Constantin Nitsche Wrestles with the Limits of Painting

The artist Constantin Nitsche, who studied painting at the Kunstakademie Düsseldorf, works in a converted garage studio in Marseille’s 6th arrondissement. His latest exhibition, “Les mains” (“The Hands”), at Xavier Hufkens in Brussels, arrives three years after his debut show, “Oranges et Lavande.” Running through October 3, it takes its title from a letter Franz Kafka wrote to the Czech journalist Milena Jesenská, in which he says, “I can’t hold enough of you in my hands” (“Ich kann doch nicht genug von Dir in Händen halten”). Nitsche grafts this idea of incompleteness, of never being able to fully contain something, onto the way a painting can never fully translate what he sees. Creativity, quite simply, can never be completely expressed. Still, he finds this Sisyphean frustration endlessly compelling.

The exhibition encompasses still lifes and portraits in placid compositions: bright flowers, a yellow screen, the Mediterranean horizon line, a silhouette of the painter’s wife beside a crystal ball, domestic interiors and a strange self-portrait as Pinocchio. Each work is built through a painstaking process of layering, with revisions and subtractions made and remade over many months, and earlier versions of the paintings often whisper through the surface.

We spoke to the artist from Lugano, where he was vacationing with his family before the opening. He discussed his fixation with cats, how living near the Mediterranean awakened his use of color and why he doesn’t see his shows as concept albums.

I’m curious about life in Marseille as an artist. Why were you drawn to the city, and how does working there filter into your work?

We moved because, to be blunt, we were broke. We were living in Düsseldorf, and my wife and I thought we had to get out of that town because it was so gray. I had sold one painting, and I said, let’s take the money and pay for the move, and then we just took the chance. In Düsseldorf, I had a weirdly strict palette. I was policing myself not to use too much color; I don’t know why. I think it was the German esprit weighing on my shoulders. So moving changed my use of color a lot. I work much more freely now.

What is your studio like?

The light is beautiful in Marseille, but my studio actually doesn’t have the best lighting… I’m not too picky about light. I have a mix of LED tubes and natural light. The space used to be a garage for motor scooters; they sold wheels and stuff. I think they were trafficking drugs under the table… The neighborhood is a bit rough. One neighbor always calls me Picasso, which I hate. I’m not a big fan of Picasso, of his persona. But I think he means it as a compliment.

I was very lucky to find that studio. I’ve been in the space for almost five years, and I’ve lived in Marseille since 2019, so I feel very connected to the city. My French is okay now, though it’s far from perfect. I play basketball on a team with a couple of young guys from Marseille, my kids have friends from Marseille, and it’s really important for me to be part of the city. There’s a lot of tourism: people come, rent an apartment and then just leave… then next year it’s Athens or Bucharest or wherever. I care about the city. People are very warm. If they see you trying to speak their language, they’re usually nice. You have to make a bit of a fool of yourself. You have to be willing to.

The titles of your works are often in French, but the show is named after a Kafka quote. Can you talk about how text influences you?

I’m not an intellectual person at all. My wife always tells me I need to read more, and she’s always giving me amazing books. I just read a book by Rachel Cusk that really blew my mind. But I don’t read enough. I’m a very visual person. All my choices come from things I see. I try not to intellectualize my ideas. If something sticks with me, I use it in a painting. I really try to make my choices with my eyes alone. That’s where my strength is. Reading is definitely not one of my strengths.

Kafka is the only author who ever really grabbed me. He does these things where he says something like ‘somebody was screaming, but just so loud nobody heard him’—he always gives you something and then takes it right away. We had to read his work in high school, and I went and read everything Kafka wrote because I liked that way of writing. So I took that quote from him: “I can’t hold enough of you in my hands.” It’s a very beautiful way to express the desperation of trying to get more of something when you can’t. That’s how painting feels to me. You try, but you never feel like you’re actually capturing what you’re painting.

You mean it’s an exercise that will never be satisfying? Or could you eventually get to a more satisfying place in what you convey?

It’s like the dog chasing the mailman: he’ll never catch him. I try every day. I go to the studio every day thinking today I’m going to paint the masterpiece. I usually spend about 10 months on a painting. I work on several at once, but I always think today is the day. I’m absolutely chasing a satisfaction I might never reach. I don’t know how I get a thrill out of this, because it’s not really satisfying, not at all.

I relate to that as a writer.

I think it’s exactly the same thing, just a different medium.

As a visual person, do certain things feel totemic to you, or is there a thread running through what you like to depict?

It’s like vocabulary. It’s like a word you love but try not to overuse. Sometimes in a conversation you use a fancy word twice and it makes you look a bit fishy… but some things are just part of my vocabulary. My fake plant, a ficus, is something I’ve used a lot. I’ll have to stop at some point, but I’m going to start one more painting with it. I think of these things as favorite phrases, favorite sentences or favorite words.

Totem sounds a bit religious, like a talisman or something. But actually I like the word, because these become things I build a relationship with, like cats, for example. I haven’t asked myself what they represent. Maybe civilization, or maybe wildlife. There’s something interesting about cats, so they recur in my paintings. And you see lots of cats in Marseille, so they’re an obvious subject.

You said it takes you many months to complete a painting. Can you walk me through that process?

I try to do only what’s necessary. I once listened to an interview with the writer Paul Auster, and he said he rereads his sentences and erases every word that doesn’t serve a purpose. He strips things down. It’s a bit like that. I get stuck, and I put the painting away. I work on another one, and then I pull the first one out again. Sometimes I do drastic things. I paint over everything, or I try to scrub it down. It’s quite a rough process, actually. There’s one painting I erased so many times that there were tiny holes in the canvas. That’s where I feel most comfortable: when I can be rough with a painting. It’s back-and-forth decision-making. Taking back a decision, erasing, readjusting, adding something. It’s a very intuitive process.

One painting in particular, Nature Morte au Melon, fascinates me. It’s like when a scene fades out in a film and you can already see the next shot behind it.

I know exactly what you mean.

All of the other paintings look very whole and intact. This one has a sense of transition happening. Tell me about that.

It was an accident, actually. The painting didn’t work, which happens to me a lot. It didn’t turn out the way I wanted, but 99 percent of the time things don’t turn out the way I plan, which is actually exciting. I like that. That one was the painting I struggled with the most. I made this weird composition with the table and the patterned tablecloth, and it didn’t make any sense. But I looked at it and said, don’t touch it anymore. Just leave it like that. You try not to kill a painting by forcing it into whatever you had planned for it. It’s like a child. You have to watch and see where it goes and be on its side, in a way. I have two kids screaming in the background; I don’t know if you can hear them. But please don’t write that I talk about my paintings like they’re my children. [laughs] It’s a completely different thing. But in a way you become an assistant to the painting, like the monkey holding the brush. That’s the best approach, because otherwise you feel too much in charge of everything.

Does having a show create a helpful endpoint? How do you know when something is ready?

I actually do better without a deadline. It’s very stressful for me to have a date when a painting has to be finished, and I don’t like that feeling at all. Usually, after 12 months, even the toughest cookies are done. I try to schedule my shows far in advance. If you offered me a show in three months, I couldn’t do it. I need about a year to prepare a show, and even then it can’t be a big one.

These paintings would exist even if there weren’t a show. It’s not a concept album; I never work toward a single project. I’m being given a chance to show my work, to come up to the surface and send a little “hi, here I am!” And then I go back into my studio. There are artists who work very differently, and it works perfectly for them. But I’ve never done that, and I don’t know if I could have one subject and one space in mind and make work specifically for it. I haven’t become that professional yet. I hope I never become that professional!

More interviews