in New Zealand, he came to Canada when he was two years old. He married, taught himself to draw and paint, and longed for culture. He travelled. He learned Catalan, English, Italian, French, Spanish and German. He saw Antwerp, Barcelona, Sardinia, Milan, Brittany, Paris, Morocco. In 1999 he came to Berlin. The city dissolved its borders and made its contradictions productive, it found its identity in the search for it. Mike Corkill must have recognized himself in it.
He designed
menus for restaurants and hot dog stands, he colored and sold interim
sketches on wrapping paper. He lived in a Berlin wagon complex. In
winter he sometimes burned drawings in the oven. He exchanged oil
paintings for a warm meal, paint, a canvas or wine.
The "deportation", as he called it, was a trauma: in 2006 he was arrested in Perpignan; his visa had expired. He was taken away in handcuffs and flown to New Zealand via Bangkok. He was born there, but he didn't belong there. He stayed there and in Australia for two years until he had saved enough money to fly to Europe. He always raised the maintenance for his son in Canada. German friends had offered to send him money for the flight, but that was out of the question. He didn't want to be endured; also not from the state.