The German photographer on activism, acid house — and why he feels ‘under threat’ from Brexit
Wolfgang Tillmans hobbles towards me, his left leg strapped into a fearsome contraption designed to allow his broken bones and ligaments to heal.
He is mobile, but only just, reliant on crutches to move around his studio, and a wheelchair to cover longer distances. Tillmans, it turns out, is recovering from a serious car crash. For now, this most light-footed of artists — a prominent anti-Brexit campaigner whose works have explored themes such as dance, flight and space — finds his freedom of movement sharply constrained. I have arranged to pick up Tillmans from his studio in the Berlin district of Kreuzberg, where he rents the first floor of a 1930s department store with a notable Bohemian pedigree. Tillmans and his 20-odd assistants occupy a succession of white, airy rooms. The largest contains a vast model of the exhibition space at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, which is preparing a retrospective of his work; it seems destined to confirm Tillmans as one of the most celebrated artists living today. The 50-year-old German is in shorts and a purple T-shirt that proclaims in bright pink letters: Votiamo insieme. Votiamo per l’europa (“Let’s vote together. Let’s vote for Europe”). The slogan is part of his pro-European political campaign work, an increasingly important part of his life in recent years. As we head for the nearby restaurant, Tillmans is talkative and scrupulously polite, equipped with a disarming, slightly mischievous grin that lights up his still-boyish face.
Our lunch venue is not without controversy. Orania is an ambitious restaurant, known for its subtle blend of German and Asian flavours, in a luxury hotel on the leafy square that abuts Tillmans’ studio. This is the formerly rough heart of countercultural Kreuzberg, just up the road from SO36, the most storied punk club in Berlin. Like much of the rest of the capital, the neighbourhood is gentrifying rapidly, sparking angry — and occasionally violent — opposition. Orania is a highly charged symbol in that battle. Several windows are shattered by stones, other parts of the façade are marked by paintbomb splashes. Tillmans seems keen not to pick sides in this urban conflict. He says he chose the restaurant because his broken leg makes it hard to move farther afield, and because it is quiet enough to allow for a conversation. “Also, the people here are really nice,” he says. The waitress arrives with a clutch of menus. Tillmans finds what he wants in seconds. We are in the midst of Spargelzeit, white asparagus season, which exerts a near-mystical pull on Germans. Tillmans and I are no exception, and we each order a plate of the delicate vegetable, which is harvested in Beelitz just outside Berlin, accompanied by boiled potatoes, ham and Hollandaise sauce. As a starter, he picks Orania’s quirky take on a tomato and mozzarella salad. I opt for grilled octopus with gin-infused tomatoes.