Marina Sailer

I was immediately drawn to Marina Sailer’s paintings, sensed an obvious affinity to them which is difficult to describe. It is anyway pointless to try and explain art: one either feels struck by it or not. During my art history studies many of my fellow stu- dents or professors seemed to me like people stand- ing in front of the wall of a enchanted park, intent in sizing up its bricks without casting a single glance over the wall into the park beyond.

There is indeed useful information around for deepen- ing the appreciation of art: who was the artist, who commissioned the artwork, how long did it take to complete the work, which tradition does it follow, which mythological characters are portrayed. All of this, however, in my opinion only helps us su- perficially. When viewing a painting pure knowledge cannot replace true inter-est (literally: to be therein) or real delight. This applies particularly to Sailer’s paintings which give me pleasure because I, like she, am a dream-struck, talented child.

And because I can recognize the moments in time that she captures, those moments or epiphanies in which the borders of our perception become transparent, where recollec- tions and the present intertwine, find cracks in the assumed reality and allow us to catch glimpses of an ever-present other world. There is the recognition of the birds and butterflies in carpet patterns and rich fabrics that seem to be ascending staircases, then there is also the sudden predatory scent of a wild animal that confronts us at the next bend in the track, quite possibly waiting to devour us. The transitions from delight to astonishment and fright flow freely into another. Sailer’s colourfully frozen moments in time are anything other than not dangerous. Her ability to show us such moments must make her irresistable for notorious dreamers.