Please allow me to introduce myself!!!
Please allow me to introduce myself: Geel, born Marcel Nicklis, in Olten Switzerland, on the 19th of September 1967 to German parents. After two years, in 1969, the decision that would change everything, as most decisions do: the childs parents decide to move to South Africa; Cape Town to be precise. A second decsion is made thereafter, serving to cement issues: the childs parents decide to stay. Both decisions are made without the childs` assenting vote. After both descisions have been made life kind of takes off, exploding like those party crackers everyone hates. Cape Town is an amalgamam of hot sand, colours, smells, Saltriver road, beautiful landscapes, the beach, terrible and at times violent schooling, acridly desolate but colourful townships, a lot of time spent outside, and being quite scared most of the time. Not to mention the War of course, and the paranoia of Apartheid, which meant the paranoia of everything. Being a hyperactive, motor-impaired precocious child, puts the little artist at loggerheads with just about everyone, sticking out like s sore thumb with a sore bum, the child stumbles from malheur to malheur, mostly wanting to, but left wanting in many regards; the first school change comes early. A fruitful school career under the auspices of Irish brothers begins replete with sugar cane spankings, rugby failure, cricket ineptitude, a fascination with crosses, and sporadic feats of artistic prowess, not drawing. The child equates schooling with curiosity and takes whatever captures its fancy; the child visualises, working in images, creating storyboards in its mind; some of these are scary, inhibiting, others are scary and sensously joyous. Out of the corner of its eye the child sees where all is headed, and is mortified, curiosity is quashed under the weight of expectations, requirements, the war. The child realises it has to survive and succeed, succeed to survive. The child learns speed,cutting corners, working under the radar, and popping up at times to get spanked or to collect laudatios, but mostly to get spanked. The Child learns to lie, lie low, run, hide, and stay hidden, until long after the danger has subsided, only to realise, after coming up for air, that danger has built a nest in its head. Dreams, nightmares, deluges; later become beatiful works of art; disturbing, horrifically captivating, say the critics…..The German art critics scream I M P U L S E G I V E R…
After the child has successfully dodged the war ( draft dodger ) for the first time it begins its studies on the hill. Under the auspices of Cecil John Rhodes it grows hair ( hip long golden locks, no socks, art in its own right ), falls in love, and discovers the W O R L D ( Zimbabwe/Malawi ). Love becomes a lifelong endeavor, no time for the greater struggle ( A P A R T H E I D ). The struggle is inside and it is gargantuan; the child loves tyeing ties and getting tangled. The child remains a child, even when listening to Dylan, all tangled up in B L U E.
Life encroaches, looming ever larger; in the guise of War, Abuse, Fear. The Child must decide, decisions not being a childs thing. The child, after haggling with itself, decides to leave, to head in the direction of forebears, in the direction of enlightenment, in the direction of safety. The child leaves after witnessing the old mans release, Madiba`s rainbow looming large, as if spawn from the heavens, it beckons and tugs. The child lands in snow, amongst looming alps, alpine horns, old farmhouses, and steaming plates of molten cheese ladled out with chipped wooden spoons. The Child is mystified; enlightened Europe is a fata morgana. The child gets snowed in, wading kneedeep through insecurity, beauracracy, language. The child lost turns unto itself and inwards, seeks refuge in seclusion, working with and for those who have been discarded, sidelined, secluded: the disabled, abused, the blind, the mutes; the child nurtures its own mutism, mutism matures, the child spins yarns; mystifying, creating the past for future renditions. The child develops a knack for biography and fantasy, the child mixes and mingles, a child alchemist.
Having moved towards the edges, the child decides, once again, to leave. Crossing borders unimpeded feels strange, at times the child dreams of walls, dreams of falling off and down, over precipices. The child has dreams of falling through space, the child travels through time….
and lands in Vienna, a place of music, art, an ancient place. The child spends two decades in the woods, on the outskirts, skirting. The recluse child builds a nest amongst the trees; grows up and outwards, roots, shooting down and out. It is a hallowed site: abandoned churches, nazi history, old winds. The child makes forays into the city; delving into the mystic of an ancient panoptikum; museums, cathedrals, monuments to fallen heroes. The child discovers colour and form, is mystified by formlessness; the daring of the greats; blood and shadows, crosses and spirits. Spirits caught in the gold dust spray, spirits caught and framed in wood. Some spirits are caught in blood, ghost blood.
The child grows, and grows old, maturity won at the cost of time, a haze of discoveries left behind. The child now becomes the man/artist und must in turn find the hidden child, must close the gap, close the gaping wound that demarcates. The resurrected child must teach the man, skills lost to time, desire lost to reason. The child must sever the cord that binds the man, cutting roots, breaking wood. The child settles, embedded amongst hills, along borders, moving lines, iron curtains rustle, the child discovers freedom, the freedom to stay, or move, borders beckon and break, breaking stasis. The child stays…..