I knew from a very early age that music defined who I was, but I also knew I was a visual person. That came out in many ways. One of them was when I became enthralled with the German conceptual artist, Joseph Beuys.
When I started working at Elektra, Mitchell Krasnow was working there as well, but because his focus was on international A&R, he was in Europe a lot. In 1983, Mitchell was in Berlin checking out a gothic new wave band called Belfegore; they were on the independent label Pure Freude, owned by Carmen Knoebel. Carmen was the wife of the well-known artist Imi Knoebel, a close friend of Beuys.
When he saw Belfegore live, Mitchell knew he wanted to sign them on the spot. While he was still in Germany, he saw an exhibition of Beuys’ work and sent me a postcard from the show. I was captivated when I saw the image.
Joseph Beuys was a German-born artist active in Europe and the United States from the 1950s through the early 1980s, who came to be loosely associated with that era’s international, proto-Conceptual art movement, Fluxus. . . Beuys is especially famous for works incorporating animal fat and felt, two common materials—one organic, the other fabricated, or industrial—that had profound personal meaning to the artist.1
Beuys was doing something totally different than anyone else. The fantastic story, regularly told by Joseph, was that his airplane was shot down when he was a soldier during the Crimean War, and he was rescued by Tartar tribesmen who “wrapped him in insulating layers of felt and fat to keep him from freezing to death.”2
Fat and felt became central elements in his work. When I went to see his exhibition, Plight, at the Anthony d’Offay Gallery on Dering Street in London, there was a piano wrapped entirely in felt and all the walls were covered in rolls of felt, as well.
Plight refers [to] a precise moment: to dampen the sounds of building work next door, Beuys has promised the gallerist a work that opposed silence to sound. The installation consists of two spaces lined with thick rolls of felt. Once inside, the visitor experiences a sense of warmth and an ambivalent sense of isolation or insulation, of being both protected and cut off from the world.3
While I was there, I purchased one of Beuys’ exquisite books made of felt with a red cross insignia on the cover. It was entitled Joseph Beuys and Medicine and was really cool because it had a handle similar to a doctor’s medical bag. Unfortunately, a few months later, there was a flood in the Elektra offices and the book was destroyed. I was never able to find another one.
The story about Beuys being wrapped in fat and felt after the accident during the Crimean War has been disproven. That the story was untrue is indicative of an odd undercurrent of humor in Beuys’ work.
But I was completely star struck. After I got that postcard from Mitchell, I quickly started researching everything Beuys. One of the first things I did was go to the Strand Bookstore on Broadway, because I knew they had a large variety of American and European art monographs. I was sure I could find works on Beuys there, and I did: “Joseph Beuys Wasserfarben/Watercolors: 1936–1963”4 and “Joseph Beuys: Olfarben/Oilcolors 1936–1965.”5 I immediately fell in love. Although I wasn’t thrilled with the high prices, I had to have them, so I put them on my corporate card and called it “research.” I ended up collecting over fifty books on Beuys.
Meanwhile, Mitchell learned about a show that was happening called “Von hier aus—Zwei Monate neue deutsche Kunst in Düsseldorf”6 and it was going to be a major event in the art world in 1984. Every leading European artist would be there, among them: Sigmar Polke, Imi Knoebel, Georg Baselitz, and, of course, the master himself—Joseph Beuys. I was filled with excitement—all I could think was how I could not miss that show. It was my chance to meet him.
The exhibition was held inside an enormous airplane hangar, and the moment we walked in, I was overtaken by all of the magnificent paintings and sculptures.
When Beuys came through the door, a hush came over the entire place—a complete silence. He just walked through, nodding to everyone. There were some people trailing him, who I believe were journalists and photographers. The first thing he did was go over to one of his works and start inspecting it. The work was made up of multiple four-foot-high pieces of felt with a rectangular plate of copper on top of each of them.
When I got a clear view of him, I just stood there, speechless. It took me a few minutes to remember to breathe. When I finally did, I said to myself, “Okay. Get yourself ready.” I had to talk to him, but I was extremely nervous.
After Beuys spoke with some journalists, he walked around and made his way to a very long, rectangular table. I was frozen as I watched him. Carmen Knoebel then came over to me and said, “Would you like to meet Joseph?”
I could barely answer. She nudged me toward him and he stood up and extended his hand to me.
“Hello, Mr. Beuys, I think the world of you.” My voice was shaking a little. “I’m here visiting from New York City . . .”
“Ah,” he replied. “New York City, I know it very well! From Rene Block.” At this point, I quietly took my camera out of my bag, and asked:
“May I please take a Polaroid of you?”
“Of course.”
I also showed him a Polaroid that I had taken of one of his pieces and asked if he would sign it; he said yes. Then he offered:
“Would you like to sit down here with me?”
I agreed as quickly as possible then sat there for a while watching him sign posters and postcards for a long line of admirers. I don’t recall how much time we were there but when he was finishing up, he looked under the table and pulled out a cardboard box. He placed it in front of me, and inside of it there were fifty postcards of all of his “actions.”
“This is a gift,” he said.
He then started writing on the top of the box: “For Michael. Joseph Beuys,” and then he drew a picture of his world famous hat.
“This is for you.” He handed the signed box to me. I was overcome with excitement by such a generous gesture. At some point in the evening, his close friends came together for some drinks. He introduced me to his wife, Eva, and we all sat around talking about the event and having a truly wonderful time. It felt like a dream.
I remained in a pure state of awe being around that gracious man and was so deeply saddened when I learned of his death, on January 23, 1986. To this day, I go to every Beuys exhibition I can find––anywhere in the world.7
Every human being is an artist, a freedom being, called to participate in transforming and reshaping the conditions, thinking and structures that shape and inform our lives.8
—Joseph Beuys