discovery art fair. Frankfurt
November 7 to 9, 2025

It is the blossoms, it is the magic, it is the almost unreal enchantment of the blossoms that overwhelms you, grips you, captivates you as if in a dream that suddenly becomes reality. Like the bleak step out of urban grayness, the painful soullessness, like the leap that leaves behind everything leaden, the iron, lattice-like skeleton, and lands smoothly in the almost dazzlingly colorful, exuberant paradise. Is it the Jardin du Luxembourg on the Rive Gauche that conjures up an oasis of calm from the chaos of Paris? You see people who just a moment ago were hastily and painfully working through their unpleasant tasks and orders, and then, as if awakened, they come to rest, greet the light-footed athletes with a gentle smile, find their inner peace, and cannot get enough of the true explosions of thousands upon thousands of flowers and blossoms. But it is also the garden of Claude Monet, which he conjured up on canvas at his house in Giverny near Paris. Everything is color. Everything is lost in color. And when I look at my sea of colors, I see how the bright splendor slowly darkens into warm red tones. hb