Materialist Mutuality. On the Economy of Ecology in Contemporary Art Michael Klipphahn-Karge Read here in GERMAN Michael Heizer, City, 1970–2022, Detail: 45°, 90°, 180° , Wüste von Nevada, 2024, Foto: Joe Rome Matthias Fritsch, Wurmparcours , Prinzessinnengärten Berlin, Matthias Fritsch, 2023, Foto: Matthias Fritsch Ólafur Elíasson, Ice Watch , 2014, Place du Panthéon, Paris, 2015, Foto: Martin Argyroglo Walter de Maria, The New York Earth Room , 1977, 141 Wooster Street, New York City, Foto: Trevor Patt Agnes Denes, Wheatfield – A Confrontation , 1982, Battery Park Landfill, Downtown Manhattan, Foto: John McGrall Translated by Louise Pain Nature as Material and Form From the perspective of recent art history, nature and culture arguably confront one another most directly in Land Art. This demonstrates that landscape, as an aesthetic form mediating physical nature, remained a key genre of art even in modernity. Here, however, a distinction must be made between ‘first nature’ and ‘second nature’: the former designates physical nature as distinct from the latter, which refers to the social, psychological, and societal nature of humankind (see Ritter, 1974; Hoormann, 1996). In this art movement, artistic practice is displaced from institutional spaces into natural environments, thereby rendering the natural world itself the material of artistic production. Nevertheless, nature does not become the form of this art, especially in Land Art, which remains highly culturalised. As Land Art practitioner Michael Heizer definitively stated in the late 1960s, this art movement is ‘about art, not about landscape’—in other words, ultimately, about culture rather than nature (Weilacher, 1996, p. 12). In the context of the immediate present, however, the mutual implication of nature and culture in the face of anthropogenic climate change can no longer be denied. While, for example, Donna Haraway’s concept of ‘Natureculture’ deconstructs the historical separation of nature and culture (see the introduction to this issue), the interpretation of ecological crises through the reception and theoretical application of Haraway’s neologism frequently shifts the focus to an ontological level (see Bianchi et al., 2026). With regard to ecological art, this article therefore offers a materialist perspective that seeks to connect—rather than separate—the ontological insights articulated in Natureculture discourses with the Marxist tradition of historical materialism and critical theory (see the introduction to this issue). The question of how contemporary art—specifically, art produced since the emergence of conceptual art in the 1960s—has responded to ecological crises in recent decades can be understood in the context of the emergence of long-term Land Art projects: works such as Heizer’s City , James Turrell’s Roden Crater (since 1974), and Charles Ross’s Star Axis (since 1974). In the process, contemporary art’s understanding of the relationship between nature and culture has undergone a fundamental shift, more or less in step with Land Art (see Fleck, 2023), pivoting away from the conceptualisation of nature as material to nature as form. In addition to Land Art interventions and performative—and therefore predominantly body-related—practices in natural spaces or using natural materials, such as those of Ana Mendieta in the 1970s, cultural-political debates emerged in the 1980s—exemplified by the anti-nuclear movement—concerning the alleged de-autonomisation of art through its co-optation by so-called ‘Green’ politics; that is, resistance to the appropriation of culture in favour of nature (see Bogner, 1988). In the decades that followed, this tendency was countered by activist practices (see Lange-Berndt, 2021, pp. 143 f.). Ecological themes and concerns increasingly found expression in social forms of art and were accompanied by a prevailing focus, dominant since the 1990s, on the representation of nature and, from the 2000s on, also on environmental destruction and extractivism. With the turn of the millennium, attention increasingly shifted toward the relationship between human and non-human actors themselves, and thus toward the intended dissolution of the dichotomy between nature and culture (see ibid., pp. 159 ff.). Ecology, understood as the relationship between organisms and their respective environments—a relationship that is clearly asymmetrical in favour of humans—now refers less and less to the subject matter of artistic representation or intervention. Instead, when referring to art, ecology describes a mode of thought and thus becomes a form of artistic practice. Artists work with microorganisms, facilitate processes of ecological restoration, collaborate with research institutions to promote nature conservation and raise ecological awareness, and develop multispecies forms of community and forms of critique directed at economic growth. Alongside large-scale Land Art projects, symbolic and micropolitical practices consequently emerge in place of monumental interventions and the culturalization—and, of course, economic valorisation—of landscape: practices of sowing and planting, growing and harvesting, as seen in the work of Natalie Jeremijenko, Rashid Johnson, Ebony G. Patterson, and Tabita Rezaire, treat ecological processes as artistic material in their own right. In this context, Maria L. Räihälä, Matthias Fritsch, and Fernando García-Dory seek, through planting, gardening, and composting, as well as through the initiation of commons projects, mushroom cultivation, non-industrial food production, and collaborative agroecological ventures, to rethink artistically, or to support in a regenerative manner, issues related to material consumption and more sustainable modes of production under the conditions of a post-growth economy. What these diverse approaches have in common is a reconfiguring of the social role of the artist toward that of an activist and/or ecologist—actively observing, initiating, organising, and facilitating ecological processes. Art today thus emerges both as an integral component of ecological relationships and processes and, at the same time, as a vehicle for their transformation (see Ramos, 2025). Responsibilisation and Ontologisation Nature and its agentic ecological entanglement with humans thus appear not only as a subject of art but increasingly as a method of artistic practice. Art seeks to render ecological relations perceptible while simultaneously reflecting upon—and potentially transforming—its own modes of production and exhibition (see ibid.). The ecological question thereby shifts from the representation of ‘first nature’ toward the organisation of ecological relations with regard to ‘second nature’, increasingly encompassing the material conditions under which culture itself is produced in the face of ecological crises (see ibid.). This shift is motivated above all by the discourse concerning the degree to which artistic production and exhibition are implicated in the extensive extraction of raw materials and labour, especially in the so-called Global South and in economically marginalised regions of emerging and service-based economies. Such processes of extraction ultimately lead to far-reaching politico-territorial, geological, human-geographical, and, above all, climate crises (see Mezzadra and Neilson, 2017). Of course, as an ecological imperative, this condition of eco-imperialism necessarily also extends to the very modes of production, distribution, and institutionalisation through which this art is constituted—and ecological art is no exception here (see Schneemann, 2022). It therefore follows that art that advocates the preservation of nature cannot leave unexamined its own implication in regimes of extraction and consumption—something that is evidenced by the sustainability reports being issued by museums and the energy audits for individual artworks. Particularly when it comes to highly resource-intensive forms of digital art, these kinds of accounting practices can function as a means through which an artistic medium is able to justify itself—both to itself and to its audience (see, for example, Nieslony, 2022). Yet where eco-critical approaches are translated into artistic practice, they frequently remain grounded in the moral premise of demanding individual rather than structural renunciation—a tendency that art history has itself too often affirmed uncritically (see Fowkes, 2022). Tomás Saraceno’s ostensibly anti-capitalist aesthetics, for example, can be understood within this logic: the artist displaces ecological responsibility onto individual practices, thereby reproducing the micropolitics of neoliberalism, while the capitalist relations of production remain largely unchallenged, and the reception of the work itself may ultimately be converted into economic surplus value for the artist (see Burchert, 2024, p. 585). Ólafur Elíasson’s Ice Watch likewise follows this logic, which is itself ultimately highly commercialised. For his installations presented at the UN Climate Change Conferences in Copenhagen (2014), Paris (2015), and later in London (2018), the artist arranged blocks of ice, each weighing several tonnes and sourced from Greenland, in public spaces in the shape of a clock, allowing them to melt as a symbolic demonstration of the consequences of climate change. The realisation of this artistic platitude was, however, itself dependent upon a substantial expenditure of energy and resources, particularly regarding transporting the ice, which generated considerable emissions. In response, Elíasson’s studio commissioned the organisation Julie’s Bicycle to calculate the resulting CO₂ emissions and financially offset them (see Julie’s Bicycle, 2018). The structural contradictions of ecologically motivated art production are thus subsumed into the logic of carbon offsetting. Yet it is self-evident that consumption cannot be meaningfully curbed through further consumption. Aside from the idea of ‘preaching to the converted’, these recent examples illustrate how art today is ascribed an ethical responsibility that should actually belong to the processes of political decision-making. The less the political sphere proves itself capable of taking tangible action, however, the more cultural institutions—and therefore art as well—will be burdened with political expectations, thereby further obscuring rather than illuminating the systemic dimensions of the ecological crisis (see, for example, Huber, 2022). Approaches of this kind reproduce neoliberal forms of ‘responsibilisation’, in which the contradictions of a late-stage capitalist system—or rather, the hope for their supposed resolution—are displaced onto individual behaviours rather than making the global structures that engender them the subject of aesthetic and critical reflection (see Stakemeier and Vishmidt, 2016). This has prompted the emergence of a more comprehensive theoretical framework that extends far beyond individual artistic positions. The separation of nature and culture that is implicit in the attribution of responsibility described above is increasingly giving way to an emphasis on relational structures as the basis for ecological responsibility: human actors can recognise their dependence on non-human beings and, through this recognition, become more environmentally aware. Under these conditions, the ecological crisis increasingly emerges as a crisis of our own anthropocentric relationship with the natural world. Accordingly, the prospect of the transformation of second nature—that is, the historically formed nature of human beings—rests on the assumption that a revision of fundamental ontological premises might open up new forms of ecological action. This shift can be traced to a theoretical constellation that has profoundly and permanently transformed the relationship between nature and culture since the mid-1980s. Despite their considerable differences, the new conceptions of materiality proposed by Haraway, Latour, Barad, Descola, Stengers, Serres, and Bennett all share the unifying assumption that agency is not the exclusive domain of human subjects. This theoretical reorientation (which is less culturally essentialising in itself but can become partially so in its application within cultural and art-historical scholarship; see, for example, Harutyunyan, 2019) has undoubtedly expanded ecological thinking—particularly with regard to the visual arts—through references to decolonial thought and Indigenous knowledge, and has fundamentally challenged the anthropocentrism of classical modernity (see, for example, Skrandies and Dümler, 2023). At the same time, when applied to art, these theories are increasingly changing the way in which ecological crises are explained or contextualised within a cultural framework, with the focus now shifting to revising fundamental ontological assumptions: recognising the capacity of non-human actors for action and material agency. When approaching art history from a critical perspective, one question arises: what do a material’s inherent power and resistance address if the intention is to convey more than simply allowing materiality to appear aesthetically in its fundamental form—in the sense of, for example, Walter De Maria’s New York Earth Room (1977), for instance, transported approximately 130 tonnes of earth into an exhibition space as a permanent installation, and the material has since been experienced in its specific properties simply by virtue of being exhibited. On the other hand, the concept of resistance in implies a political agenda, whereby material is assigned intentionality in a rather metaphorical sense—including with regard to political conditions and their potential transformation. A decidedly materialist perspective of art history would, first and foremost, share those insights that do not conceive of nature and society—or culture, for that matter—as independent of one another. Historical materialism, too, understands nature as an aspect of society’s relationship with the natural world. These relationships are characterised by continuous and reciprocal metabolic change between humans and the natural world—an idea that is already central to Marx’s thinking. From a materialist perspective, however, the ecological crisis does not appear primarily as the consequence of an ontological misrecognition of the world, but rather as the result of historically determined modes of production. Forms of ownership, flows of energy and raw materials, infrastructures, and global supply chains simply constitute the material context within which ecological relationships take shape in the first place. Ontological redefinitions alone do not alter this context. It is only at a materialist level—that is, one that is decidedly politically critical and thus informed, for example, by Marxist theories—that these conditions become clear. Ecology as Economy A materialist perspective understands mutuality, first and foremost, as a description of globally organised social relations and defines ecological disruptions primarily as economic disruptions. A capitalist economic order is also based on irreducible relations with nature, constituted by dense networks of asymmetrical dependencies through which the natural world is systematically valorised: forests become carbon sinks, soils become agricultural land, rivers become energy resources, and data becomes a raw material for algorithmic infrastructures (see Folkers, 2026). For contemporary art, this would entail a corresponding shift in the horizon of critique. Agnes Denes occupies a historically pivotal position in this regard, as her work, since the early 1980s, has already opened up a perspective that brings ecological and economic questions into relation—most notably in Wheatfield – A Confrontation (1982). For this work, the artist had a wheat field planted on an approximately two-hectare area of reclaimed land directly adjacent to Wall Street. The work thereby confronted agricultural production with finance-capitalist production (see Voelcker, 2024): in a place where agricultural commodities were being traded on global markets only a few metres away, and where land was valued at some of the highest prices in the world, Denes made wheat grow. Herein lies Denes’s fundamental difference from ‘classical’ Land Art, but also from the practices discussed above of artists who understand themselves as ecologists: Denes does not operate within a supposedly uncompromised natural setting, but rather within a highly economised sphere. Whereas classical Land Art primarily appropriated nature as a material, Denes directs attention toward nature as form and thus toward the social conditions under which nature is transformed into raw material and property. Economy thereby becomes the material precondition of ecology and frames the concept in materialist terms: nature appears as already extensively transformed by human economic activity—and indeed, transformed into ecology. Alongside Denes, a strand of economically critical art has developed since the turn of the millennium, the political quality of which likewise lies in the organisation of parasocial, para-scientific, and para-institutional relations: alternative educational programmes such as The Silent University, Jeanne van Heeswijk’s long-term neighbourhood projects, institutional counter-models proposed by Khalil Rabah and Not An Alternative, as well as Jonas Staal’s parliamentary experiments, understand art as a means of testing alternative social and political institutions, as well as economic ideas that are ecologically relevant (see Chwatal, 2024). An ecologically critical and simultaneously materialist conception of art history that examines art as an integral constituent of society’s relations with the natural world would therefore also approach these works from an ecological perspective, without either morally opposing different forms—for example, an ontological conception of planetary relationality and materialist conception of global economy—or evaluating them exclusively according to their claimed political effects. Rather, it could reconstruct the historical modes of society’s appropriation of nature: classical Land Art understood nature primarily as a material for culturalised processes of formalisation; contemporary ecological art increasingly understands landscape as a network of relational actors, whose care, cultivation, and regeneration become an artistic practice in their own right. Both positions mark significant historical shifts in the history of art. Yet both nonetheless remain insufficient insofar as the economic conditions that enable their own emergence disappear from view. This is where the task of art history lies: in relation to its objects—the artworks—it must reconstruct those social relations with nature within which the natural world comes to appear as a means of production in the first place. The ecological crisis can therefore be understood as a historically specific form of society’s appropriation of nature, in which questions of political economy inevitably lead to questions of ecology. The central challenge for contemporary art consequently lies in aesthetically reflecting upon those economic relations through which the inextricable relationships between nature and culture are produced. Its critical potential would consequently consist in rendering visible those interconnections upon which any economic—and therefore ecological—transformation must necessarily be grounded. References Bianchi, B., Lipowsky, A. and Precht, O. (eds.) (2026) Die ontologische Wende: Indigene Kosmologien und die Dekolonisierung des Seins . Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Bogner, D. (1988) ‘Kunst und Ökologie: Zum Kunstverständnis in der Ökologiebewegung – Materialien zu einer latenten Kunstdiskussion’, Kunstforum, 93, pp. 54–56. Burchert, L. (2024) ‘Kunst und Klimapolitik’, Kunstchronik: Monatsschrift für Kunstwissenschaft, Museumswesen und Denkmalpflege, 77(8), pp. 584–589. Chwatal, C. (2024) Art and Organization in the 21st Century: Contemporary Art’s Strategic-Organizational Complex . Cologne/Amsterdam: University of Cologne/Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam. Fleck, R. (2023) Kunst und Ökologie . Vienna/Hamburg: Edition Konturen. Folkers, A. (2026) Fossile Moderne: Eine Naturgeschichte der Gegenwart . Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Fowkes, M. and Fowkes, R. (2022) Art and Climate Change . London: Thames & Hudson. Haraway, D. (2016) ‘Tentacular Thinking: Anthropocene, Capitalocene, Chthulucene’, e-flux journal (75). Available at: https://www.e-flux.com/journal/75/67125/tentacular-thinking-anthropocene-capitalocene-chthulucene (Accessed: 28 July 2026). This text is an edited excerpt from Chapter 2 of Donna J. Haraway’s Staying with the Trouble: Making Kin in the Chthulucene (2016, Durham: Duke University Press). Harutyunyan, A. (2019) ‘Opting for Decoloniality: A Politics of Non-Politics’ (review), Art History 42(5), pp. 996–1000. Hoormann, A. (1996) Land-Art: Kunstprojekte zwischen Landschaft und öffentlichem Raum . Berlin: Dietrich Reimer Verlag. Huber, M. T. (2022) Climate Change as Class War: Building Socialism on a Warming Planet . London/New York: Verso. Julie’s Bicycle (2018) Ice Watch London . Available at: https://juliesbicycle.org/news/ice-watch-london-2018/ (Accessed: 28 July 2026). Lange-Berndt, P. (2021) ‘Treehugging: Kontaktzonen von Kunst und Ökologie’, in Schlitte, A., Verne, M. and Wedekind, G. (eds.) Die Handlungsmacht ästhetischer Objekte . Berlin/Boston: De Gruyter Brill, pp. 143–166. Mezzadra, S. and Neilson, B. (2017) ‘On the Multiple Frontiers of Extraction: Excavating Contemporary Capitalism’, Cultural Studies 31(2/3), pp. 185–204. Nieslony, M. (2022) ‘Moralische oder ethische Wende des gegenwärtigen Kunstdiskurses’, 21: Inquiries into Art, History, and the Visual 2, pp. 343–381. Ramos, F. (2025) ‘ The Artist as Ecologist: Contemporary Art and the Environment’ . London: Lund Humphries Publishers. Ritter, J. (1974) ‘Landschaft: Zur Funktion des Ästhetischen’, in Ritter, J. (ed.) Subjektivität: Sechs Aufsätze . Münster: volume 54 of the published works of the Gesellschaft zur Förderung der Westfälischen Wilhelms-Universität zu Münster, pp. 141–190 Schneemann, P. J. (2022) ‘Der ökologische Imperativ als Paradigma einer engagierten Kunstgeschichte’, Zeitschrift für Kunstgeschichte 85(4), pp.433–439. Skrandies, T. and Dümler, R. (eds.) (2023) Kunst im Anthropozän . Cologne: Snoek. Stakemeier, K. and Vishmidt, M. (2016) Reproducing Autonomy: Work, Money, Crisis and Contemporary Art . London: Mute. Voelcker, B. (2024) ‘Cultivating Hinterland: What Lies Behind Agnes Denes’ Wheatfield ?’, in Gupta, P., Nuttall, S., Peeren, E. and Stuit, H. (eds.) Planetary Hinterlands : Palgrave Studies in Globalization, Culture and Society . Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Weilacher, U. (1996) ‘It’s about Art, not Landscape: Michael Heizer’, anthos 1, pp. 12–14. Michael Klipphahn-Karge is a visual cultural studies scholar and art historian. Since October 2025, he has headed the main field of research ‘Geschichte und Theorie von Kunst und Design’ (History and Theory of Art and Design) at the Hochschule für Grafik und Buchkunst (Academy of Visual Arts), Leipzig. In addition to a range of other roles, he is also an associate researcher at the Zentralinstitut für Kunstgeschichte (Central Institute for Art History) in Munich, where he previously worked as a research assistant in the ‘Kunst, Umwelt, Ökologie’ (Art, Environment, Ecology) research group. He completed his PhD in Art History as a research fellow at the Schaufler Lab at the Dresden University of Technology.

(My) Reflections on Agriculture: A More-Than-Human Perspective Sophie von Redecker Read here in GERMAN The author’s hands, Photo: Lenja Kempf Translated by Louise Pain This text is a slightly modified excerpt from Chapter 2.1 of the summa cum laude doctoral thesis Agrarian Humanities – landwirtschaftliche Perspektiven auf die sozial-ökologische Krise des Mensch-Natur-Verhältnisses (Agricultural Perspectives on the Socio-Ecological Crisis of the Human-Nature Relationship), authored by Sophie von Redecker. I grew up on a strawberry farm, and yes, it was every bit as romantic as it sounds. In the mornings, before school, I would sneak out of bed and run to the strawberry fields, where picking would begin as early as four o’clock. Someone would invariably have to go out and hunt me down to make sure I actually made it to school. Some evenings, I would go to bed with dirty feet because I had stayed outside so long that there was simply no time left to wash them. On those occasions, I would simply pull on a pair of socks in the hope that the bed would not get dirty. Our farm was located not far from the Baltic Sea, and even today, I wear a hat almost all the time, having grown accustomed to the Baltic wind, which was always blowing, either as a gentle breeze or a stiff gale. Our strawberries, which were themselves unable to wear hats, were all the healthier and more delicious as a result of the salty sea air. The wind also meant that we had considerably fewer issues with fungal diseases, which is one of the main causes of crop failure in commercial strawberry farming. I grew up hearing names like Botrytis cinerea (grey mould), Phytophthora cactorum (leather rot and crown rot), and Sphaerotheca macularis (powdery mildew). However, thanks to the combination of the Baltic sea air, extremely sandy soil, a well-balanced crop rotation, and carefully calibrated organic farming practices, the threat posed by these harmful fungi remained relatively low, even though the underlying worry about a potential outbreak remained ever-present in our minds. The relationship between the Baltic Sea winds and successful strawberry cultivation illustrates what Jane Bennett articulates from the perspective of new materialism: ‘an actant never really acts alone. Its efficacy or agency always depends on the collaboration, cooperation, or interactive interference of many bodies and forces’ (2010, p. 21). What I hope to convey with this anecdote is how I approach the agrarian humanities: I seek not only to write about agriculture or theorise it, but to think with it—to bring an agrarian ‘perspective’ into an academic context and to weave it into scholarly thought. Agricultural practices teach us that ‘the locus of agency is always a nonhuman-human-working group’ (Bennett, 2010: xvii). An agricultural perspective therefore challenges the very foundations of the Western Enlightenment, which placed the human subject at the centre and designated humans as the sole agents capable of action (Braidotti, 2013). At the heart of this perspective lies an ontological shift: away from a worldview that positions humans at the centre as the all-dominating subject, and in which humankind and the natural world are understood as fundamentally separate from one another. It is possible to justify this shift in theoretical terms: new materialisms, posthumanist approaches, queer ecologies, and Indigenous cosmologies all challenge the dichotomy between human and nature, and between nature and culture, while foregrounding planetary agency. Rather than deriving an agricultural perspective from these theories, however, I propose to approach it from within agriculture itself, and from the particular vantage point that agricultural practice offers. An agricultural perspective, in this sense, can never be detached from a specific place. It emerges through a process of ‘thinking-with’ (Haraway, 2016) and, drawing on Donna Haraway’s concept of ‘situated knowledges’, is necessarily always (only) ‘partial’ (1988, p. 583). As Haraway writes, ‘We become-with each other or not at all. That kind of material semiotics is always situated, someplace and not noplace, entangled and worldly’ (2018, p. 13). Agriculture—the cultivation of a piece of land—is precisely this: a worldly, entangled situatedness in a specific place, in which ‘the human’ constitutes one particular element in a web of relations and processes of ‘becoming-with’. As Katharina Hoppe observes in relation to Haraway’s concept of situated knowledges, an agricultural perspective, like ‘any form of knowledge production […] enters into connections with the world and with others’ (Hoppe, 2024, p. 42). As far as agrarian approaches go, the small-scale farming movement La Via Campesina offers a useful illustration of what Haraway writes about partial perspectives: ‘Situated knowledges are about communities not about isolated individuals. The only way to find a larger vision is to be somewhere in particular’ (1988, p. 590). Building on critiques of essentialising feminist (standpoint) theories, it is important to emphasise that there is no single, homogeneous agricultural perspective. Rather, each perspective is rooted in a particular place while also being embedded in a network of global agricultural relations and shaped by a range of other factors. Beyond this situatedness—which I have so far approached here primarily from the position of the human subject—an agricultural perspective is also heterogeneous, even internally fractured, to the extent that it is characterised by the entanglement of human and more-than-human elements. As Emily O’Gorman and Andrea Gaynor note in relation to the term ‘more-than-human’, ‘“More-than-human” is not a synonym for “nature” or “nonhuman” but, rather, a term that highlights the primacy of relations over entities (including the “human”)’ (2020, p. 717). In this sense, an agricultural perspective is always ‘more-than-human’, since neither becoming nor growth is possible without this kind of relationality. When I first explained the theories I was engaging with to my mother, who has run a farm for more than forty years, she was utterly unimpressed by my introduction to new materialisms or by the idea of humans and more-than-human beings ‘becoming-with’ each other. Drawing on her own agricultural understanding of the world, she simply responded ‘Yeah, that’s just how the world works.’ In this article, I seek to emphasise just how much we can and should learn from this relational perspective. Within the context of the agrarian humanities, an agricultural perspective also means recognising more-than-human contexts as powerful forces in their own right: as bearers and mediators of knowledge that humans have the capacity to ‘read’, hear, perceive, and comprehend; as something that expresses itself; and, beyond that, as something that facilitates our thought and informs how we think. This understanding resonates strongly with Vanessa Watts’s concept of ‘Place-Thought’. Drawing on a Mohawk/Anishinaabe perspective, Watts defines the concept as ‘the non-distinctive space where place and thought were never separated because they never could or can be separated. Place-Thought is based upon the premise that land is alive and thinking and that humans and non-humans derive agency through the extensions of these thoughts’ (2013, p. 21). This connection is also reflected in the fact that the majority of ideas I developed for my doctoral thesis emerged not at a desk, but while gardening or doing farm work. In a sense, the acres of farmland where I engaged in participatory thinking should probably be considered co-authors of my work. My agricultural labour, together with everything that went with it and all the knowledge I gained from it, consistently shaped and grounded my theoretical thinking in the social sciences and humanities. It was through agricultural practice that I came to understand approaches such as new materialisms, posthumanist perspectives, and poststructuralist theories, including queer ecologies. When I was conducting my doctoral research, it was during conversations conducted on an alpine pasture, surrounded by 500 sheep, seven livestock guardian dogs, and two herding dogs, that theory finally took root in solid ground. Getting up in the middle of the night to bottle-feed a five-day-old lamb vividly illustrates more-than-human relations of care and the relations of interdependence within which we all exist. The conflict involved in fighting for the fragile life of a young lamb, while its commonly used designation in agricultural jargon—‘meat sheep’—reduces the animal to a mere resource, highlights a particular complexity. Donna Haraway captures this complexity when she writes ‘The task is to make kin in lines of inventive connection as a practice of learning to live and die well with each other in a thick present’ (2016, p. 9). An agricultural perspective teaches us to conceive of the more-than-human not merely as something to be talked about , but to incorporate the knowledge of what we call ‘nature’, to take it in and allow it to resonate within us in a way that guides our actions. In many of my lectures, I have spoken about something my father taught me in passing when I was still a young child, and that I would encounter again many years later in a sentence by Carla Hustak and Natascha Myers: ‘This requires reading with our senses attuned to stories told in otherwise muted registers’ (2012, p. 77). When my father and I walked across the fields together, he would bend down, scoop up a handful of soil, and let it trickle through his fingers as we continued on our way. By doing this, he was able to ‘read’ what the soil needed. The question I would later explore theoretically, ‘Can nature speak?’, had already found a practical answer in my early childhood—one that has stayed with me throughout all my subsequent agricultural endeavours. I wanted to find a theoretical foundation for this experiential knowledge, this way of understanding the world. What had otherwise been taken for granted in agricultural practice evolved into a political, academic, and activist project, because this agrarian understanding of and relationship to what we term ‘nature’ differes from hegemonic perspectives and harbours its own subversive, transformative potential. Farmers always take what is called ‘nature’ into account when making decisions. Every decision about cultivation, every act of soil management, every sowing is made in accordance with soil composition, topography, rainfall, and plant growth. Farmers learn to ‘read’ the plants, soil, and animals on their farms. In so doing, they attune themselves not only to different semiotic systems, but also to different timescales. As Maria Puig de la Bellacasa explores in Matters of Care (2015), caring for the soil requires us to engage with non-anthropocentric temporalities. The timescales on which soil microbes live, humus forms, and soil regenerates compel us to rethink care, responsibility, and the future from a more-than-human perspective. This capacity to perceive and engage is a necessary precondition for care. Care begins with perception, and this is a skill that we must also learn to practise in ecological contexts. When, after thirty-five years of organic farming, the land we had leased was sold to someone who practiced conventional farming methods, we were heartbroken. Above all, we knew that the humus we had built up and the wealth of biodiversity that had developed over decades would, within a matter of years, quite literally be ploughed under and destroyed by pesticides. The soil bore the imprint of how it had been cultivated over those thirty-five years. It felt as though all the history that had been embedded in the land was now set to be erased, rendered invisible. Even if the land had been given back to us after three years, it would no longer have been the same; the loss of biodiversity and humus could not simply be reversed. We mourned the life that had found a habitat and refuge on and within these fields. As Donna Haraway writes, ‘Perhaps the outrage meriting a name like Anthropocene is about the destruction of places and times of refuge for people and other critters’ (2015, p. 160). Thom van Dooren (2025) points out that processes of extinction entail not only the loss of what once existed, but also the foreclosure of a possible future that will forever remain unknown. What might have become of this land, of the diverse and seemingly invisible life within its soil, if organic farming practices had continued to nurture it for decades to come? At the same time, as we mourned the loss of life within the soil, we felt that a part of us had died along with it. Why did we feel this way? To draw on the thoughts of Thom van Dooren (ibid.), we might summarise it thus: when something dies, it is not merely an individual being or element that is lost; relationships are destroyed, too. This story underscores the fact that relations between humankind and the natural world—even those that challenge hegemonic understandings—do not simply amount to a harmonious merging. Rather, we need to keep questioning the fragile categories of ‘human’ and ‘nature’—which are constructed as ‘normal’ and ‘natural’ within a Western-socialised understanding of the world—by examining exactly how these categories are produced. As van Dooren et al. write, ‘[…] [T]hat is, to pay attention to differences of all kinds as well as to the powerful work that various modes of differentiating and distinguishing do in shaping worlds’ (2016, p. 13). An agricultural perspective helps us to recognise our planetary interdependence in everyday practice, to question what we mean by ‘human’ and ‘nature’, and to become more aware of the interactions, agencies, and power relations at play. This is not a question of harmony or becoming one. It is about how we engage with those things that we are not, but that are also not entirely ‘other’ to us either. This story brings to mind something that Karen Barad, referencing Trinh Minh-ha, articulates: ‘What is needed, Trinh emphasizes, is a disruption of the binary, a way to figure difference differently. If this is to be the case then difference cannot be positioned in opposition to sameness, not in any absolute sense, for this would reiterate the same problematic logics. As Trinh puts it: a non-binary conception of difference is “not opposed to sameness, nor synonymous with separateness”’ (2014, p. 170). Dr Sophie von Redecker currently works as a postdoctoral researcher in the field of Sociology of Diversity, a specialised social sciences department at the University of Kassel. An academic, activist, and gardener in a FLINTA* community-supported agriculture (CSA) collective, von Redecker recently completed her PhD in the field of agrarian humanities. Her research focuses in depth on agricultural perspectives toward the socio-ecological crisis and on relationships between humans and the natural world in the Anthropocene epoch. References Barad, K. (2014) ‘Diffracting Diffraction: Cutting Together-Apart’, Parallax 20 (3), pp. 168–187, https://doi.org/10.1080/13534645.2014.927623 . Bennett, J. (2010) Vibrant Matter: A Political Ecology of Things . Durham: Duke University Press. Braidotti, R. (2013) The Posthuman . Cambridge: Polity Press. Haraway, D. (1988) ‘Situated Knowledges: The Science Question in Feminism and the Privilege of Partial Perspective’, Feminist Studies 14 (3), pp. 575–599. Haraway, D. (2015) ‘Anthropocene, Capitalocene, Plantationocene, Chthulucene: Making Kin’, Environmental Humanities 6 (1), pp. 159–165. Haraway, D. (2016) Staying with the Trouble: Making Kin in the Chthulucene . Durham: Duke University Press. Haraway, D. (2018) Unruhig bleiben: Die Verwandtschaft der Arten im Chthuluzän. Frankfurt a. M.: Campus. Hoppe, K. (2024) Donna Haraway zur Einführung , 2nd unrevised edition. Hamburg: Junius. Hustak, C. and Myers, N. (2012) ‘Involutionary Momentum: Affective Ecologies and the Sciences of Plant/Insect Encounters’, differences 23 (3), pp. 74–118. O’Gorman, E. and Gaynor, A. (2020) ‘More-Than-Human Histories’, Environmental History 25 (4), pp. 711–735. Puig de la Bellacasa, M. (2017) Matters of Care: Speculative Ethics in More than Human Worlds . Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. van Dooren, T. (2025) ‘Multispecies Storytelling in Catastrophic Times’, https://www.thomvandooren.org/2025/06/24/multispecies-storytelling-in-catastrophic-times/ (Accessed 28 October 2026). van Dooren, T., Kirksey, E., and Münster, U. (2016) ‘Multispecies Studies: Cultivating Arts of Attentiveness’. Environmental Humanities 8 (1), pp. 1–23. Watts, V. (2013) ‘Indigenous Place-Thought and Agency amongst Humans and Non-Humans (First Woman and Sky Woman Go on a European World Tour!)’, Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education & Society 2 (1), pp. 20–34.

(M)eine landwirtschaftliche Perspektive – eine mehr-als-menschliche Perspektive Sophie von Redecker Read here in ENGLISH Hände der Autorin, Foto: Lenja Kempf Ich bin auf einem Erdbeerhof aufgewachsen, und ja, das war genauso romantisch, wie es klingt. Morgens vor der Schule kletterte ich heimlich aus dem Bett und lief zu den Erdbeerfeldern, wo ab vier Uhr das Pflücken losging. Man musste mich einfangen, damit ich in die Schule ging. Abends ging ich manchmal mit dreckigen Füßen ins Bett, weil ich so lange draußen sein wollte, dass es zu spät war, um sie noch zu waschen. Dann zog ich Socken an, damit das Bett nicht dreckig wurde. Unser Erdbeerhof lag unweit der Ostsee, und noch heute trage ich die allermeiste Zeit Mützen, da ich an den mal seichten, mal steifen, aber immer wehenden Wind der Ostsee gewöhnt bin. Unsere Erdbeeren, die keine Mütze tragen konnten, waren genau wegen dieses salzigen Ostseewindes so gesund und so lecker. Er war ein Grund dafür, dass wir bedeutend weniger Probleme mit Pilzerkrankungen hatten, die ein Hauptgrund für Ernteausfälle im professionellen Erdbeeranbau sind. Ich wuchs zwar mit den Begriffen Botrytis cinerea (Grauschimmel), Phytophthora cactorum (Lederfäule und Rhizomfäule) und Sphaerotheca macularis (Erdbeermehltau) auf, aber wegen des Ostseewinds in Kombination mit dem extrem sandigen Boden, einer ausgewogenen Fruchtfolge und exakt abgestimmten Pflegemaßnahmen der ökologischen Landwirtschaft war – trotz der immerwährenden Sorge, dass sie unsere Erdbeeren befallen könnten – die Gefahr dieser Schadpilze gering. Der Zusammenhang zwischen Ostseewind und erfolgreichem Erdbeeranbau verdeutlicht, was Jane Bennett (2010: 21) aus Sicht des Neuen Materialismus wie folgt formuliert: „[…] an actant never really acts alone. Its efficacy or agency always depends on the collaboration, cooperation, or interactive interference of many bodies and forces.“ Was ich mit dieser Geschichte ausdrücken möchte, ist meine Perspektive auf die Agrarian Humanities: Ich habe nicht einen Weg gesucht, über Landwirtschaft zu schreiben und diese zu theoretisieren, sondern wollte vielmehr mit der Landwirtschaft denken, eine landwirtschaftliche „Perspektive“ im wissenschaftlichen Kontext einnehmen und sie in das wissenschaftliche Denken weben. Landwirtschaftliche Praktiken lehren uns, „the locus of agency is always a nonhuman-human-working group“ (Bennett 2010: xvii). Damit rüttelt die landwirtschaftliche Perspektive an den Grundfesten der westlichen Aufklärung, die den handelnden Menschen in das Zentrum gestellt und als allein handlungsfähig bestimmt hat (Braidotti 2013). Perspektive liegt eine ontologische Verschiebung zugrunde: Der Mensch wird nicht mehr als alles beherrschendes Zentrum verstanden, Mensch und Natur werden einander nicht mehr gegenübergestellt. Diese Verschiebung könnte man theoretisch begründen: Neue Materialismen, posthumane Zugänge, Queer Ecologies oder indigene Kosmologien machen genau das – sie hinterfragen die Dichotomie von Mensch und Natur, von Natur und Kultur und rücken die planetarische Handlungsfähigkeit ins Zentrum. Diesem Standpunkt, der die Theorien als richtungsweisend ansieht, stelle ich jedoch nachfolgend die Ausrichtung auf eine mehr-als-menschliche Perspektive in der Landwirtschaft selbst gegenüber. Eine landwirtschaftliche Perspektive in diesem Sinne ist eine Perspektive, die nie losgelöst von einem Ort ist. Sie ist geprägt durch ein Mit-Denken, ein „to think-with“ (Haraway 2016), und dadurch – angelehnt an Donna Haraways situiertes Wissen – immer auch (nur) „partiell“ (Haraway 1988: 583). „Wir werden miteinander oder wir werden gar nicht. Diese Art der materiellen Semiotik findet stets situiert, an einem bestimmten Ort, wo und nicht irgendwo statt, sie ist verwoben und weltlich“ (Haraway 2018: 13). Landwirtschaft, die Bewirtschaftung eines Stück Landes, ist genau das: weltlich verwobene Situiertheit an einem bestimmten Ort, wobei „der Mensch“ ein spezifischer Teil dieser Verwobenheit und des Miteinander-Werdens ist. Eine landwirtschaftliche Perspektive geht – wie „jede Wissensproduktion“, so Katharina Hoppe (2024: 42) in Bezug auf Haraways situiertes Wissen – „Verbindungen mit der Welt und mit Anderen ein“. In Bezug auf landwirtschaftliche Perspektiven ist die kleinbäuerliche Bewegung La Via Campesina ein gutes Beispiel für das, was Haraway (1988: 590) in Bezug auf partielle Perspektiven schreibt: „Situated knowledges are about communities, not about isolated individuals. The only way to find a larger vision is to be somewhere in particular.“ Anknüpfend an die Kritik essentialisierender feministischer (Standpunkt-)Theorien ist es wichtig zu unterstreichen, dass es nicht eine homogene landwirtschaftliche Perspektive gibt, sondern die an einem spezifischen Ort verwurzelte, die sich zugleich in ein Netzwerk globaler landwirtschaftlicher Zusammenhänge einschreibt und von weiteren Faktoren geprägt ist. Über diese Perspektivhaftigkeit, die nun zunächst eher von der menschlichen Subjektposition aus gedacht dargestellt wurde, ist eine landwirtschaftliche Perspektive, die auch dahingehend heterogen oder in sich gebrochen ist, dass sie durch Verwebungen menschlicher und mehr-als-menschlicher Teile geprägt ist. In Bezug auf den Begriff more-than-human (mehr-als-menschlich) schreiben Emily O’Gorman und Andrea Gaynor (2020: 717): „‘More-than-human’ is not a synonym for ‘nature’ or ‘nonhuman’ but, rather, a term that highlights the primacy of relations over entities (including the ‘human’).“ Eine landwirtschaftliche Perspektive ist in diesem Sinne immer mehr-als-menschlich da ohne diese Relationalität kein Werden, kein Wachsen möglich ist. Als ich meiner Mutter, die seit über 40 Jahren einen landwirtschaftlichen Betrieb leitet, das erste Mal erklärte, mit welchen Theorien ich mich beschäftigte, war sie von der Einführung in die Neuen Materialismen oder Ideen des „becoming-with“ von Menschen und Mehr-als-Menschlichem überaus unbeeindruckt und sagte aus ihrem landwirtschaftlichen Weltverstehen heraus: „Ja, so funktioniert das Leben.“ Von dieser relationalen Sichtweise, so möchte dieser Beitrag unterstreichen, kann und sollte gelernt werden. Eine landwirtschaftliche Perspektive bedeutet im Sinne der Agrarian Humanities auch, mehr-als-menschliche Kontexte als wirkmächtig und als Wissensträger und -vermittlung anzuerkennen, als etwas, das Menschen „lesen“, hören, wahrnehmen und verstehen können, als etwas, das sich äußert und weiter noch, als etwas, das Denken ermöglicht und formt. Dies resoniert stark mit Vanessa Watts (2013) Place-Thought-Konzept. Sie entwickelt dieses aus der Mohawk/Anishinaabe-Perspektive als „the non-distinctive space where place and thought were never separated because they never could or can be separated. Place-Thought is based upon the premise that land is alive and thinking and that humans and non-humans derive agency through the extensions of these thoughts“ (2013: 21). Das wiederum kommt auch darin zum Ausdruck, dass die meisten Gedanken meiner Doktorarbeit nicht am Schreibtisch, sondern während des Gärtnerns oder der landwirtschaftlichen Arbeit entstanden sind. Eigentlich müssten die verschiedenen Äcker, mit denen ich teilnehmendes Denken betrieben habe, Co-Autoren meiner Arbeit sein. Es war immer auch mein landwirtschaftliches Tun und mein damit zusammenhängendes Wirken und Wissen, das mein theoretisches Denken in den sozial- und geisteswissenschaftlichen Kontexten prägte und fundierte. Gerade Ansätze der Neuen Materialismen, posthumane Zugänge und poststrukturalistische Theorien, wie zum Beispiel die Queer Ecologies, verstand ich durch landwirtschaftliche Praxis. Gespräche auf der Alp mit 500 Schafen, sieben Herdenschutzhunden und zwei Hütehunden waren in der Zeit meiner Doktorarbeit Momente, in denen die Theorie Boden unter die Füße bekam. Nachts aufzustehen und ein fünf Tage altes Flaschenlamm mit Ersatzmilch zu füttern, verdeutlicht mehr-als-menschliche Fürsorgeverhältnisse und die Abhängigkeitsverhältnisse, in denen wir uns alle bewegen, drastisch. Das Spannungsverhältnis, um das kleine Leben eines jungen Lamms zu kämpfen, während seine Bezeichnung im landwirtschaftlichen Jargon, Fleischschaf, es auf seine Ressourcenhaftigkeit beschränkt, wirft eine Komplexität auf, die Donna Haraway so ausdrückt: „Die Aufgabe besteht darin, sich entlang erfinderischer Verbindungslinien verwandt zu machen und eine Praxis des Lernens zu entwickeln, die es uns ermöglicht, in einer dichten Gegenwart miteinander gut zu leben und zu sterben“ (2016: 9). Eine landwirtschaftliche Perspektive lehrt uns, das Mehr-als-Menschliche nicht nur als etwas mitzudenken, über das gesprochen wird, sondern das Wissen dessen, was wir Natur nennen, miteinzubeziehen, anzunehmen und in uns handlungsanleitend widerhallen zu lassen. Ich erzählte in vielen Vorträgen, wie mir mein Vater schon in frühen Kindesjahren beiläufig beibrachte, was ich viele Jahre später in Carla Hustaks und Natascha Myers (2012: 77) Satz „This requires reading with our senses attuned to stories told in otherwise muted registers“ wiederfand. Wenn ich mit meinem Vater über die Äcker lief, bückte er sich zur Seite, um im Weitergehen ein wenig Ackerboden aufzusammeln und diesen durch seine Hand rieseln zu lassen. So „las“ er, was der Boden brauchte. Was ich später mit der Frage „Can nature speak?“ theoretisch untersuchte, bekam schon sehr früh in meinen Kinderjahren eine praktische Antwort und begleitete mich, wann immer ich landwirtschaftlich tätig war. Ich suchte danach, dieses Erfahrungswissen, dieses Weltverstehen auch theoretisch begründbar zu machen. Was in landwirtschaftlicher Praxis selbstverständlich war, wurde zu einem politisch-akademisch-aktivistischen Projekt, da jenes bäuerliche Verständnis von und dieses Verhältnis zu dem, was wir Natur nennen, nicht hegemonialen Verständnissen entspricht und subversives Transformationspotenzial beinhaltet. Landwirt:innen beziehen das, was Natur genannt wird, immer in ihre Entscheidungen ein. Jede Anbauentscheidung, jede Bodenbearbeitung, jede Aussaat wird in Abstimmung mit Bodenbeschaffenheit, Exposition, Niederschlag, Pflanzenwachstum gemeinsam getroffen. Landwirt:innen können Pflanzen und Boden sowie die Tiere ihres Hofes „lesen“. Bei diesem „Lesen“ stellen sich Landwirt:innen nicht nur auf andere Zeichensysteme ein, sondern bewegen sich auch in anderen Zeitskalen. Genau dies arbeitete Maria Puig de la Bellacasa in Matters of Care (2015) heraus: Die Sorge für Böden verlange, sich auf nicht-anthropozentrische Zeitlichkeiten einzulassen. Zeiten, in denen Bodenmikroben leben, Humus sich bildet oder Böden sich regenerieren, verlangen, über Fürsorge, Verantwortung und Zukunft aus einer mehr-als-menschlichen Perspektive nachzudenken. Dieses Wahrnehmen und Sicheinlassen ist eine notwendige Vorstufe des Kümmerns. Fürsorge braucht Wahrnehmung und diese gilt es auch für ökologische Kontexte zu erlernen. Als nach 35 Jahren Bio-Bewirtschaftung unsere gepachteten Flächen an einen konventionellen Landwirt verkauft wurden, brach unser Herz vor allem deswegen, weil wir wussten, dass der Humusaufbau und der Schatz an Biodiversität, der sich über Jahrzehnte hinweg entwickelt hatte, nun in wenigen Jahren im wahrsten Sinne des Wortes untergepflügt und durch Pestizide beseitigt werden würden. In diesen Boden war eingeschrieben, wie er die letzten 35 Jahre bewirtschaftet worden war. Es fühlte sich an, als würde man unsere Geschichte, die der Acker trug, unsichtbar machen. Selbst wenn uns jemand die Flächen nach drei Jahren zurückgeschenkt hätte, wären es nicht mehr dieselben gewesen. Der Verlust der Biodiversität und des Humus wäre nicht einfach wieder rückgängig zu machen. Wir trauerten um das Leben, das auf und in diesen Äckern einen Lebensraum und einen Rückzugsort hatte. Donna Haraway (2015: 160) schreibt entsprechend: „Perhaps the outrage meriting a name like Anthropocene is about the destruction of places and times of refuge for people and other critters.“ Thom van Dooren (2025) macht deutlich, dass bei Aussterbeprozessen nicht nur etwas verloren geht, was vorher war, sondern dass auch eine mögliche, noch nicht bekannte Zukunft verunmöglicht wird. Was wäre aus diesem Acker, aus dem vielfältigen, scheinbar unsichtbaren Leben des Bodens noch geworden, wären es nicht 35 Jahre Bioanbau gewesen, die ihn gepflegt hatten, sondern weitere Jahrzehnte? Zugleich empfanden wir, dass ein Stück von uns mitstarb, als wir um das Leben des Bodens trauerten. Warum war dies so? Mit Bezug auf Thom van Dooren (ebd.) lässt sich das so zusammenfassen: Wenn etwas stirbt, geht nicht nur ein Einzelteil, sondern es zerbrechen Relationen. Diese Geschichte unterstreicht, dass Mensch-Natur-Verhältnisse und auch gegenhegemoniale Mensch-Natur-Verhältnisse nicht nur harmonisches Ineinanderschmelzen bedeuten. Es gilt vielmehr, die Brüchigkeit der Kategorien von Mensch und Natur, die in einem Weltverstehen westlicher Sozialisierung als „normal“ und „natürlich“ konstruiert wurden, hinsichtlich ihrer Gemachtheit fortlaufend zu hinterfragen: „[...] that is, to pay attention to differences of all kinds as well as to the powerful work that various modes of differentiating and distinguishing do in shaping worlds“ (van Dooren et al. 2016: 13). Eine landwirtschaftliche Perspektive hilft tagtäglich, das planetarische Voneinander-abhängig-Sein anzuerkennen, zu hinterfragen, was Mensch, was Natur ist, und sich der darin verorteten Wechselwirkungen, Handlungsfähigkeiten und Machtverhältnisse bewusst zu werden. Es geht nicht um Harmonie und Einswerdung. Es geht um den Umgang mit dem, das wir nicht sind, das aber auch nicht das ganz Andere von uns ist. Diese Geschichte lehrt uns, was Karen Barad (2014b: 170) in Bezug auf Trinh Minh-Ha so formuliert: „What is needed, Trinh emphasizes, is a disruption of the binary, a way to figure difference differently. If this is to be the case then difference cannot be positioned in opposition to sameness, not in any absolute sense, for this would reiterate the same problematic logics. As Trinh puts it: a non-binary conception of difference is ‘not opposed to sameness, nor synonymous with separateness’.“ Dr. Sophie von Redecker arbeitet aktuell als Post-Doc im Fachgebiet Soziologie der Diversität an der Universität Kassel. Die Wissenschaftlerin, Aktivistin und Solawi-Gärtnerin in einem FLINTA-Kollektiv hat kürzlich ihre Promotion im Bereich der Agrarian Humanities abgeschlossen. In ihrer Forschung befasst sie sich intensiv mit landwirtschaftlichen Perspektiven auf die sozialökologische Krise sowie den Mensch-Natur-Verhältnissen im Anthropozän. Literatur Barad, Karen, 2014b. Diffracting Diffraction: Cutting Together-Apart. In: Parallax 20 (3), 168-187. https://doi.org/10.1080/13534645.2014.927623 Bennett, Jane, 2010. Vibrant Matter: A Political Ecology of Things. Durham: Duke University Press Braidotti, Rosi, 2013. The Posthuman. Cambridge: Polity Press Haraway, Donna, 1988. Situated Knowledges: The Science Question in Feminism and the Privilege of Partial Perspective. In: Feminist Studies 14 (3), 575-599 Haraway, Donna, 2015. Anthropocene, Capitalocene, Plantationocene, Chthulucene: Making Kin. In: Environmental Humanities 6 (1), 159-165 Haraway, Donna J., 2016. Staying with the Trouble: Making Kin in the Chthulucene. Durham: Duke University Press Haraway, Donna, 2018. Unruhig bleiben: Die Verwandtschaft der Arten im Chthuluzän. Frankfurt a. M.: Campus Hoppe, Katharina, 2024. Donna Haraway zur Einführung. 2., unveränderte Auflage. Hamburg: Junius Hustak, Carla / Myers, Natasha, 2012. Involutionary Momentum: Affective Ecologies and the Sciences of Plant/Insect Encounters. In: differences 23 (3), 74-118 O’Gorman, Emily / Gaynor, Andrea, 2020. More-Than-Human Histories. In: Environmental History 25 (4), 711-735 Puig de la Bellacasa, María, 2017. Matters of Care: Speculative Ethics in More than Human Worlds. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press van Dooren, Thom, 2025. Multispecies Storytelling in Catastrophic Times. https://www.thomvandooren.org/2025/06/24/multispecies-storytelling-in-catastrophic-times/ (abgerufen am 28.10.2026) van Dooren, Thom / Kirksey, Eben / Münster, Ursula, 2016. Multispecies Studies: Cultivating Arts of Attentiveness. In: Environmental Humanities 8 (1), 1-23 Watts, Vanessa, 2013. Indigenous Place-Thought and Agency amongst Humans and Non-Humans (First Woman and Sky Woman Go on a European World Tour!). In: Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education & Society 2 (1), 20-34

Ökologien der Beziehung: Relationalität und (Un-)Sichtbarkeit Martin Krenn im Gespräch mit Havîn Al-Sîndy Read here in ENGLISH Im Nachklang, 2024, © Havîn Al-Sîndy Im Nachklang, 2024, © Havîn Al-Sîndy Im Nachklang, 2024, © Havîn Al-Sîndy Testimony of boundaries, 2019, © Havîn Al-Sîndy Testimony of boundaries, 2019, © Havîn Al-Sîndy Die Künstlerin Havîn Al-Sîndy ist seit 2024 Professorin für Kunst und Ökologien an der HBK Braunschweig. Sie begreift Kunst als eine relationale Praxis und beschäftigt sich mit den Bedingungen, unter denen Begegnungen, Beziehungen und Wissen entstehen. Es geht ihr dabei auch um die Frage, welche Perspektiven durch Prozesse der Sichtbarmachung ausgeschlossen oder unsichtbar gemacht werden. Durch die Verwendung des Plurals „Ökologien“ verfolgt sie den Anspruch, sich von einem vereinheitlichenden Verständnis des Begriffs abzusetzen. Denn wer festlegt, was „die“ Ökologie ist, legt damit auch fest, „was als Natur gilt, wer sie schützen darf und wer ihretwegen weichen muss“. Al-Sîndy setzt diesem vereinheitlichenden Verständnis konkrete Orte entgegen, an denen Lebewesen, Geschichte und Machtverhältnisse jeweils eigene Gefüge bilden. Diese Gefüge stehen jedoch nicht isoliert nebeneinander: Kolonialgeschichte, Handel und Klimawandel durchziehen sie gleichermaßen. Sie sind verschieden und zugleich miteinander verflochten; die Verantwortung für einen Ort endet daher nicht an dessen Grenze. „Ökologie“ wird heute landläufig mit „ökologisch“ gleichgesetzt, also mit einem schonenden Umgang mit Ressourcen und dem Schutz der Natur, wie er angesichts des Klimawandels dringend notwendig ist. Al-Sîndy fordert jedoch, dass der Begriff nicht auf eine einzige Bedeutung verengt wird, sondern als ein Gefüge verstanden werden muss, das durch unterschiedliche Perspektiven, Zugänge und historische Bedingungen bestimmt ist. „Es gibt nicht die Ökologie, sondern viele Orte, an denen sich Ökologie unterschiedlich zeigt.“ Zugleich sind diese Orte niemals isoliert, sondern mit Vergangenheit, Gegenwart und Zukunft verbunden. Der Plural „Ökologien“ verweist für sie nicht nur auf unterschiedliche Perspektiven, sondern ebenso auf Widersprüche und Leerstellen innerhalb dieser Perspektiven. „Ökologien bestehen aus Bewegungen, die man selten zu sehen bekommt: aus Wanderungen von Menschen, Tieren und Samen, aus Stoffen, die im Boden und im Wasser unterwegs sind, aus Wissen und Sprachen, die mit den Menschen weiterziehen oder unterwegs verloren gehen. Wer nur abbildet, was stillsteht, zeichnet eine Landschaft ohne Verkehr und Vernetzungen. Für die künstlerische Praxis folgt daraus eine unbequeme Aufgabe: darzustellen, ohne festzustellen, und zu zeigen, was sich nur andeuten lässt.“ Angesprochen auf das „Sichtbarkeitsdilemma“ – dass etwa die Sichtbarmachung einer bestimmten Gruppe oder Sache in gesellschaftspolitischen Kämpfen dazu führen kann, andere Probleme und Machtverhältnisse unsichtbar zu machen – ergänzt sie, dass jede thematische Festlegung immer auch Ausschlüsse produziert: „Egal wie oft wir uns einem Thema widmen, es bedeutet, wir lassen andere raus oder machen andere Sachen unsichtbar.“ Eine Tendenz unserer Zeit besteht darin, komplexe gesellschaftliche Verhältnisse in starre Kategorien zu überführen. Dies lässt sich etwa im Kontext von Diskriminierungsdiskursen beobachten, die mit der Auseinandersetzung mit der gewaltvollen Kolonialgeschichte verschiedener Gesellschaften verbunden sind. Werden solche Verflechtungen jedoch lediglich einseitig dokumentiert und eindeutig verortet, drohen Brüche, Widersprüche und Leerstellen in den jeweiligen Gesellschaften unsichtbar zu werden. Ökologie bedeutet für Havîn Al-Sîndy daher auch, die Lücken und Unterbrechungen eines Systems anzuerkennen und auszuhalten. Lücken sind dabei nicht grundsätzlich als Mängel zu verstehen, die behoben werden müssen. Zugleich sind nicht alle Leerstellen gleich: Ihre Bedeutung hängt davon ab, wie sie entstanden sind, welche Machtverhältnisse sie hervorbringen und wessen Perspektiven durch sie unberücksichtigt bleiben. Das Nicht-Sichtbare dürfe nicht vorschnell ausgefüllt oder geschlossen werden, betont sie: „Da gibt es Lücken, und in den Naturwissenschaften versucht man, diese Lücken zu verstehen und diese Leerstellen zu ersetzen. Und deswegen habe ich statt des Singulars den Begriff im Plural genommen.“ Konkretisieren lässt sich diese Überlegung am Beispiel von „Safe Spaces“. Dabei soll natürlich nicht grundsätzlich infrage gestellt werden, dass Räume des Schutzes in bestimmten Zusammenhängen, etwa zur Selbstermächtigung marginalisierter Gruppen, notwendig sind. Problematisch wird es allerdings, wenn behauptet wird, ein Raum sei sicher beziehungsweise frei von Diskriminierung, obwohl seine „Sicherheit“ erst durch den Ausschluss bestimmter Positionen, Perspektiven und Befindlichkeiten hergestellt wird. „Wir können nicht das eine besprechen, um safe zu sein, während wir das andere ausschließen. Ein Raum kann ausdrücklich sagen, für wen er gedacht ist und wen er ausschließt, und bleibt damit ehrlich. Fragwürdig wird er, wenn er Sicherheit für alle behauptet und sie in Wahrheit dadurch herstellt, dass unbequeme Erfahrungen draußen bleiben.“ Al-Sîndy verfügt über umfangreiche Erfahrungen mit Räumen dieser Art, etwa mit solchen, die ausschließlich BIPoC-Personen offenstanden. Doch auch innerhalb einer solchen Gruppe können erhebliche Marginalisierungen entstehen. „Und dann habe ich mir direkt die Frage gestellt: Für wen ist es gerade safe, wen lassen wir raus?“ Dabei lassen sich mehrere Ebenen der Unsichtbarkeit unterscheiden. So kann es vorkommen, dass die eigene Perspektive zugunsten einer vermeintlich vorherrschenden Gruppenperspektive zurückgenommen werden muss. Marginalisierte Stimmen können dadurch selbst innerhalb einer marginalisierten Gruppe erneut an den Rand gedrängt werden. Zugleich kann es geschehen, dass diejenigen, deren Perspektiven eigentlich Gehör finden sollten, bereits durch Zugangskriterien ausgeschlossen werden. Die Bedingungen von Zugehörigkeit und Konsens sind in diesem Fall bereits vor der eigentlichen Begegnung festgelegt. In ihrer Lehre versucht Al-Sîndy daher, Räume anders zu gestalten: als Orte, in denen Konflikte nicht vermieden, sondern ausdrücklich mitgedacht und ausgehandelt werden. Studierende sollen erkennen, dass die eigene (Gruppen-)Perspektive nicht die einzig gültige ist und dass auch ein vermeintlich sicherer Raum stets fragil bleiben muss. Andernfalls können performative Formen von Sicherheit entstehen, in denen ein Gefühl von Geborgenheit hergestellt wird, ohne die zugrunde liegenden Konflikte tatsächlich zu bearbeiten. „Von Safeness müssen wir noch reden. Wir müssen diskutieren, was das bedeutet.“ Geborgenheit und Sicherheit können demnach nicht als von vornherein gegebene Zustände verstanden werden. Sie entstehen erst in der konkreten Begegnung und müssen immer wieder neu ausgehandelt werden. „Safeness ist nichts, was ein Raum besitzt, sondern etwas, das zwischen Menschen geschieht und jederzeit kippen kann. Sie ist deshalb auch nicht gleich verteilt.“ Safeness bezeichnet somit weniger einen festen Zustand als eine relationale Bedingung, die sich innerhalb einer Beziehung fortwährend verändern kann. Den zweiten Schwerpunkt des Gesprächs bildet das Thema dieser Ausgabe, „Mutuality“, verstanden als Gegenseitigkeit und Wechselseitigkeit im politischen wie im ästhetischen Sinne. Havîn Al-Sîndy versteht Gegenseitigkeit nicht nur als eine Form des Austauschs, sondern auch als eine Praxis gegenseitiger Beobachtung. Sie greift dafür auf biologische Vorstellungen von Koexistenz und Koevolution zurück. Entscheidend sei nicht nur, dass zwei Akteur:innen miteinander verbunden sind und dadurch in einen Austausch treten, sondern dass sie die Bedürfnisse des Gegenübers wahrnehmen und das eigene Verhalten daraufhin reflektieren. „Ich beobachte, was deine Bedürfnisse sind, und ich verhalte mich dementsprechend“, erklärt sie. Eine solche Beziehung bedeutet für Al-Sîndy nicht, das Gegenüber verändern zu wollen. Vielmehr muss zugelassen werden, dass die Begegnung die eigene Position beeinflusst. Beobachtung wird selbst zu einer Form der Veränderung. Für die Kunsthochschule ist dieser Gedanke besonders relevant. Institutionelle Räume sind durch Hierarchien, Expertisen und feste Verortungen geprägt. Havîn Al-Sîndy beschreibt das Potenzial von Mutuality für die HBK deshalb als eine Irritation dieser Ordnung: Es gehe darum, „da drinnen Unruhe hineinzubringen“ und die scheinbar festen Verortungen ins Wanken zu bringen, sodass nicht bereits feststeht, wer über welches Wissen verfügt und welche Position einnimmt. Eine solche Beziehung setzt voraus, dass auch die eigene körperliche und emotionale Verfasstheit als Bestandteil der Begegnung anerkannt wird. Eine Methode besteht darin, die Studierenden vor Diskussionen reflektieren zu lassen: „Was habe ich zu Hause erlebt? Was war diese Woche? Wie habe ich heute Morgen angefangen, bevor ich in die Diskussion gehe?“Die Anerkennung dieser Bedingungen kann dazu beitragen, dass eine vermeintlich neutrale Position nicht unbemerkt zur dominanten Perspektive wird. Wo diese Offenheit fehlt, entsteht eine „Scheinbeziehung“. Beteiligte stellen eine bestimmte Position dar und ordnen sich ihr unter, anstatt die eigene Perspektive als veränderbar zu begreifen. Beziehung wird damit nicht tatsächlich eingegangen, sondern performt. Für Al-Sîndy handelt es sich dann um eine Pseudobeziehung. Beziehung beginnt für sie erst, wenn „ich zulasse, dass das, was du bist, mich tangiert“. Dazu gehöre auch die Möglichkeit des Scheiterns. Das gemeinsame Werden dürfe und könne nicht erzwungen werden, „ich kann dieses Werden loslassen“. Beziehung lässt sich dabei auch als ein Nachklang verstehen: „Etwas vom anderen bleibt in mir, verändert, wie ich höre, spreche und antworte, auch wenn ich es nicht geplant habe. Was zwischen uns geschieht, ist keine Botschaft, die übermittelt wird, sondern eine Schwingung, die beide bewegt und die keiner allein besitzt. Wo nichts nachklingt, war es Austausch, aber keine Beziehung.“ Wenn Beziehungen in feste Kategorien übersetzt werden, wird der „Ist-Zustand“ der eigenen Position zum Kapital. Identität wird dadurch zu einer Ressource, die darüber entscheidet, wie viel Gehör eine Person erhält. Diese Logik lässt sich auch im Kunstbetrieb beobachten. Diskriminierungskategorien werden teilweise zu ästhetischen Positionen hochstilisiert, um sie besser ausstellen zu können. Dabei droht die Komplexität der tatsächlichen Beziehungen aus dem Blick zu geraten – sowohl jener, die von Diskriminierung geprägt sind, als auch jener, durch die Diskriminierung hervorgebracht oder reproduziert wird. Dies geschieht insbesondere dann, wenn Beziehung nicht mehr als etwas verstanden wird, das in der Begegnung immer wieder ausgehandelt werden muss, sondern als von vornherein festgelegt gilt. Eine offene Begegnung findet nicht statt, wenn Personen aufgrund ihrer Herkunft oder gesellschaftlichen Position im Vorhinein bestimmte Haltungen und Perspektiven zugeschrieben werden. Daran knüpft Al-Sîndy ihre Kritik an der Forderung nach einer eindeutigen Positionierung, die fälschlicherweise mit Radikalität gleichgesetzt wird. Wer sich nicht klar verortet, läuft Gefahr, als „soft“ bezeichnet zu werden. Sie fragt stattdessen: „Wie kann ich radikal sein an einem Ort, wo es darum geht, Begegnung und Beziehung zu beobachten?“ Radikalität bestünde dann nicht notwendig in einer eindeutigen Positionierung, sondern in der Bereitschaft, die Bedingungen der eigenen Positionierung offenzulegen und verändern zu lassen. Resonanz. Im Nachklang: Sprache, Pilze und KI Als Beispiel für diese Haltung kann ihre Arbeit Resonanz. Im Nachklang (2024) betrachtet werden. Die Installation entstand in Zusammenarbeit mit Schüler:innen und beschäftigt sich mit Sprache und Sprachverlust. Ausgangspunkt war die Frage, wie Kommunikation möglich wird, wenn Sprache infolge politischer Gewalt, fehlender Bildung oder unterschiedlicher sprachlicher Voraussetzungen nicht selbstverständlich zur Verfügung steht. Die entscheidende Idee für die finale Arbeit kam von einer teilnehmenden Schülerin: „Wir brauchen keine Sprache, wir brauchen nur Sounds.“ Auf Video dokumentiert sieht man deshalb Jugendliche aus unterschiedlichen kulturellen und sprachlichen Kontexten, die sich gegenseitig das Pfeifen beibringen. Es entstand eine Form der Kommunikation, die Havîn Al-Sîndy nicht mehr vollständig kontrollieren konnte – und wollte. Die Pilze der Installation bildeten einen weiteren Akteur. Die Künstlerin verwendete sie als Modell und Beispiel für ökologische Formen der Verbindung und Kommunikation. Ergänzt wurde diese Ebene durch KI als technologische Vermittlungsinstanz. Besucher:innen konnten mit den KI-gesteuerten Pilzen interagieren und ihnen Pfeiflaute beibringen; dadurch veränderte sich die Sprache innerhalb der Installation weiter. Die Arbeit wurde so zu einem offenen Beziehungsgeflecht, in dem Pilz-Objekte, Jugendliche, Besucher:innen, KI und Sprache nicht mehr als voneinander getrennte Elemente erschienen, sondern sich gegenseitig beeinflussten und die Kommunikation innerhalb der Installation fortlaufend veränderten. Gleichzeitig stieß die Arbeit bewusst an die Grenzen relationaler Offenheit. Besucher:innen konzentrierten sich zunehmend auf die Pilze und die technische Ebene der KI, „denn die KI war so gesteuert, dass sie nur Frequenzen von den Kindern und eigentlich nicht von den erwachsenen Menschen annahm“, wie Al-Sîndy erläutert.Dadurch gerieten die Kinder als Ausgangspunkt der Kommunikation aus dem Blick. „Die Kinder wurden mehr oder weniger unsichtbar, obwohl sie sichtbar waren in der Installation. Das Paradox folgt aus der Anordnung: Die KI war auf die Kinder eingestellt und trotzdem rückte der Apparat in den Vordergrund. Wer als Datenquelle dient, muss nicht gehört werden.“ Die Installation wurde so selbst zu einer Untersuchung darüber, wie Sichtbarkeiten und Unsichtbarkeiten innerhalb relationaler Prozesse entstehen. Havîn Al-Sîndy schärft in ihrer Arbeit das Bewusstsein dafür, dass man selbst stets an der Hervorbringung von Unsichtbarkeit beteiligt ist. Unsichtbarkeit ist dabei weit mehr als ein unvermeidlicher Nebeneffekt individueller Aufmerksamkeit, die bestimmten Dingen oder Perspektiven zuteil wird; sie ist immer auch ein strukturelles Problem und politisch relevant. Gerade wenn ein Raum oder eine künstlerische Arbeit den Anspruch erhebt, bestimmte Perspektiven sichtbar zu machen, stellt sich daher die Frage, welche anderen Perspektiven dadurch möglicherweise verdrängt oder unsichtbar gemacht werden. Diese Form der Selbstreflexivität versteht die Künstlerin als zentralen Bestandteil ihrer künstlerischen Praxis. Auf die Rolle künstlerischer Handschrift und Autor:innenschaft angesprochen, formuliert Havîn Al-Sîndy eine grundsätzliche Kritik daran. Sie lehnt die Vorstellung einer individuellen, einzigartigen künstlerischen Handschrift ausdrücklich ab und spricht stattdessen von „Codierung“. Charakteristisch für ihre Praxis sei der Moment, in dem die Arbeit ihrer Kontrolle entzogen wird: „Ich liebe den Moment, in dem mir die Kunst aus der Hand genommen wird.“ Unerwartete Einwände der Jugendlichen und Kinder verändern den Aufbau und die Umsetzung einer Arbeit. Sogar die Pilze in Resonanz. Im Nachklang sind aufgrund des Hinweises eines Kindes in die Arbeit gelangt: „Du hast die Lebewesen vergessen.“ Zwar bleibt ihre Position als Künstlerin Ausgangspunkt der Arbeit, zugleich akzeptiert sie aber, dass die weitere Entwicklung nicht mehr allein von ihr bestimmt wird. Havîn Al-Sîndy negiert somit nicht einfach Autor:innenschaft, sondern setzt bei der Frage nach ihren Bedingungen an. Künstlerische Arbeit entsteht schließlich immer aus bereits vorhandenen Perspektiven, Erfahrungen, Vorbildern und Wissensformen. „Wenn wir ganz radikal sind, müssen wir sagen, es gibt diese Handschrift nicht.“ Bei einer Arbeit über ihre Mutter sagte diese beim Herstellen von Lehmsteinen zu ihr: „Du hast das Handwerk von mir gelernt.“ Al-Sîndy widersprach: Ihre Mutter hatte ihr dieses Handwerk nie ausdrücklich beigebracht. Dennoch hatte sie es sich durch die Beobachtung ihrer Mutter und deren Tätigkeit angeeignet. Gerade diese Form der Beobachtung ist ein Beispiel dafür, dass Wissen nicht nur explizit durch aktive Weitergabe, sondern auch körperlich, situativ und relational erworben wird. Die Vorstellung, künstlerische Kreativität entstehe aus einem autonomen, isolierten Subjekt, greift dementsprechend zu kurz. Deshalb müsse viel stärker nach dem „Dazwischen“ gefragt werden: Woher kommt das Wissen? Welche Beziehungen gehen wir in einer Arbeit ein? Und schließlich: Welche Formen der Aneignung bleiben unsichtbar, wenn ein Werk ausschließlich einer einzelnen Person zugeschrieben wird? Zusammenfassend zeigt sich, dass Al-Sîndys relationales Kunstverständnis auf der Annahme beruht, dass Begegnungen, Sichtbarkeiten und Zugehörigkeiten in der Gesellschaft keine festen Gegebenheiten sind, sondern sich fortwährend verändern und gegenseitig bedingen. „Ökologien“ bezeichnen bei ihr keine festen Kategorien, sondern fragile Gefüge aus Verbindungen, Unterbrechungen und Leerstellen. Gerade weil jede Festlegung zugleich Ausschlüsse hervorbringen kann, muss künstlerische Praxis ihre eigenen Bedingungen der Sichtbarkeit kritisch mitreflektieren. Auch Safe Spaces erscheinen aus dieser Perspektive nicht als abgeschlossene Schutzräume, sondern als veränderliche Ökologien. Entscheidend ist daher nicht, einen Raum endgültig als sicher zu deklarieren, sondern die Bedingungen seiner Sicherheit sowie die damit verbundenen Ein- und Ausschlüsse offenzulegen und fortlaufend auszuhandeln. „Mutuality“ bezeichnet dementsprechend keine harmonische Form der Gegenseitigkeit, sondern die Bereitschaft, sich in der Begegnung tatsächlich beeinflussen und verändern zu lassen – selbst dann, wenn dies zur Folge hat, dass eine Beziehung daran scheitert. Havîn Al-Sîndy ist Professorin für Kunst und Ökologien an der HBK Braunschweig. Ausgebildet in Biologie und Chemie, begreift sie Kunst als relationale Praxis in Zeichnung, Installation, Performance und Video. Ihre Arbeiten entstehen situiert und prozesshaft: im Boden vergrabenes Papier, Ton als gemeinschaftliche Architektur, Algen, die unsichtbare Grenzen auf einem See weben, Stimmen, die sich über Sprachen hinweg neu zusammensetzen, zuletzt die Installation „Resonanz. Im Nachklang“ (2024). Sie arbeitet zwischen Deutschland und Kurdistan. Martin Krenn ist Künstler, Kurator und Professor für Kunstvermittlung an der HBK Braunschweig. Er studierte Malerei an der Universität für angewandte Kunst Wien sowie elektronische Musik im ELAK-Lehrgang an der Universität für Musik und darstellende Kunst Wien. An der Ulster University in Belfast promovierte er mit einer Arbeit zu „The Political Space in Social Art Practices“ und an der Universität für angewandte Kunst Wien wurde er im Fach „Kunst und kommunikative Praxis“ habilitiert. Krenn ist international als Künstler und Kurator tätig und lehrte an mehreren europäischen Kunstuniversitäten. Er ist Herausgeber verschiedener Kunstpublikationen und des Webjournals www.appropriate-journal.art sowie Autor zahlreicher Texte zu sozialer Kunst, Erinnerungskultur und Kunstvermittlung.

The Imperatives and Potential of an Intersectional, Inequality-Conscious Art Education Practice Lio Bramkamp Read here in GERMAN Freiraum at Kunstverein Langenhagen, 2024, © Lio Bramkamp Freiraum at Kunstverein Langenhagen, 2024, © Lio Bramkamp Translated by Louise Pain I attended my first ever art exhibition while I was still in high school, at the urging of my art teacher at the time. She was also the person who invited me, when I was in Year 7, to join an art club that was run by the local village art association. Every other Saturday, students from different year levels would gather there: young people who wanted to pursue artistic activities outside the home and school environment. And that was precisely what the art club offered us: we were provided with a wide range of materials and given the freedom to use them however we wished. We were prompted to ask ourselves what interested us and why; we were given the opportunity to explore new possibilities and found that we were taken seriously in the process. Regular feedback sessions were also an integral part of the club, where everyone had the chance—or rather, was encouraged—to share their thoughts on their peers’ work. The club and these sessions offered me a truly unique and invaluable space and experience. Without it, there is a high chance I would never have gone on to study art. Now, looking back, I believe that the art club environment enabled me to cultivate a sense of self-efficacy derived from my own interests. For me, this experience and the memories associated with it remain a tremendous source of motivation and inspiration for my own practice as an art educator today. Obviously, it is impossible to readily replicate an experience like the one I had, and I feel it is important to acknowledge that my ability to access this kind of space was also made possible by my own privilege and good fortune—opportunities that many other children are denied. This awareness is also what motivates me to interrogate how barriers to extracurricular learning spaces might be dismantled, and what potential these alternative spaces for action might hold. So far, in my own work in the field art education, I have gained a wide range of experiences. I would emphasise at this point that those who practise art education professionally as paid work are required to adapt to the existing structures and framework conditions—even though these may at times conflict with their own personal values or pedagogical approach. At the same time, the experiences and challenges I have encountered in different contexts have helped me to develop and strengthen my own perspective and approach. Much of my work in art education has taken place in settings and projects shaped by rigid, predefined structures. For example, participation fees have in many cases further restricted people’s access to extracurricular workshops, where opportunities to take part were often already limited to begin with. Other constraints include strictly prescribed school curricula and course structures, as well as a decidedly results-oriented approach, with expectations placed on me as an educator to deliver specific, tangible outcomes. In this context, I find myself returning to the question: to what extent is it possible for us to identify and expand spaces for action and possibility within existing structures, even when these conflict with our own values or pedagogical approach? How can we render these structures more flexible? And how might we, at the very least, lower or even remove some of the barriers these structures impose? At this juncture, I would like to turn to the work of Aladin El-Mafaalani, who, in his book Mythos Bildung: Die ungerechte Gesellschaft, ihr Bildungssystem und seine Zukunft (The Myth of Education: Why Education is Always Good, but Never the Solution), talks about the need for a framework of support that takes societal inequalities of opportunity and resources into account. El-Mafaalani argues that an ‘inequality-conscious’ approach is essential if we are to meaningfully counteract the unequal starting opportunities faced by socially disadvantaged people. This means ‘compensating for deficits, […] fostering the talents inherent in every child, and promoting exceptional achievement’ (El-Mafaalani, 2021, p. 12). He emphasises that these efforts must focus in particular on ‘children from lower socioeconomic backgrounds and those experiencing challenging life circumstances’ (El-Mafaalani, 2021, p. 12) in order to systematically address unequal opportunities. ‘Where unequal circumstances are dealt with in the same way, we only end up reinforcing and reproducing inequality. What an inequality-conscious education framework should actually entail is that it takes a tailored and targeted approach to mitigating unequal circumstances’ (El-Mafaalani, 2021, p. 12). When forced to operate within preexisting structures and frameworks, it can seem virtually impossible for educators to break down the barriers that prevent certain children from accessing these spaces in the first place. Integrating extracurricular educational programmes into the regular school day could create opportunities for a more comprehensive, inequality-conscious, and emancipatory approach. Yet even within established and more exclusive settings, there are certain approaches and methods that can be applied in order to open up room for action, thereby enabling educators to deconstruct the barriers embedded in rigid systems with a greater awareness of systems and effects of inequality. Betina Aumair explores what these kinds of approaches might look like and the potential they possess in her essay ‘Bildung und soziale Ungleichheit: Impulse für eine klassismuskritische außerschulische Bildungsarbeit’ (Education and Social Inequality: Inspiration for Anti-Classist Extracurricular Educational Work) published in the book Solidarisch gegen Klassismus (In Solidarity Against Classism), edited by Francis Seeck and Brigitte Theißl. Aumair identifies two fundamental principles for critical, extracurricular educational work: ‘First, the proposed educational content should directly relate to young people’s actual lived realities. Second, educational processes should empower young people to shape their own lives and the social conditions in which they operate with intention and purpose’ (Aumair, 2023, p. 225). This requires an understanding of education ‘that does not primarily focus on boosting performance in the sense of the capitalist valorisation of people and knowledge, but instead positions human emancipation and the potential to change the world at its centre’ (Aumair, 2023, p. 225). One way to put these principles into practice is to take ‘each learner’s individual frame of reference […] as the starting point from which to develop their learning environment’ (Aumair, 2023, p. 224). What this means in concrete terms is asking learners what they know, what they can do, what interests them, what they would like to learn, what they enjoy doing, and what makes up the fabric of their world (Aumair, 2023, p. 224). Taking the needs and interests of young people seriously is a crucial step toward achieving an anti-classist approach to education (Aumair, 2023, p. 228). For many children and young people—particularly those from less privileged households—being taken seriously is by no means a given. Experiencing this—perhaps for the very first time—can represent a new and important step toward fostering a sense of self-efficacy and a capacity for agency (Aumair, 2023, p. 228). In this regard, Aumair advocates the principle of ‘prioritising the learner over the subject matter’ (2023, p. 224). This mean not only preparing learning content with the individual learner in mind, but also remaining attentive throughout the teaching process to the learners’ interests and experiences—in other words, their lived realities and the worlds they inhabit—and adapting learning environments where necessary. As part of an emancipatory and critical educational practice, the aim should be to encourage active engagement with the world—a process also described as Weltaneignung or ‘appropriating the world’. Weltaneignung refers to the ability to explore and make sense of the world in a self-determined way, as well as to understand how this process can occur (Aumair, 2023, p. 224). In this context, Aumair emphasises that ‘education […] is never separate from its social context; it is always embedded within it’ (Aumair, 2023, p. 224). Since the focus here is primarily on barriers that arise as a result of social inequalities, it is important to emphasise that mechanisms of discrimination must always be understood through an intersectional lens. This means, for example, that classism is not a separate, self-contained category, but is intertwined with other forms of discrimination, including racism, sexism, and ableism. The interaction of multiple forms of discrimination, in turn, engenders distinct forms and effects of marginalisation. For educational work to be genuinely emancipatory, an inequality-conscious approach must necessarily be intersectional, acknowledging and taking into account the effects of multiple, overlapping forms of discrimination. In the context of art education, I would like to explore two different ways of understanding art education practice. The first understands art education as the sharing of artistic methods, skills, abilities, possibilities, and strategies. The primary focus here is on the artistic process itself: opening up options, valuing ideas, and helping them to take shape. In my experience, however, just as much valuable exchange can occur in the interstitial spaces that arise during a collaborative creative process. These moments might involve sharing experiences, memories, associations, doubts, wishes, and interests. Just how much space is carved out for these kinds of exchanges depends largely on the approach and attitude of the educator. Collective reflection can also constitute a valuable part of this practice, encouraging learners in their own creative work and helping them to navigate and hopefully overcome their doubts. A second understanding of art education sees art as an alternative tool for producing and disseminating knowledge. Artistic and art-educational methods can be employed in an effort to make educational content more accessible: for example, by offering a variety of points of connection and associations that appeal to the different lived realities of the people doing the learning. This can open up non-linear exchanges around a topic, guided by the learners’ own interests and allowing them to explore how the subject matter might relate to their own individual lives. These kinds of approaches to art education can help us to perceive of educational processes as non-linear and, by putting the learners at the centre, make these processes more empowering and emancipatory. In my opinion, it is both sensible and necessary to bolster the connection between an intersectional awareness of inequality and the practice of art education—particularly with respect to the mindset and approach of the teachers themselves. I consider an individual’s capacity to consistently reflect on their own positionality to be an indispensable element of any inequality-conscious educational work. This entails that person developing an awareness of their own privileges and experiences of marginalisation, as well as recognising the influence and authority they bring into a space as an educator. It is therefore essential that educators be given opportunities to further their knowledge of intersectional mechanisms of discrimination and inequality-conscious educational practice, ideally as part of their paid working hours. Working collectively also makes a great deal of sense from an emancipatory perspective, with collective working processes allowing for an increased diversity of perspectives and exchange from the outset, even in the planning stage. Collective work also necessarily entails a shared process of engagement and reflection, which I consider essential to an inequality-conscious practice. Other forms of collective feedback and reflection could provide opportunities for art educators to share knowledge, experiences, tools, challenges, and (self-)critique. A network, for instance, could facilitate collective learning and create a reciprocal process of exchange. There is no single, definitive answer to what an intersectional, inequality-conscious approach to art education should look like in concrete terms. Nonetheless, there are certain preexisting approaches and initiatives that can help broaden opportunities for participation and foster emancipatory outcomes. One example is a project by the ‘trafo.K’ collective—an office for art education and critical knowledge production—which demonstrates how art can be used as a resource or tool for acquiring knowledge with a view to communicating intersectional content. The collective’s ‘FlicFlac’ workshop materials—developed by the collective through a participatory process accompanied by research in the field of social science—comprise queer-feminist resources for vocational schools. During these workshop sessions, participants are presented with artworks in postcard format, and each person selects a card, which then serves as a prompt for further discussion. Simon Nagy, a member of trafo.K, explained in an interview that the collective—guided by a clear, emancipatory commitment—works exclusively with counter-images and contradictory imagery, and eschews materials that reproduce forms of discrimination. According to Nagy, this points to a particular potential inherent in artistic works: ‘the ability to create contradictory images that invite disagreement and conflict, while also allowing different forms of expert knowledge to be rapidly disseminated among learners’ (Bramkamp 2026). In this context, art can be understood as a medium that is at once contradictory and also capable of generating contradictions, and to which each individual brings a unique form of expertise that their peers may not possess. These different forms of knowledge can generate productive conflict, in which the traditional role and authority of the teacher are challenged and ultimately give way to a more equal exchange within the group. For Nagy, this dynamic remains a fundamental objective of education practice (Bramkamp, 2026). In July 2024, I co-facilitated one of four weeks of the ‘Freiraum für Gedanken und Bauwerke’ (Open Space for Thoughts and Buildings) at the Kunstverein Langenhagen—a free, open-access summer programme for local children and young people. Those of us responsible for facilitating the programme and events were encouraged to see ourselves first and foremost as ‘assistants’ who would work on equal footing with the participants, responding to their ideas and group dynamics rather than preparing specific project concepts in advance. The intention was to embark on an open-ended process together, as a collective. The programme attracted a large number of children from the surrounding neighbourhood. As a facilitator, I entered the week with probably just as much uncertainty as the participants themselves. The ‘open space’ aimed to foster an anti-hierarchical approach, but existing hierarchies were not being explicitly addressed or negotiated. We were encouraged to engage with the children in a supportive, assistant-like capacity, but there was no clear discussion of what our roles as assistants actually entailed, or how those role might inform our interactions with participants. How we responded to chaotic or overwhelming situations, for example, depended largely on the individual facilitator. While this open framework offered considerable scope for action, it became abundantly clear to me in moments of conflict that an anti-hierarchical approach must actively address and negotiate existing hierarchies and power relations if it is to be genuinely effective in its aims. When it comes to interactions between facilitators and participants, these intersectional hierarchies and power relations can be influenced by factors such as age, habitus, language, race, and gender. There is no singular blueprint for what an intersectional, inequality-conscious art education practice should look like. Intersectional effects are complex and multidimensional, as are the potential approaches for addressing, discussing, and deconstructing them. The specific structural conditions within which educators operate also play an important role in this regard. Nonetheless, previous projects and existing methods can offer inspiration for creating scope and expanding possibilities for action. They can help increase the likelihood that learners will connect with particular content or experiences and develop a sense of self-efficacy or empowerment. For me, this also forms part of a broader intersectional struggle. References Aumair, B. (2023) ‘Bildung und soziale Ungleichheit: Impulse für eine klassismuskritische außerschulische Bildungsarbeit’, in Seeck, F. and Theißl, B. (eds.), Solidarisch gegen Klassismus , pp. 222–232, 4th edition. Münster: UNRAST-Verlag. Bramkamp, L. (2026) Interview with Simon Nagy, 10 March 2026. Unpublished. El-Mafaalani, A. (2021) Mythos Bildung: Die ungerechte Gesellschaft, ihr Bildungssystem und seine Zukunft , 1st edition. Cologne: Kiepenheuer & Witsch.

„Halb zog sie ihn, halb sank er hin“ – Fluide Transgression in Under the Skin (2013) Sarah K. Becker Read here in ENGLISH Film still, Under the Skin (2013) Film still, Under the Skin (2013) Film still, Under the Skin (2013) Film still, Under the Skin (2013) Film still, Under the Skin (2013) Film still, Under the Skin (2013) Eine Frau mit schwarzer Perücke, rot geschminkten Lippen und Fake-Pelzjacke fährt in Jonathan Glazers Under the Skin (UK 2013) in einem weißen Van durch Schottland. Sie fragt männliche Passanten in Glasgow nach dem Weg, bietet ihnen bei regnerischem Wetter eine Mitfahrt an oder lockt sie mit einem plumpen Flirt ins Innere ihres Wagens. Mit dem unausgesprochenen Versprechen auf Sex lassen sich etliche Männer mit zu ihr nach Hause nehmen. Hinter der Tür eines heruntergekommenen Gebäudes im industriell geprägten Nirgendwo erwartet die angefixten Mitfahrer die tiefste Schwärze eines grenzenlosen fantastischen Raums. Die unendliche Leere wird nur durch die Körper der Fahrerin und des jeweiligen Passagiers gefüllt. Während die Frau auf dem harten Grund des schwarzen, spiegelnden Bodens in die Tiefe des Nichts voranschreitet, sich auszieht und einen fesselnden Blick zurückwirft, folgt ihr der jeweilige Gast widerstandslos. Sich dem Sog der Verführung hingebend, bemerkt er nicht, wie der zuvor solide Boden sich in eine schwarze zähe Flüssigkeit wandelt, in die sein Körper mit jedem Schritt tiefer einsinkt und von der er schließlich gänzlich verschluckt wird. Die Schritte der Frau hingegen verharren auf festem Grund (Abb. 1). Dieses Verführungsspiel wiederholt sich im Verlauf des Science-Fiction-Films mehrere Male. Für die Frau im Van – verkörpert von der US-Schauspielerin Scarlett Johansson – ist es ein Leichtes, einen Mann nach dem anderen in den schwarzen Pool zu versenken. Was die bereitwillig Verführten jedoch nicht ahnen: Ihr Gegenüber ist keine sexpositive Fremde, vielmehr handelt es sich um ein Alien, das mit einer menschlichen, genauer gesagt weiblichen Hülle auftritt. Sein eigentlicher, durch die menschliche Haut nur verhüllter Leib ist aus ebenjener tiefschwarzen Materie geformt, in der seine Opfer verschwinden. Die sogartige Lockung durch die fremdartige Erscheinung und das ekstatische Versinken in der dunklen Flüssigkeit greifen einen Motivkomplex auf, der in der westlich geprägten Kulturgeschichte seit Jahrhunderten zu finden ist: Von der Antike über das Mittelalter und die Romantik hinweg bis zu populären Gegenwartserzählungen treffen Männer immer wieder auf aquatische Entitäten, die sie in die Fluten rufen (vgl. Stephan 1993, Stuby 1992). Dabei ist diese Konstellation zwischen Mensch und fantastischen Wesen, die das flüssige Element personifizieren oder im Wasser beheimatet sind und in den allermeisten Fällen weiblich konnotiert sind, von einer interessanten Gegenseitigkeit geprägt – von einem Bezirzen und Hingeben, einer sexuellen Sehnsucht, die in einem fließenden Übergang in den Selbstverlust kippt: „Halb zog sie ihn, halb sank er hin / Und ward nicht mehr gesehn“ (Goethe 2000 [1779]: 272). Mit dieser Formel beschreibt Johann Wolfgang von Goethe das Verhältnis zwischen seinem dahinsinkenden Fischer und dem lockenden „feuchten Weib“ (ebd.); eine Formel, in der sich das Ertrinken als dramatischer Kulminationspunkt eines ambivalenten Wechselspiels von Begehren und Bedrohung verdichtet, als rauschhafte Entgrenzung. Ort dieser erotisch-fatalen Begegnung ist die Wasseroberfläche, die beidseitig durchbrochen wird, durch die die Wasserfrau hindurchgreift und durch die zugleich ihr Opfer eintritt. Sie dient als durchlässige Grenzfläche, die scheinbar dualistische Prinzipien voneinander differenziert: Realität und Mythos, Luft und Wasser, Kultur und Natur, männlich und weiblich. Die Konnotation des Wassers als weibliches Element gehört zu den hartnäckigsten Analogiebildungen der westlich geprägten Kulturgeschichte. Dabei ist die Beziehung zwischen Weiblichkeit und Aquatischem selbst als wechselseitige Verflechtung angelegt: In den kulturellen Imaginationen wird sowohl das Wasser feminisiert als auch „die Frau“ mit aquatischen Eigenschaften belegt. In seiner Studie Männerphantasien widmet sich der Literaturwissenschaftler Klaus Theweleit diesem Phänomen aus einer männlichkeitskritischen Perspektive (Theweleit 1982). Er dekonstruiert die wasserbezogene Weiblichkeit als eine Vorstellung, die vor allem der männlichen Lust und der patriarchalen Selbstvergewisserung dient – eben als Männerfantasie. Immer wieder: die Frau aus dem Wasser, die Frau als Wasser, als brausendes, spielendes, kühlendes Meer, als reißender Strom, als Wasserfall, als unbegrenztes Gewässer […]; die Frau als lockende (oder gefährliche) Tiefe, als Becher, in dem der Saft sprudelt, die Vagina als Welle, als Schaum, als dunkler Ort, umrahmt von Pazifikkränzen; […] der Ozean […]: die namenlose Superhure, unbescholten und unerschöpflich, auf der man selbst namenlos wird und grenzenlos, auf der man ichlos treiben kann, […] aufgelöst ins Prinzip des genießenden Mannes (ebd.: 292 f., Hervorhebung im Original). Kern all dieser Bilder ist eine binäre Geschlechterideologie, die das Männliche als prägnant, stark, solide definiert, das Weibliche hingegen als fließend, konturlos und rätselhaft. Das Flüssige, die Fluten dienen dabei jedoch auch, wie Theweleit herausarbeitet, als Angstszenarien, die das Massiv der Männlichkeit imaginär zu überrollen drohen und zur Erosion bringen könnten (vgl. ebd.: 237–241). Die Furcht vor der Auflösung des männlichen „Ich-Panzers“ wird jedoch von einer Lust der Grenzüberschreitung begleitet, vom Reiz des Zerfließens der stählernen Körpergrenzen oder des Übertretens moralischer Grenzen (vgl. ebd.: 239 f.). Diese Lust am Transgressiven spiegelt sich in den unzähligen aquatischen Sexualmetaphern wider, die in der westlich geprägten Kultur kursieren – Metaphern des Überströmtwerdens, Verschwimmens von Körpergrenzen; nicht selten wird das Eintauchen in ein Gewässer als ein Akt der Penetration imaginiert (Abb. 2). [1] Der aquatische Raum wird so zum Schauplatz einer ebenso erotisierten wie hierarchisierten Begegnung, in der das feminisierte Kreatürliche als „das Andere“ bestimmt wird, das durch ein männliches Subjekt zugleich begehrt und beherrscht werden soll. An ebendiesem Konnex setzt Under the Skin mit seiner Konzeption des verführerischen Aliens und der schwarzen Materie an. Dass der Film sich auf vielfältige Weise der Analogisierung von Weiblichkeit und Wasser sowie konkreter Elemente des Wasserfrauen-Mythos bedient, ist auch der Filmkritik nicht entgangen. Trotz der Verfremdung erkennt etwa Michael Ranze Johanssons Charakter als „sinnliche […] Sirene“ (Ranze 2014), und Andrew Wyatt titelt seine Besprechung des Films mit „The Siren Song“ (Wyatt 2014). [2] Under The Skin greift die tradierte Beziehung zwischen einer fremdartigen, weiblich codierten Entität und einem Mann, der sich ihrem Sog hingibt, also auf – löst diese jedoch von ihrer Bindung an Gewässer und transformiert sie in eine zeitgenössische Konstellation fluider Alterität. [3] So wie das Wasser in mythischen Erzählungen die metaphorische Dimension des Fremden verkörpert, so repräsentiert die schwarze Flüssigkeit in zugespitzter Form die Gegenseite des Realen, das Rätselhafte und Undurchsichtige im wahrsten Sinne des Wortes. Die dunkle Masse ist dabei zugleich fest und flüssig, diaphan und opak, spiegelnd und verschlingend, konservierend und zerfressend. Sie ist auf unmögliche Weise alles zur gleichen Zeit. Ein Blick zurück auf die eigentümliche Dynamik der wiederkehrenden Verführungsszenen macht deutlich, welche neue Qualität die schwarze Materie an die Stelle der Wasseroberfläche setzt: Mit einer anhaltenden Distanz von gut zwei Metern laufen Alien und Opfer gemeinsam in die Tiefe des Raums – Johansson rückwärts, den Mann mit ihrem Blick zu sich lockend, er ihr im gleichen Tempo folgend (Abb. 3). Zwischen Verführerin und Verführtem kommt es dabei zu keiner körperlicher Berührung. Anders als die klassische Wassernymphe greift das Alien nicht nach seinem Gegenüber, zieht es nicht mit den eigenen Händen in seine eigene Sphäre, ins Wässrige, sondern hält konsequent Abstand. Es verbleibt stattdessen auf der Oberfläche, bewegt sich horizontal immer weiter in die endlose Dunkelheit hinein. Die eigentliche Grenzüberschreitung vollzieht allein der Mann, dessen Körper in die für ihn allein punktuell verflüssigte Tiefe der Materie eingeht. Das Alien bleibt dabei buchstäblich außen vor. Ist das Versinken der erregten Opfer als metaphorische Darstellung von Lust und Leidenschaft, vom Fallenlassen oder gar Eindringen konzipiert, so ist das Alien von all diesen Gefühlen und Sinnbildern ausgeschlossen. Es verharrt auf dem starren Boden und fährt nach dem koitalen Versinken des Anderen emotionslos mit der Arbeit fort. Dem Schreckensbild einer hungrigen Männerfresserin setzt Under the Skin damit ein perfektioniertes, wenn auch unaufgeregtes In-den-Tod-Locken entgegen, das der Alien-Sirene selbst keinerlei Befriedigung zu bringen scheint. Die tödliche Agency liegt nicht länger bei der als Femme fatale getarnten Entität, sondern bei einer Materie, die als aktive Kraft in die Beziehungskonstellation drängt. Das Versinken scheint dabei vom Mann nicht als bedrohlich wahrgenommen oder überhaupt registriert zu werden. Noch als sein Gesicht schon fast versunken ist, starrt er Johansson mit gleichbleibender Intensität an (Abb. 4). Erst unterhalb der Oberfläche offenbart die dunkle Materie ihre eigentliche Beschaffenheit. Die Kamera folgt dem Untergegangenen in einen eigentümlichen Unterwasserraum, in dem die Flüssigkeit aus seiner Perspektive beinahe transparent erscheint (Abb. 5). Dort trifft er auf ein anderes Opfer, einen bereits zuvor versunkenen Mann, dessen aufgedunsener Körper wie ein eingelegtes Tierpräparat konserviert wurde. Das zweite Opfer reicht dem ersten tröstend die Hand. Doch ist diese Geste von Beistand nicht von langer Dauer, denn der eine muss zusehen, wie der andere schlagartig an Konsistenz verliert, sich das Innere seines Körpers auflöst, bis nur noch seine Haut übrigbleibt. Letztere treibt zusammengefallen in der Flüssigkeit umher (Abb. 6). Während in traditionellen Darstellungen des erotischen Ertrinkens die Auflösung des Körpers meist metaphorisch als Verschmelzung mit dem Element gedacht wird, radikalisiert Under the Skin dieses Motiv, indem es den Selbstverlust physisch konkretisiert. Der Mann löst sich nicht in grenzenloser Lust auf, sondern wird buchstäblich zerlegt: entleert, ausgehöhlt. Die zurückbleibende Haut führt eine weitere Form der Oberfläche ein, die bereits der Filmtitel Under the Skin ankündigt und die im Finale des Films ihre eigentliche Zuspitzung erfährt: In einem verlassenen Waldstück wandelt Johanssons Figur nach einigen dramaturgischen Wendungen schutz- und orientierungslos umher, als ein fremder Mann versucht, sie zu vergewaltigen. Im Kampf reißt der Angreifer die menschliche Hülle entzwei. Unter der Haut tritt die tiefschwarze Materie hervor; das bislang verborgene Innere wird sichtbar (Abb. 7). Die Logik der durchdringbaren Oberfläche setzt sich damit am Körper selbst fort. Die Szene macht sichtbar, welche Gewalt mit der sozialen Lesbarkeit als Frau verbunden sein kann. Gerade im Moment dieser gewaltsamen Zuschreibung erweist sich die Weiblichkeit der Figur jedoch als bloße Hülle. Unter ihr liegt kein „eigentliches“ weibliches Wesen verborgen, sondern eine Leerstelle. Das Fluide verweist hier nicht länger auf eine weibliche Essenz, sondern auf die grundsätzliche Instabilität geschlechtlicher Zuschreibungen und eröffnet damit feministische, queerfeministische und cyberfeministische Lesarten. [4] In Under the Skin werden Oberflächen zu Orten der Aushandlung. Ob schwarzer Pool oder menschliche Haut, ob zwischen Oben und Unten, Innen und Außen – die Grenzflächen trennen nicht einfach unterschiedliche Sphären voneinander, sondern bringen Beziehungen, etwa zwischen Mensch und Nicht-Mensch, überhaupt erst hervor. Gerade dadurch entwirft der Film unterschiedliche Formen wechselseitiger Bezogenheit – als Frage von Nähe und Distanz, von Begehren und Indifferenz sowie von Konsens und Gewalt. Mutualität erscheint dabei nicht als harmonische Gegenseitigkeit oder romantische Verschmelzung, sondern als prekäre Relation, in der sich die Grenzen zwischen den Akteur:innen immer wieder neu aushandeln. Dabei lösen sich die Differenzen zwischen ihnen jedoch nicht einfach auf. Ins Wanken gerät vielmehr die Vorstellung, dass sie sich in festen Hierarchien zwischen Kultur und Natur, Mensch und Nicht-Mensch oder Männlichem und Nicht-Männlichem ordnen lassen. Literatur Ferenczi, Sándor, 1924. Versuch einer Genitaltheorie. Leipzig: Internat. Psychoanalyt. Verl. Francis, Marc, 2016. Splitting the difference: On the queer-feminist divide in Scarlett Johansson’s recent body politics. In: Jump Cut: A Review of Contemporary Media 57. www.ejumpcut.org/archive/jc57.2016/-FrancisSkin/index.html (abgerufen am 03.07.2026) Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 2000 [1779]. Der Fischer. In: Frank Rainer Max (Hrsg.), Undinenzauber. Geschichten und Gedichte von Nixen, Nymphen und anderen Wasserfrauen, S. 272 f. Stuttgart: Reclam Hole, Kristin Lené / Jelača, Dijana, 2018. Film feminisms: A global introduction. London/New York: Routledge Larigakis, Sophia, 2017. The Future is Female*: On Queer Futures and Alien Transcendence in Science Fiction Cinema and Beyond. www.thefilmatlas.com/the-future-is-female-on-queer-futures-and-alien-transcendence-in-science-fiction-cinema-and-beyond (abgerufen am 03.07.2026). Osterweil, Ara, 2014. Under the Skin: The Perils of Becoming Female. In: Film Quarterly 67 (4), 44–51 Otto, Beate, 2001. Unterwasser-Literatur: Von Wasserfrauen und Wassermännern. Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann Ranze, Michael, 2014. Under the Skin – Jonathan Glazer. In: Filmbulletin (5) Stephan, Inge, 1993. Weiblichkeit, Wasser und Tod: Undinen, Melusinen und Wasserfrauen bei Eichendorff und Fouqué. In: Hartmut Böhme (Hrsg.), Kulturgeschichte des Wassers, S. 234–262. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Stuby, Anna Maria, 1992. Liebe, Tod und Wasserfrau. Mythen des Weiblichen in der Literatur, Wiesbaden: VS Verlag für Sozialwissenschaften Theweleit, Klaus, 1982 [1977]: Männerphantasien. 1: Frauen, Fluten, Körper, Geschichte. Reinbek bei Hamburg: Rowohlt Ullrich, Jessica, 2026: Queere Wasserfrauen. In: Kunstforum 312, S. 106–115. Wyatt, Andrew, 2014: The Siren Song. In: The Curator. www.curatormagazine.com/andrew-wyatt/the-siren-song/ (abgerufen am 03.07.2026) Abbildungsverzeichnis Abb.1: Filmstill Under the Skin (2013) Abb. 2: Eugène Lepoittevin, Diableries Erotiques, 1832. Kleine gehörnte Wesen springen von einer Klippe zu einem im Wasser liegenden Frauenkörper hinunter, der die Größe der Teufel um ein Vielfaches übersteigt. Die pornografische Karikatur untermauert die genannte Penetrationsanalogie auf visuelle Weise: Der Sprung ins Wasser erschient oftmals synonym zu dem Eindringen in den wässrig-weiblichen Körper. Abb. 3–7: Filmstills Under the Skin (2013) CV Sarah K. Becker ist Kulturwissenschaftlerin und Mediengestalterin. In ihrem Dissertationsprojekt „Filmische Wassertode“ an der Humboldt-Universität zu Berlin untersucht sie den kinematografischen Motivkomplex des Wassertods aus kultur-, medien- und geschlechterwissenschaftlicher Perspektive. Sie arbeitet zudem als Kuratorin und Filmemacherin in Berlin und Braunschweig mit einem thematischen Fokus auf Kultur- und Mediengeschichte, Natur, Gender und Erinnerungsarbeit. Seit 2026 ist sie Projektkoordinatorin für das NatureCulture ArtLab an der Hochschule für Bildende Künste Braunschweig. [1] Diese Vorstellung wird beispielsweise durch den Psychoanalytiker und Freud-Schüler Sándor Ferenczi unterfüttert, der in seiner Studie Versuch einer Genitaltheorie aus dem Jahr 1924 die These entwickelte, die Penetration der Vagina beim Geschlechtsakt komme einer imaginären Rückkehr in den Mutterleib gleich und sei zugleich mit dem Eintauchen in ein Meer assoziiert. Die ödipale Sehnsucht nach dem Wiedereindringen in die pränatale Geborgenheit des Fruchtwassers beschreibt er dementsprechend als „thalassalen Regressionszug“ ( Θάλασσα, thálassa : griechisch für „Meer“) (vgl. Ferenczi 1924: 23–96). [2] Dabei ist zu erwähnen, dass Sirenen in der Kulturgeschichte nicht grundsätzlich als Fischfrauen konzipiert wurden. Im Ursprungstext der Homer’schen Odyssee sind sie ursprünglich amorph beschrieben, nehmen in späteren Darstellungen die Form vogelartiger Mischwesen an, bevor sie in der späteren Rezeptionsgeschichte zunehmend als Wasserwesen dargestellt werden (vgl. Scribner 2020, Schmitz-Emans 2003: 48, Otto 2001: 21). [3] Das bedeutet jedoch nicht, dass das Wasser als filmisches Motiv gänzlich negiert werden würde. Vielmehr spielt der Film sowohl mit der Ähnlichkeit als auch der Differenz zwischen den beiden fluiden Stoffen. Denn an mehreren zentralen Stellen wird Wasser in die Filmhandlung und -ästhetik eingebaut: Bachläufe, kleine Wasserfälle, eine peitschende Meeresbrandung, Nebel, Regen und Schnee setzen dem abstrakten Schwarz konkrete Naturerscheinungen entgegen. [4] Die Kunst- und Filmkritikerin Ara Osterweil versteht die Kernaussage des Films als „to be female is to be alien“ (Osterweil 2014: 44), während die Filmwissenschaftlerinnen Kristin Lené Hole und Dijana Jelača das Alien in seiner Funktion als männertötende Killerin als eine radikale, feministische Drohung bestimmen. Dabei verstehen Letztere den Film als posthumane Parabel über das Frau-Werden, das nie bis in den Kern des Wesens hineinwirkt, sondern stets nur eine „skin-deep assumption“ (Hole/Jelača 2018: 113) bleibt. Der Filmwissenschaftler Marc Francis hält dieser Position eine queere Lesart entgegen, in der das queere Subjekt und die weibliche Hülle voneinander losgelöst bleiben. Damit überlagern sich Francis zufolge die misogyne Gewalt und jene gegenüber nicht-binären und trans* Körpern (vgl. Francis 2016). Die Film- und Kunstkritikerin Sophia Larigakis unterstreicht die queere Botschaft von Under the Skin unter Einbezug von Donna Haraways Cyborg Manifest , in dem der nonkonforme Alienkörper als ein Terrain des Widerstands gegen das Patriachat und die damit einhergehende Heteronormativität ist (vgl. Larigakis 2017). Zur Queerness, die bereits in der Figur der Wasserfrau angelegt ist, siehe Ullrich 2026.

‘She half pulled him, he half sank down’—Fluid Transgression in Under the Skin (2013) Sarah K. Becker Read here in GERMAN Film still, Under the Skin (2013) Film still, Under the Skin (2013) Film still, Under the Skin (2013) Film still, Under the Skin (2013) Film still, Under the Skin (2013) Film still, Under the Skin (2013) Translated by Louise Pain In Jonathan Glazer’s Under the Skin (UK 2013), a woman dressed in a black wig, red lipstick, and a fake fur jacket travels through Scotland in a white van. Driving through the streets of Glasgow, she stops periodically to ask male passers-by for directions, before offering to give them a lift in the rain or luring them into her vehicle with some awkward flirtation. Using the implicit promise of sex, she is able to convince several men to come home with her. Behind the door of a decrepit building in an industrial backwater, her eager passengers find themselves in the pitch blackness of a limitless, otherworldly void. The unending black emptiness is occupied solely by the body of the driver and her latest passenger. The woman forges ever deeper into the nothingness, striding across the smooth, firm surface of the black, mirror-like floor, gradually removing her clothes and casting a seductive glance over her shoulder, while her guest obediently follows in her wake. Lost in her seductive pull, the man fails to notice that the once solid ground has now transformed into a black, viscous liquid. With every step, his body sinks deeper into the tar-like mass, until he is ultimately engulfed entirely. Meanwhile, the woman continues to stride forward on solid ground (Fig. 1). This game of seduction is repeated several times throughout the science-fiction film. For the woman in the van—played by US-American actor Scarlett Johansson—it is nothing to lure one man after another toward their fate in the black waters. But what these readily ensnared men do not realise is that their companion is not a sexually liberated stranger, but rather an alien who has taken a human—or, to be more precise, a female—form. Its real body, concealed beneath a sheath of human skin, is composed of the very same jet-black matter into which its prey are submerged and disappear. The siren-like pull exerted by this otherworldly apparition and the men’s ecstatic descent into the black liquid draw on a complex of motifs that has featured prominently in Western cultural history for centuries: from antiquity to the Middle Ages and the Romantic era, to popular contemporary narratives, men have time and again encountered aquatic beings that compel them into the watery depths (see Stephan, 1993; Stuby, 1992). This dynamic between humans and mythical creatures—who either serve to personify the element of water or who dwell within it and who are, with few exceptions, depicted as decidedly feminine or female—is characterised by a fascinating reciprocity: a combination of bewitchment and submission, an erotic yearning that flows seamlessly into the surrender of self: ‘ Halb zog sie ihn, halb sank er hin / Und ward nicht mehr gesehn ’ (Goethe, 2000 [1779], p. 272). With these words, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe describes the dynamic between his drowning fisherman and the ‘wet woman’ (ibid.) who has ensnared him. Goethe’s phrasing distills the dramatic climax of an ambivalent interplay between lust and peril into an ecstatic dissolution of boundaries. The setting for this fatally erotic encounter is the surface of the water, which is pierced from both sides: by the water spirit as she stretches out her hand toward the fisherman, and simultaneously by her victim as he enters the water. The surface thus functions as a permeable interface that separates seemingly dualistic principles: reality and myth, air and water, culture and nature, male and female. The association of water with the ‘feminine’ is one of the most enduring analogies in Western cultural history. Yet the relationship between femininity and the aqueous is in fact conceived as a kind of mutual intertwining: in the collective cultural imagination, water is feminised, just as ‘the woman’ is ascribed aquatic qualities. In his study Male Fantasies , literary scholar Klaus Theweleit examines this phenomenon from a perspective that is critical of masculinity (Theweleit, 1987). He deconstructs the association between water and femininity as a concept that primarily serves male pleasure and patriarchal self-affirmation—in other words, as a male fantasy. Over and over again: the women-in-the-water, woman as water, as a stormy, cavorting, cooling ocean, a raging stream, a waterfall; as a limitless body of water […]; woman as the enticing (or perilous) deep, as a cup of bubbling body fluids; the vagina as wave, as foam, as dark place rimmed with Pacific ridges; […] the ocean […]: the irreproachable, inexhaustible, anonymous superwhore, across whom we ourselves becomes anonymous and limitless, drifting along without egos, […] immersed in the principle of masculine pleasure (ibid., pp. 283 f., emphasis in original). What underpins this imagery is a binary gender ideology that characterises the masculine as decisive, powerful, and steadfast, while casting the feminine as fluid, formless, and enigmatic. As Theweleit demonstrates, however, fluidity, the fluid, and floodwaters also function as scenarios that invoke fear: they threaten to imaginatively engulf the robust monument of masculinity and may ultimately lead to its erosion (see ibid., pp. 229–233. Nevertheless, this fear of losing the male ‘ego-armour’ is, paradoxically, coupled with a desire to transcend boundaries—by the allure of dissolving the body’s ironclad frontiers and transgressing moral bounds (see ibid., p. 232 f.. This yearning for the transgressive is echoed in the myriad aquatic sexual metaphors that abound in Western-influenced culture: metaphors of overflowing, becoming engulfed, overwhelmed, of bodily boundaries becoming blurred. It is not uncommon for the act of entering a body of water to be conceived as an act of penetration (Fig. 2). i The aquatic realm thereby becomes the stage for an encounter that is at once eroticised and hierarchised, with the feminised creature constructed as ‘the Other’, to be simultaneously coveted and conquered by a male protagonist. It is precisely this nexus that Under the Skin addresses with its conceptualisation of the alien seductress and the dark, voidlike substance. The film’s various engagements with the analogy between femininity and water, as well as with specific aspects of the water-nymph myth, have not gone unnoticed by film critics. Despite the alienation, Michael Ranze, for instance, describes the character played by Johansson as a ‘sensual siren’ (Ranze, 2014), and Andrew Wyatt titles his review of the film ‘The Siren Song’ (Wyatt, 2014). ii Under The Skin thus draws upon the traditional constellation of an alien, femininely coded entity and a man who surrenders to its seductive pull, while simultaneously detaching this dynamic from its association with water and transforming it into a modern constellation of fluid otherness. iii Just as the water in mythical narratives embodies the metaphorical dimension of the Other, so the black liquid subtance represents, in an exaggerated form, the inverse of the real: the enigmatic and the opaque in the fullest sense of the word. The dark entity is at once solid and liquid, diaphanous and opaque, reflective and absorbing, preserving and corrosive. It is, impossibly, everything at once. A closer look at the peculiar dynamic that characterises the film’s recurring seduction scenes reveals the new dimension that the black matter introduces in lieu of the water’s surface. Keeping a distance of roughly two metres, the alien walks together with its victim into the depths of the space: Johansson moves backwards, seductively drawing the man toward her with her gaze, while he follows behind at the same pace (Fig. 3). No physical contact takes place between the seducer and the seduced. Unlike classical depictions of the water-nymph trope, Johansson’s alien does not reach out toward its counterpart or attempt to draw him by hand into its own realm, into the watery depths; instead, it maintains a consistent distance. It stays on the surface, continuing its horizontal trajectory ever further into the endless darkness. It is only the man who actually breaches the threshold, his body descending into the fluid depths of the black matter, which has been rendered liquid only for him. The alien, meanwhile, remains, quite literally, on the outside. While the submersion and sinking of its sexually aroused victims may be understood metaphorically as an expression of lust and passion, of surrender, or even penetration, the alien itself is excluded from all of these emotions and symbolic registers. It remains rooted to the rigid ground and, following its prey’s descent into coital oblivion, emotionlessly resumes its work. Under the Skin thus counters the nightmarish image of the ravenous man-eater with a polished, albeit affectless, process of luring its victims to their deaths—a process that appears to bring the alien siren no gratification whatsoever. The lethal agency no longer resides in the entity disguised as a femme fatale, but in the substance itself, which thrusts itself into the relational constellation as an active force. The man does not seem to perceive his descent as threatening, or indeed to register that it is even happening. Even when his face has almost completely disappeared beneath the surface, he continues to stare at Johansson with undiminished intensity (Fig. 4). It is only beneath the surface that the dark matter reveals its true nature. The camera follows the submerged man into a strange underwater space, where the liquid that engulfs him appears virtually transparent from his perspective (Fig. 5). Once there, he comes face to face with another victim who had previously sunk into the depths, his bloated body preserved like that of a taxidermied animal. The second victim reaches his hand out toward the first in a gesture of comfort and consolation. But this display of support is only fleeting: the viewer watches as the first victim abruptly loses his very physical substance, the contents of his body dissolving until all that remains is his skin. The skin then floats, drifts, limp, deflated, in the liquid (Fig. 6). Whereas in traditional representations of erotic drowning the dissolution of the body is generally conceived in metaphorical terms as a merging with the water element, Under the Skin radicalises the motif by rendering the loss of self a physically tangible event. The man does not melt away into endless pleasure; he is quite literally dispersed, emptied, and hollowed out. The sheath of skin that remains introduces yet another dimension to the notion of the surface—one already foreshadowed by the film’s title, Under the Skin , and brought to its culmination in the film’s final scene. Following a series of dramatic developments, Johansson’s character finds itself roaming vulnerable and disoriented through a secluded stretch of woodland, where a stranger attempts to rape it. During the ensuing struggle, its assailtant unwittingly tears open its human shell. From beneath the skin, a jet-black mass emerges, exposing the previously concealed interior (Fig. 7). The logic of the penetrable surface is thus extended to the physical body itself. This final scene lays bare the violence that may be entailed in being socially perceived and read as a woman. Yet it is precisely at the moment of this violent gendering that the character’s womanhood is revealed to be nothing more than a façade. What lies beneath the feminine exterior is not a ‘real’ woman, but a void. In this instance, the concept of the fluid, of fluidity, no longer signifies a specifically female essence; instead, it points toward the fundamental instability of gender ascription itself, thereby opening the film to feminist, queer-feminist, and cyberfeminist readings. iv In Under the Skin , surfaces thus become arenas of negotiation. Whether a pitch-black pool or human skin, whether the boundary between above and below or between inside and outside, these interfaces do not merely serve to separate distinct spheres; they bring the relationships between them—such as that between humans and non-human beings—into being in the first place. It is through such surfaces that the film explores different modes of mutual dependence and interrelation: proximity and distance, desire and indifference, consent and violence. Mutuality , consequently, does not emerge as a harmonious exchange or romantic melding, but as a precarious relational condition in which the borders and boundaries between bodies and subjects are continually renegotiated. Yet the differences between them do not simply disappear. Rather, what the film calls into question is the very possibility of assigning its figures to fixed hierarchies—between culture and nature, human and non-human, male and non-male. References Ferenczi, S. (1938) Thalassa: A Theory of Genitality . Translated from the German by H. A. Bunker, M.D. New York: The Psychoanalytic Quarterly, Inc. Francis, M. (2016) ‘Splitting the difference: On the queer-feminist divide in Scarlett Johansson’s recent body politics’, Jump Cut: A Review of Contemporary Media 57. Available at: www.ejumpcut.org/archive/jc57.2016/-FrancisSkin/index.html (Accessed: 3 July 2026). Goethe, J. W. von (2000 [1779]) ‘Der Fischer’, in Max, F. R. (ed.) Undinenzauber: Geschichten und Gedichte von Nixen, Nymphen und anderen Wasserfrauen . Stuttgart: Reclam, pp. 272 f. Hole, K. L. and Jelača, D. (2018) Film feminisms: A global introduction . London/New York: Routledge. Larigakis, S. (2017) ‘The Future is Female*: On Queer Futures and Alien Transcendence in Science Fiction Cinema and Beyond’, The Film Atlas . Available at: www.thefilmatlas.com/the-future-is-female-on-queer-futures-and-alien-transcendence-in-science-fiction-cinema-and-beyond (Accessed: 3 July 2026). Osterweil, A. (2014) ‘Under the Skin: The Perils of Becoming Female’, Film Quarterly 67(4), pp. 44–51. Otto, B. (2001) Unterwasser-Literatur: Von Wasserfrauen und Wassermännern . Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann. Ranze, M. (2014) ‘Under the Skin – Jonathan Glazer’, Filmbulletin (5). Stephan, I. (1993) ‘Weiblichkeit, Wasser und Tod: Undinen, Melusinen und Wasserfrauen bei Eichendorff und Fouqué’, in Böhme, H. (ed.) Kulturgeschichte des Wassers . Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, pp. 234–262. Stuby, A. M. (1992) Liebe, Tod und Wasserfrau: Mythen des Weiblichen in der Literatur . Wiesbaden: VS Verlag für Sozialwissenschaften. Theweleit, K. (1987) Male Fantasies, Volume 1: Women, Floods, Bodies, History . Translated from the German by S. Conway, in collaboration with E. Carter and C. Turner. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Ullrich, J. (2026) ‘Queere Wasserfrauen’, Kunstforum 312, pp. 106–115. Wyatt, A. (2014) ‘The Siren Song’, The Curator . Available at: www.curatormagazine.com/andrew-wyatt/the-siren-song/ (Accessed: 3 July 2026). List of Figures Fig.1–6: Film stills, Under the Skin (2013) CV Sarah K. Becker is a cultural scientist and media designer. She is currently working on her doctoral thesis project, ‘Filmische Wassertode’ (Cinematic Deaths by Drowning), at Berlin’s Humboldt University, in which she is exploring the cinematic motif of death by drowning from the perspectives of cultural studies, media studies, and gender studies. She also works as a curator and filmmaker in Berlin and Braunschweig, with a focus on cultural and media history, nature, gender, and memory work. Since 2026, she has served as the project coordinator for the NatureCulture ArtLab at the Braunschweig University of Art (HBK). i ii iii iv

Editorial Benno Hauswaldt, Martin Krenn, Malin Kuht Read here in GERMAN Translated by Louise Pain The historical division between nature and culture is a structural order that continues to shape how we view the world today. It became firmly established during the Enlightenment and with the emergence of the modern natural sciences, which increasingly sought to frame nature as a thing that could be objectively apprehended and measured in neutral terms—in direct opposition to the rational, reasoning human subject. This dualistic worldview has been repeatedly challenged throughout human history—perhaps most notably by evolutionary theory, Marxism, and Freudian psychoanalysis, each of which has helped to problematise the supposedly clear-cut boundary between nature and culture. Yet despite these challenges, the distinction has retained considerable influence. Since the 1990s in particular, it has come under renewed, fundamental criticism, increasingly understood as a historically constructed category of order that fails to account for the complex entanglements of human and non-human existence. From this perspective, nature and culture can no longer be understood as separate, independent spheres. Instead, they emerge as intertwined, mutually constitutive, and interdependent dimensions of a single reality. This interdependence—or mutuality—is what lies at the heart of the present issue of this journal. The term ‘mutuality’ refers to a condition of reciprocal dependence and is closely related to Donna Haraway’s concept of ‘Natureculture’, which directly challenges the assumed dualism between nature and culture. This concept of fundamental reciprocity or mutuality—as opposed to, say, autonomy—calls into question more than just the order that divides the world into ‘nature’ and ‘culture’. It also challenges the associated hierarchy that casts some entities as active subjects and others as passive objects, while presenting this arrangement as neutral and self-evident. To this day, ostensibly objective demarcations between subjects and objects, nature and culture, continue to be used to legitimise colonial, racialised, and gendered hierarchies and forms of violence. At the same time, they also serve as instruments of exclusion, marking particular bodies, ways of being, and even entire populations as ‘Other’, and thereby making the subjugation, paternalistic control, and oppression of these groups seem justified. As a critical concept, mutuality must also be considered in relation to the tradition of a dialectic of the domination of nature: the attempt to free humanity from nature’s perceived tyranny, whether manifested in the form of natural disasters or disease. In Dialectic of Enlightenment (1944), Theodor W. Adorno and Max Horkheimer show that this aspiration to mastery can itself give rise to new forms of subjugation. The domination of external nature also entails the suppression of our internal nature: our drives, affects, and bodily existence. In seeking to master the natural world, human beings are also compelled to exert control over ourselves, increasingly through technological means. In the process, we become objects of the very same instrumental reason we apply to the world around us. Yet however accurately Adorno and Horkheimer may have described this dialectic, they failed to fundamentally interrogate the categories of nature and culture themselves; the underlying dualism remained intact. This is where Haraway’s concept of Natureculture opens up a different perspective. As a neologism, it rejects the assumption that nature and culture can be separated into distinct domains, instead emphasising their constitutive entanglement. Natural and cultural phenomena do not exist independently of one another before entering into relation; rather, they are continually produced through their interactions. To understand them therefore requires examining the relationships through which they emerge and take shape. Taking the idea of art education as an artistic practice as its starting point, this issue explores the relationships between human and non-human actors. It asks how structures, processes, and frameworks of inclusion and exclusion can be rendered visible or even overcome, how responsibility, respect, and equality can be put into practice, and what pitfalls these efforts may entail. The focus is therefore not simply on the existence of mutual relationships in art—a notion frequently invoked in art discourse and in some cases used as a means to establish a sense of distinction. Applied to art, mutuality demands that we attend to the needs of others, human and non-human alike, while critically reflecting on our own actions and remaining open to the possibility that we may be changed by these encounters. It also requires us to recognise that relationships are not inherently egalitarian: they can remain shaped by power, exclusion, and people’s unequal capacities to act. We must ask ourselves: Who gets to define relationships? Whose knowledge is recognised, and whose perspective remains invisible? And how can we take accountability without yet again reducing others to mere objects of our own assumptions and projections? Drawing on this perspective, Doina Petrescu introduces TERRRA, a centre for popular ecology in Romania that brings together local knowledge, traditional craftsmanship, and contemporary ecological practices. The project places collaborative learning and the transmission of embodied knowledge at the heart of socio-ecological transformation. Sophie von Redecker explores the dialogue between agricultural practice and posthumanist theory, submitting the two to a process of mutual understanding. She argues that mutuality, care, and situated knowledge—understood in ways that extend beyond exclusively human perspectives—are integral to the agricultural approach, while also offering valuable points of entry into the diverse fields of new materialisms and posthumanism. Weaving together autobiographical experience with theoretical reflection, her contribution demonstrates how the ‘agrarian humanities’ are not only of academic relevance, but can also have an impact in the political and cultural spheres. Art historian Michael Klipphahn-Karge takes land art, a movement that first emerged in to the 1960s, as a starting point for examining the implicit political positions of art that sees itself as being intertwined with nature and the Earth. He shows how the supposedly inherent power of such artworks often goes unquestioned, as do the economic conditions of their production, which both shape and exploit the very conception of nature these works invoke. From this critique, he develops possibilities and criteria for what he terms ‘materialist mutuality’ in contemporary art. Sarah K. Becker examines how the science-fiction film Under the Skin , which features a female alien protagonist and a black, fluid space, revives and reimagines an ancient and enduring motif from mythology and cultural history: the seduction of men by beings or entities that are perceived as female—and are often associated with water—who simultaneously embody both desire and danger. Becker traces how the relationship between men and these ‘women of the water’ reproduces a binary trope within gendered systems of order. She also demonstrates how this dualistic framework, which contrasts the fluid and enigmatic on the one hand with the strong and solid on the other, is rooted in a fear of losing a stable masculine identity. In an interview with Havîn Al-Sîndy, Martin Krenn explores how relational art practice might be redefined by considering ecologies and the conditions of visibility in tandem. Al-Sîndy’s work demonstrates how a relational perspective can open up new possibilities for mutuality, while also always carrying the risk of engendering new forms of exclusion. The artist is acutely aware of this tension and addresses it directly in her practice. For Al-Sîndy, mutuality involves critically examining the conditions that determine our own visibility and invisibility, while remaining willing to be profoundly transformed by our encounters with others. Paula A. Knust Rosales interviews Jule Hillgärtner about her professional trajectory and her work at the Science and Art Lab at the TU Braunschweig. Their conversation explores how their work focuses on establishing points of intersection between science, art, and education, with the aim of embodying and establishing reciprocity in practice. This requires challenging and overcoming existing institutional structures and logics, and reimagining these fields not as separate domains, but as parts of a unified whole. Benno Hauswaldt speaks with Aria Farajnezhad about his installation work The Flowers Devoured What They Were Meant For , which is currently on display at the Kunstverein Hannover as part of an exhibition featuring work by the recipients of the Kunstverein Hannover Award. In this piece, Farajnezhad investigates the involvement of industry in the German Empire in the Armenian genocide of the early twentieth century. Drawing on archival research, he focuses in particular on the Hanomag industrial complex in Hannover’s Linden district, which was responsible for manufacturing and supplying armaments and locomotives for the Berlin–Baghdad Railway. The practice-based contributions in this issue also approach mutuality as a question of concrete relationships, both within the field of art and beyond it, in its interactions with broader social and ecological contexts. In their ten-year art project Park in Progress , Susanne Bosch and Ulrike Zimmermann will be monitoring a selection of trees in Sanssouci Park and documenting their progression amid the conditions of climate change. By tracing the interdependencies between trees, humans, and their environment, they ask how responsibility might be rethought if non-human living beings came to be viewed not merely as objects to be protected, but as active participants in a shared world. Lio Bramkamp explores the possibilities of an intersectional approach to art education that is informed by an active awareness of social inequality. The contribution examines the ways in which classism, social disparities, and intersecting forms of discrimination determine what access different people have to art spaces, and how a reflective practice of art education can help dismantle barriers, challenge hierarchies, and foster a sense of self-efficacy. For this issue, Julika Teubert reviews Eva von Redecker’s recently published book Dieser Drang nach Härte: Über den neuen Faschismus (The New Fascism: Entitlement and the Urge to Destroy). Taking contemporary social and political conditions as her starting point, and drawing in particular on Critical Theory, von Redecker seeks to articulate a term for the present-day manifestation of this drive toward hardness and destruction. The book also examines the degree to which historical definitions of fascism align and overlap with how we understand the term today. Taken together, the contributions in this issue demonstrate that mutuality is neither a harmonious ideal nor a straightforward formula for successful relationships. It begins with acknowledging dependencies and bringing unequal power dynamics to light. It asks us to question familiar categories, rethink how knowledge is shared, and resist viewing our own positions as fixed or immutable. Whether in ecological learning spaces, art installations, the long-term monitoring of trees, or art education, relationships do not simply arise between subjects who are already fully formed. Rather, relationships also shape the people involved in them and transform the conditions under which they live together. Mutuality offers no definitive answers. Instead, it asks us to closely observe our relationships, to expose the conditions that define them, and to allow ourselves to be transformed by them. Perhaps this is precisely where mutuality begins: in the willingness to relinquish the assumption that we alone have the authority to determine what matters, who is entitled to speak, and to whom the world belongs. Benno Hauswaldt, Martin Krenn, Malin Kuht Editorial team for Issue 8: Mutuality

Martin Krenn in conversation with Havîn Al-Sîndy Read here in GERMAN Im Nachklang, 2024, © Havîn Al-Sîndy Im Nachklang, 2024, © Havîn Al-Sîndy Im Nachklang, 2024, © Havîn Al-Sîndy Testimony of boundaries, 2019, © Havîn Al-Sîndy Testimony of boundaries, 2019, © Havîn Al-Sîndy

The New Fascism: Entitlement and the Urge to Destroy Julika Teubert Read here in GERMAN Eva von Redecker’s take on modern-day fascism and that comes with it A book review by Julika Teubert Translated by Louise Pain The German-language title of the latest book by writer and philosopher Eva von Redecker—published by S. Fischer Verlag in March 2026 with a forthcoming translation into English as Entitlement and the Urge to Destroy —is unusual for a work of non-fiction. Only its subtitle—translated as The New Fascism —more clearly qualifies what the 272-page Spiegel bestseller is actually about. Yet from the very outset of the book, von Redecker systematically dispels any potential ambiguity: the pervasive, unsettling urge to destroy that we are currently witnessing in both the political and social landscape requires a designation that reflects the prevailing mood of our time. After all, discourse cannot feasibly get to the heart of an issue if we fail to develop adequate or appropriate vocabulary to describe it. In her latest book, von Redecker examines various aspects of the ‘modern social contract’ from the perspective of critical theory and develops a forward-looking definition of what she terms the ‘new’ brand of fascism. Her aim is to empower the reader to be able to identify fascist dynamics early on, without needing to resort to making historical comparisons—particularly given that it is not entirely certain whether contemporary phenomena can even be meaningfully compared with historical ones. More broadly, she argues that, in an era defined by social media, artificial intelligence, climate emergency, neoliberalism, and increasingly isolationist policies, the established definitions we have at our disposal fall short when it comes to interpreting more recent fascist developments. Von Redecker draws extensively on familiar knowledge and everyday events; no prior specialist knowledge is assumed nor needed on the part of the reader. Although her choice of terminology and philosophical references does increase in complexity as the book proceeds, she regularly distils her arguments and findings into concise, accessible summaries. Despite the book’s challenging subject matter, these elements make it an accessible reading experience for a broad audience. At the same time, the book rests on extensive research and a robust theoretical foundation, drawing, among others, on the philosophical work of Hannah Arendt, Theodor W. Adorno, and Max Horkheimer. The author’s rigorous, sustained effort to define and clarify concepts is what constitutes the book’s guiding thread. Eleven chapters organised according to topic develop von Redecker’s conception of the ‘new fascism’, helping readers to grasp its full scope and significance and relate it to the present. The twelfth and final chapter, Remembrance and Counterstrategies, considers how we might resist fascism on both a personal, individual level and through collective, public responses. By drawing on a wide range of reference points—for example, by repeatedly referring to contemporary political and social events—von Redecker masterfully compels the reader to critically engage with the topics at hand. She cites statements by Friedrich Merz, Alice Weidel, Donald Trump, and Elon Musk that have repeatedly provoked public outrage and remain seared in the collective memory. At the same time, she also identifies a perilous blind spot in the broader societal response to these phenomena: a tendency to view these kinds of political developments as isolated incidents rather than as manifestations of a broader pattern. As the author herself remarks, ‘This tendency to respond with astonishment is ultimately misleading because it […] assumes that what has happened […] is an exception […], rather than recognising these events as constituting part of a broader, fundamental pattern’ (von Redecker, 2026, p. 74). The examples cited in the book prompt the reader to ask themselves: how would I have reacted to the situations she describes? Von Redecker also critiques the widely held belief that history cannot possibly repeat itself in Germany because of the country’s status as a liberal democracy (von Redecker: 2026, p. 75). Such misplaced confidence, she argues, prevents us from taking the current shift to the right seriously and responding in a timely manner. In addition to contemporary examples, von Redecker places a particular emphasis on the Nazi era, which, she argues, demonstrates the consequences of fascism being allowed to evolve into ‘fully realised totalitarian rule’. Here, she draws on Hannah Arendt’s description of the Nazi dictatorship as constituting a transition from the fascist principle that ‘everything is permitted’ to a totalitarian dystopia in which ‘everything is possible’. Von Redecker argues that any serious consideration of the potential consequences of fascism today and in the future must reckon with the fact that the atrocities committed by the Nazis have changed ‘the very structure of our world forever’. We now know that ‘the unthinkable can happen’ (von Redecker 2026, p. 43). Particularly thought-provoking are von Redecker’s reflections on the reasons why we are currently witnessing a shift to the right rather than, for example, a shift to the left. She identifies an intriguing ‘small but rational element’ (von Redecker 2026, p. 129) within patterns of thought and behaviour that lack a sense of solidarity, arguing that this element must be taken into account if we are to develop effective counterstrategies. From this starting point, she connects broader social dynamics and systems of power with character traits that have the potential to foster fascist ways of thinking and acting. One key factor she identifies here is a mounting sense of social discontent. A ‘feeling of inescapable doom’ (von Redecker 2026, p. 139), fuelled by unmet basic needs, the pressures of a meritocracy, and anxiety about the future, can prompt people to seek someone to blame for their suffering. Where it is not possible to conclusively attribute responsibility, they may instead invent scapegoats, thereby shifting the burden of blame onto other groups of people. But von Redecker, for her part, has no interest in pointing fingers; in her analysis, she seeks not to polemiscise, but to bring a degree of sophistication and nuance to the discourse. What stands out throughout the book is how precisely von Redecker captures the spirit of the age. She achieves this in large part by addressing not only established themes in the study of fascism, but also subjects that have received comparatively little attention in this field. Examples here include digital media—particularly social media and artificial intelligence—, climate crisis, human encroachment into and colonisation of outer space, and the neoliberal stock market. As von Redecker argues, when examining fascism, we must ‘be able to discern its footprint even where it may appear to have detached itself from the Earth’ (von Redecker 2026, p. 53). In this latest publication, Eva von Redecker offers the reader a great deal of food for thought, inviting them to turn the critical reflection she advocates inward, toward themselves. This insightful text hones the reader’s understanding of social realities and helps them to assess political actions and demands through a critical lens, while being able to recognise the broader connections between them. Although its primary focus is the ‘new’ fascism, the book also draws important conclusions for progressive politics that are oriented toward the future and the pursuit of a more tolerant society. The New Fascism: Entitlement and the Urge to Destroy is a compelling and thoroughly accomplished work of non-fiction that cannot be recommend highly enough. Born in 1995 in Berlin, Julika Teubert studied Fine Art under Nasan Tur and Art Education under Martin Krenn at the Hochschule für Bildende Künste in Braunschweig (Braunschweig University of Art, HBK). She is currently pursuing postgraduate studies under the guidance of Nasan Tur. Teubert is also one of the cofounders of the web journal appropriate! , having contributed to the first four editions both as a member of the editorial team and as a tutor. In her artistic practice, she deals with the traces and artefacts she comes across in public spaces, frequently combining these with aspects of her own life in order to reflect on topics such as labour, routine, and impermanence. Born in 1982, Eva von Redecker is a philosopher specialising in critical theory and a freelance author currently living in Brandenburg. In her writing, she addresses the most pressing issues of our time, such as capitalism and property, feminism, authoritarianism, and fascism. From 2009 to 2019, she was a research associate at Berlin’s Humboldt-Universität, as well as a visiting scholar at Cambridge University and the New School for Social Research in New York.

Shifting Contexts, Thinking Across Disciplines—A Conversation with Jule Hillgärtner Paula A. Knust Rosales in conversation with Jule Hillgärtner Read here in GERMAN Das Science and Art Lab im Wissenschaftsschaufenster der ForschungRegion, Foto:TU Braunschweig Porträt von Dr. Jule Hillgärtner, Foto: Anja Niedringhaus Jule Hillgärtner studied theatre, film, and media studies, as well as art education, in Frankfurt. In retrospect, she sees this particular combination as having provided her with an ideal foundation for the work she does today. Her approach to contemporary art has always been an expansive one, with her practice encompassing performative and participatory elements, as well as art education. At the same time, however, she has always been keenly aware that art has a tendency to be associated with a certain degree of academic detachment. Yet in her view, it is possible for contemporary art to be complex and intellectually rigorous without coming across as unapproachable or inaccessible. ‘The fact that I place so much emphasis on education has a great deal to do with my own personal background—with the fact that I grew up in a decidedly non-academic household’, she explains. ‘That’s why I always strive to act as a kind of mediator, so that I can help make contemporary art more accessible.’ She looks back on her time as a student with great fondness and enthusiasm, as well as the numerous projects to which she contributed and the Museum für Moderne Kunst (MMK) in Frankfurt—a place she describes as having been particularly influential for both her and her work. It was also there that she first discovered her love of photography. A subsequent exhibition she would go on to co-curate with Andreas Bee at the MMK in 2001 played a decisive role in determining the topic of her Master’s thesis, which focused on war photography. The exhibition in question, titled Szenenwechsel XX , featured work by photojournalist Anja Niedringhaus. Niedringhaus had shot the images several years earlier while documenting the Kosovo War for the European Pressphoto Agency (EPA). Hillgärtner found herself taken by questions of contextual displacement within the museum space and how this might influence the way viewers perceived the work. ‘All of a sudden, these photographs had been put into frames and hung on the museum wall. I found them incredibly moving—and, from a purely photographic perspective, also visually very striking. What happens when images like these are shown in this kind of context?’ This exhibition, Hillgärtner explains, would ultimately prove to be a turning point for her. Hillgärtner worked as a freelancer for eight years, with a focus on curatorial and educational endeavours. She later moved to Braunschweig, where she would serve as the director of the Kunstverein Braunschweig for ten years. For the last two years, she has headed the Science and Art Lab at the TU Braunschweig alongside Henrike Wenzel. The Science and Art Lab in the ForschungRegion’s Science Showcase, photo: TU Braunschweig Shifts in context also play a key role in her work at the TU Braunschweig. ‘In many cases it’s a question of blurring or completely overcoming entrenched boundaries’, she explains, referring to an interaction or exchange that spans in all directions. The project brings together artistic and scientific lines of inquiry and provides space for artistic practice within the institutional framework of a technical university. ‘At some point, we came to the realisation that the single most important word in “Science and Art Lab” was “and”. Because it’s all about connection and interaction.’ Later in the conversation, Hillgärtner makes it clear that ‘We’re not an offshoot of scientific communication. And art certainly isn’t either.’ The objective is not to utilise art as a vehicle through which to make research clearer or more accessible. Rather, the idea is to draw on a range of different perspectives with a view to fostering dialogue and encounters and promoting transdisciplinary thinking and approaches. A central component of the lab is its residency programme, which gives artists the chance to make contact with scientists and work at the TU Braunschweig over a three-month period. In the process, new perspectives make their way into the research context. Hillgärtner reports that the exchange has been ‘received with great enthusiasm. It’s been a very positive experience overall. Beyond a certain level, the researchers, whether students or professors, generally exhibit a sense of excitement and curiosity and seem genuinely interested in the people they’re working with; they approach things with complete openness.’ Openness is also a guiding principle for Jule Hillgärtner and Henrike Wenzel when it comes to determining the lab’s event formats, which are designed to be low threshold and accessible to the widest possible audience. In this context, the emphasis is not on academic titles or long-winded professional resumés: ‘We hold everyone in the highest regard. At the same time, we’ve noticed that people really appreciate the fact that we’re actively working to lower existing barriers as much as possible, so that the lab can be, become, and remain truly accessible to all.’ So far, visitors have responded positively to this approach, irrespective of their individual level of expertise. For a period in late summer 2026, the project was featured on several occasions at the Wissenschaftsschaufenster (Science Showcase) in Braunschweig’s city centre. The intention was to offer the local community a glimpse into current research projects and to promote dialogue—and it certainly proved successful in this regard. Whenever the information board was set up outside, Hillgärtner explains, members of the project team would be on hand, and visitors were welcome to come inside. People passing by could see from outside that something was going on. They would stop at the information board, read a little, and then take a look inside. Sometimes, in moments like these, Hillgärtner would strike up a brief conversation, tell people about the venue, give them a flyer, or invite them to another event. ‘So much has happened as a result of this incredible showcase—it’s really boosted our visibility.’ On more than one occasion, what began as a passing, curious glance led to someone attending a subsequent event. ‘This brings us back to the question of public engagement. We want to make it easy for people to come inside. The whole point is to convey a sense of openness and accessibility, and to engage in genuine conversation with the local community—with the public.’ Reflecting on her transition from a traditional art institution, the Kunstverein, to the Science and Art Lab at the TU Braunschweig, Hillgärtner notes ‘At the Kunstverein, everyone knew exactly why they were there. Here, the scope is much broader, and we approach the public in a different way. It’s quite a shift.’ For Hillgärtner, it remains important to stay connected to other contexts within contemporary art; in this respect, she mentions her work at the HBK Braunschweig (Braunschweig University of Art), which includes a seminar in which she visits a range of exhibition venues in the surrounding area. She see experiences like these as ‘moments of joy that also feed back into my work here at the Science and Art Lab. It’s like a braid, with different strands woven together.’ Toward the end of our conversation, Hillgärtner again reflects on how the project might also inspire future approaches to public engagement and education—approaches that ‘perhaps no longer see nature and culture as entirely separate realms’. She sums up this ambition by explaining ‘That’s always the aim: to bring together things that, at first glance, you wouldn’t think belonged together.’ She identifies the promotion of transdisciplinary thinking and practice as a fundamental goal of the Science and Art Lab: ‘We’re convinced that the challenges of the present and the future are so complex that they cannot possibly be solved within the confines of individual disciplines. We need to think across disciplines. We need to bring things together.’ Jule Hillgärtner runs the Science and Art Lab at the TU Braunschweig. Before that, she served as the director of the internationally renowned Kunstverein Braunschweig for ten years. She studied theatre, film, and media studies and art education in Frankfurt am Main and wrote her PhD on the topic of war correspondence. She has organised exhibitions for events including the F/Stop Festival in Leipzig and has worked at Frankfurt’s Museum für moderne Kunst (Museum for Modern Art, MMK) and the Frankfurter Kunstverein, as well as at the Akademie der Künste (Academy of Arts) in Berlin. She has taught at the University of Art and Design Offenbach (HFG) and at the Goethe University in Frankfurt am Main. Hillgärtner sits on a number of juries and, as a member of the extended acquisitions committee for the Federal Collection of Contemporary Art, has, among other things, been instrumental in several important purchases that reflect a diverse, forward-looking acquisitions policy. Born in 1998 in Bielefeld, Paula A. Knust Rosales (she/her) is currently studying Fine Art at the HBK Braunschweig in Natalie Czech’s class for Expanded Photography, Media and Poetics, as well as Art Education under Martin Krenn.

Lena Götzinger, Mahlet Wolde Georgis Iss ue 4│ Machtverhalten Anker 1 Documenta fifteen: an Attempt of Restructuring Power Relations / in Conversation with Dan Perjovschi Lena Götzinger, Mahlet Wolde Georgis Kunst (2000) Dan Perjovschi, Zeichnung auf Papier ©Dan Perjovschi andrei cadere & art & world (2019) Dan Perjovschi, Zeichnung auf Papier ©Dan Perjovschi Press is Gone (1999), Dan Perjovschi, Zeichnung auf Papier ©Dan Perjovschi Artartist (2009) Dan Perjovschi, Zeichnung auf Papier ©Dan Perjovschi Art Market (2009) Dan Perjovschi, Zeichnung auf Papier ©Dan Perjovschi Mentioning last year's documenta fifteen under the terms of this issue is a necessity. There we were introduced to the practice of lumbung by the Indonesian collective ruangrupa, who curated this version of documenta. The word lumbung originates from the Indonesian language and describes a communal rice barn where the surplus harvest is stored for the benefit of the community [1 ]. Documenta fifteen was supposed to function along these principles of solidarity and community to create a space where networks of long-lasting connections could be formed between the people involved and thus challenge the hierarchy and power structures within the art world. We had the chance to talk to Dan Perjovschi about whether these ambitions have been successful and possibly hold valuable prospects for new ways to restructure art institutions and power relations. Entering his first attendance at documenta, he did not have any expectations or plans beforehand. Since he is used to working alone or only with few other people, it was quite a new experience for him to get in touch with thousands of artists and to learn about their approaches and ways of thinking before the show. As a white male with a European passport, Dan Perjovschi did not depend on the space that got arranged for connecting and networking as much as less privileged colleagues of his did. Although he is not a person to work in a collective, since he fought for his authorship and individuality all of his life, he experienced that it can be great to have a collective output in some projects. Documenta fifteen wanted to do things differently, starting with the fees they paid the artists to realize their visions – something that barely any major exhibition does. In the beginning all the artists and collectives were put into so-called mini groups via Zoom where they got to know each other and were also given a budget to negotiate about. As money is also power and responsibility, a huge budget of money is a privilege not everyone has, which is why negotiations were taking place to talk about the artists' different needs. In case that the budget was not spent completely, it could be given to somebody who needed it more. For example, to pay for the visa and flight costs. The only regulations from the management were technic- and money-related, otherwise the artists were fully free and trusted in what they did. Though part of the planning was quite fixed by ruangrupa, new ideas came out of many regular discussions and everything could be completely changed within the process. Just like Dan Perjovschiˋs own role at documenta fifteen, who was invited quite late and initially got asked to illustrate a publication of the exhibition. "Imagine, I started with a pocket-sized book idea and end up drawing on half of Kassel!" Dan Perjovschi is aware of his influence as an artist and wants to use it for what he thinks is a common good, which is why his work often incorporates activistic contents and objectives. He sees his art as belonging to democracy. This can take things into account that are often barely considered. When, for example, he works in countries which do not value democratic rights enough, he makes sure of their boundaries so that the employees of the institution, such as the curators, will not be left with what he calls a bomb and get into trouble because of him. He views it critically that many impactful artists impose their own criticism of circumstances on others and then just leave the people working in these institutions, on whom it will fall back, alone with it. Correspondingly he does not agree with Hito Steyerl´s decision to remove her work from the exhibition which also fuelled the narrative of reducing documenta 15 to the topic of antisemitism. In this context, the way in which the German media dealt with the debate around antisemitic symbolism in the painting Peoples Justice by the Indonesian collective Taring Padi was also highly critical. While Dan Perjovschi himself agrees that the work should never have been shown at the exhibition, he still does not think it is right that one topic confiscated all the other important ones at documenta fifteen in the coverage. First of all it is important to state that any kind of antisemitism is to be harshly condemned and cannot be tolerated. Though it is a fact that people from different parts of the world do not have the same sensibilities as people in Germany and some do not understand the gravity of certain images and symbols. As people working together we need to learn about each other's sensibilities and negotiate to find a common ground, without sacrificing the values of antidiscrimination and equality within the process. Dan Perjovschi saw it as his mission to contribute to that by creating a space at documenta fifteen where these conversations could be held, adding some humor that was in his eyes urgently needed. “You know, I´m not thinking the same as the Palestinian artists, I´m not thinking the same as my friends from Syria but I understand their position. I understand what they claim and I understand sometimes the radicality of what they have to do. I´m in a different position but there's this moment where you have to show solidarity.” It is this strong sense of solidarity that last year's documenta managed to establish among everyone involved. And this, while not concealing the issues of the show, deserves to be highlighted. There were many interesting approaches, as for instance the communal resources that were shared at documenta fifteen, like the lumbung press and the lumbung gallery that were financed by the institution but also supported by artists with spare money from their budgets. Different kinds of economies as such enable us to challenge the principles of the market. Also, and maybe due to this collective use of resources, there was no strong pressure of competition to be felt that is otherwise systemic in wide parts of the art world. Of course, there are things the curators, artists and everyone else involved could have done better. One of the issues Dan Perjovschi criticized about the curation was that there were no artists from Ukraine invited to the show. Documenta fifteen was planned to mostly create a platform for positions of the global south and give attention to voices that are oftentimes ignored in global discourses. What happens in Ukraine was (and is) a white man´s conflict, as he was told by the curators. All of this is valid. But when something that drastic happens in the north, the concept should be a little more elastic to it. Russia's war of aggression against Ukraine can simply not be ignored. While it might have been difficult to invite any artists last minute, at least some efforts could have been made to contact Ukrainian groups to hold lectures and presentations. Though, nobody ever made a claim of completeness. Documenta fifteen is rather to be seen as a big scale experiment of the lumbung idea – after all it is called lumbung 1 and is thought to be continued and improved in the process. There are many problems within the art world, especially the excessive role that money plays. Luckily there are also interesting people with good ideas in the system with whom we, as people who are involved can connect, form networks and alliances. What is essentially missing today are more utopian model projects that open up perspectives to restructure the existing system. Through the eyes of Dan Perjovschi, the lumbung model, despite some weak spots, is already a kind of utopia. “Documenta fifteen was an interesting attempt to challenge how the art world functions and in my eyes it succeeded.” The following example underlines this quite humorously: At the beginning of the exhibition only Dan Perjovschi and three other artists had a gallery representation. As this is a must usually, this time the artist’s scale of notoriety and success were no crucial conditions to be invited. There were barely any world stars showing their work at documenta fifteen, instead of this 1.500 in parts hardly known artists were given the chance to exhibit and now have the name of this major exhibition in their CVs, which takes away a bit of its highly prestigious and exclusive status. Ruangrupa managed to break down the hierarchy quite a bit and completely cut out the market. By doing so they created a lot of sympathy and also a lot of hate, as it very often happens when a running system is being targeted and people fear losing parts of their power and privileges. Dan Perjovschi also emphasizes that, contrary to other opinions he encountered, he does not think it is right to completely crush the documenta as an institution. On the one hand because the people working there did everything in their power to enable the artists' visions, but on the other hand – and more importantly – because the institution has a huge impact and visibility all over the world. It is the only exhibition on the planet that can spend 42 million euros and give full freedom to the curators. This power should be preserved for the future, to be reformed by the revolutionary ideas that are yet to come. An existing model which is unique to Germany and Austria and in Dan Perjovschi’s eyes has many similarities to lumbung is the model of the Kunstverein as a special form of art institution that creates an accessible space to connect, discuss and experiment. Financed by membership fees, it is also the only model that is sustainable and can survive an economic crisis. There are great approaches to be found everywhere, we simply have to start looking for them. The importance of connecting with each other and forming alliances is crucial to create different spaces and economies that represent our values. “Nobody will give us this power. We have to create it.” Dan Perjovschi (*1961) is an internationally successful artist showing his sketches and drawings in prestigious museums as well as small artist-run spaces all over the world. Grown up in Rumania under the communist dictatorship of Nicolae Ceaușescu (1918–1989), he began targeting current social, political and environmental issues in his art from early on, fighting against the government's repressive censorship. Due to the simplicity of lines, motives and written words in addition to his ability to depict topics in a humorous, yet serious way, his drawings are easily accessible and understandable for people worldwide. Mahlet Ketema Wolde Georgis (*1997) is a student of Braunschweig University of Fine Arts since 2019. Growing up between the German and Ethiopian culture, she has been interested in dialogs, expressions and the space between cultures ever since. After having the possibility to travel to different countries and starting to study architecture at University of Applied Sciences in Duesseldorf, she decided to focus on art theory and aesthetics combined with history studies at Technical University Braunschweig. Her goal is to focus and learn more about contemporary African art, how art and art institutions can help to open up conversations and spaces for people to come together. Lena Götzinger (*1999) began studying fine arts and art mediation at the Braunschweig University of Fine Arts in 2020 and is a member of the editorial staff of appropriate! since Issue 4. She has been interested in the aesthetic, philosophical and political aspects of how we shape and construct our social cohabitation since her time in school, which was amplified during the year she spent in the USA as an exchange student. Following this interest, she worked on the project Showing Courage for Democracy in the course of a voluntary social year in 2019/2020, planning and conducting workshops for students with the ambition of opening up a creative room for exchange and discussion on socially relevant topics. In her artistic practice she explores themes like the depiction of FLINTA* [2 ] persons in art, self-(re)presentation and the tradition of architecture and painting, mainly focussing on the mediums of painting, sculpting and installation art while interlinking these fields with each other. [1] documenta fifteen, lumbung in glossary (visited December 21, 2022) https://documenta-fifteen.de/en/glossary/ [2] The term FLINTA* is used in the German language and stands for people who identify themselves as females, lesbians, intergender, nonbinary, transgender and agender. It is an expression to describe a group of people that suffers from patriarchal discrimination because of their (gender) identity and does specifically not mean cis-men. Tagesspiegel, The Queer Dictionary (visited January 15, 2023) https://www.tagesspiegel.de/gesellschaft/queerspiegel/was-bedeutet-flinta-3387385.html 1 FN1 FN2