𝐁𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧: 𝐌𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥

𝐌𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥 - 𝐁𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐮 𝐈𝐯𝐫𝐞

 

𝐌𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥 - 𝐀𝐥𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐳

 

 

𝐈 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐚 𝐜𝐚𝐟𝐞 𝐈 𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝.

𝐈 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐚𝐝𝐦𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐰.

𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐬.

𝐒𝐨, 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐟𝐞, 𝐈 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐞𝐫. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐚 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐞𝐛𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐭.

𝐈 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐛𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐫𝐮𝐧 𝐛𝐲 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐰𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡. 

 

 

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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.

His friends encourage him: If you want to get a permanent residence permit, you have to have health insurance. And the authorities need to see that you're successful. Because Germany wants successful people. You need to be known. You need a solo exhibition.

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.

Then he planned his day. Which picture he would finish when, what he would have to look up in the library, when he would meet whom. Then he drew and painted and didn't look at a clock. Then evening came and he drank red wine.

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.

Photographs and self-portraits from this period show a gaunt Corkill glaring at the viewer. It's easy to think he was moody, but his friends say he wasn't. Thoughtful yes, shy, angry at the contrasts between rich and poor, at politics. Sad but not. "Berlin has lost a wonderful painter and we have lost a wonderful friend," they write in an obituary.

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.

"He refused security. He's always avoided talking about it," says a friend. The fear of being deported again did not let go of him even after his return to Berlin. Andrew Unger

📰Original Link : https://www.tagesspiegel.de/berlin/mike-corkill-geb-1969-7018366.html

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𝐌𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐖𝐞𝐛𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐞

https://mikecorkill.com/