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Something must be missing.

I don't know what's wrong.

But it's your tripod.

Yes, but I can't tighten it.

Nice. But why is it crooked?

It has to be straight.

Does it have a zoom?

They don't have numbers yet?

No.

Will they stay like this?

Presumably.

They look finished, don't they?

The paintings have changed a lot.

Yes, yes.

That's the thing:

they do what they want.

I planned something totally different.

Pretty colorful.

This is the floor plan
of the Goodman Gallery in New York.

We always work on a scale of 1:50.

These were just placeholders.

The pictures weren't finished yet,
but the format was set.

Now the pictures
are most likely finished,

so we can photograph them
and print them out 1:50.

He said he's already hung
two 1.8-meter canvases.

I can make them, too.
There's enough space,

but they're not painted yet.

Gerhard Richter, born in 1932,

lived in East Germany
until a few years ago,

but the painting style prescribed there
didn't suit him.

Well trained in Social Realism,

he turned to Western clichés,

calling the results "Capitalist Realism".

To talk about painting is not only
difficult but perhaps pointless, too.

You can only express in words
what words are capable of expressing,

what language can communicate.

Painting has nothing to do with that.

That includes the typical question:
"What were you thinking of?"

You can't think of anything;
painting is another form of thinking.

What interests me in general,
and this also applies to painting,

are things I don't understand.

It's like that with every picture:
I don't like the ones I understand.

There.

Number one.

What are you preparing that for?

For the abstracts.

For the realist paintings
he uses mainly tube paint.

- It's of even higher quality.
- This is for the big squeegee.

So the paint spreads
smoothly and evenly.

Lumps in the paint, of course,
affect the layer below.

You then get grooves in the paint

or something like a little avalanche.
So the paint has to be clean.

Need help?

No, it's OK, I'm enjoying it.

Enjoy it, then.

- Which colors does he use?
- The classics...

titanium white,

ivory black,

cadmium shades, red,

ultramarine,

lemon yellow.

Nothing exotic like Neapolitan yellow,
and no earth tones.

I'll leave it be for a while.

Hard to say.

They could be a bit better.

I should find a way of making them

that's just as fast, just as fancy-free,

but would leave them finished, too.

And good.

These won't hold up long here.

It's like this:

it's so much fun and they look good

for two hours.

Sometimes for a day.

The second one's a bit nicer.

Why?

It's more open and...

cheerful.

There's a nice little spot
in the middle with that structure.

Maybe this time
they'll stay so colorful!

Not just grey.

- I don't think so.
- No.

But it's a shame.

They'd be much more "in"

out there in the world.

This is just a grey surface.

Painted grey.

It surprised me, too:

when I started
to make grey paintings

my motivations
weren't very serious...

But then I noticed
differences in quality:

they were all grey,
but some were better.

Perhaps my fondness for grey

comes from photographs,

but now it has

nothing to do with them.

It's all about painting.

This is just where I am.

I'm used to it.

If chance had brought me elsewhere,

then I'd love it there.

Or like it at least.

Cologne is a bit ugly.

Very ugly.

Here, the middle of town...

What a mess!

- The light is my biggest worry.
- The light is crap, but we'll fix it.

You see there:

it's pink.

Yes, and yellow here, greenish yellow

and sparkling pink there.

But after a while you won't notice it.

You can put spotlights everywhere.

The ceiling would be fantastic

if you just took off the grid.

I don't like that "industrial look".

But this is much worse:
the "stuffy look".

But you won't notice it in the exhibition.

- Of course I will!
- No, you won't! - I always have!

Just replace all the fluorescent tubes
and add a few more.

So it's really bright.

I just want to see the naked lights.

That would be great!

It'd be wonderful.

No one looks up there.

The frame will stay.

And so will the grid.

I mean we could remove the grid
and leave the frame.

We can manage that:
cold, neutral lighting.

The exhibition is pretty ruthless.

Just the large abstracts.

So it might be a good idea
to have a cold or neutral atmosphere.

It has to be really cold!

A cold light.

So that people are happy to get out.

They shouldn't feel comfortable.

EXHIBITION "ABSTRACT PAINTINGS"
OCTOBER, 2008

Initially, the idea was

to exhibit only paintings

from 1985 to 1990.

We had a concept for that.

That was an important period
for Richter.

He agrees
that those are mature works.

Not that he doesn't
value the earlier ones,

but he finds these "mature"...

as the Americans say.

"Grown-up" paintings.

Kasper!

Don't desert me, come here.

- Pardon?
- Don't desert me.

Mr. Richter...

Over here, please!

Mr. Richter, you're considered
a master of changing styles.

Are all your different work groups

equally important to you?

Or do you have preferences?

There are always preferences.

They can't all have
the same significance.

It's like one day and another.
The meaning always varies.

I can't list

all of my preferences here.

They change, too. In any case,

to answer your question: it varies.

You're one of
the world's most famous artists.

How do you deal with fame?

Is it a burden

or do you ignore it?

You can't, can you?

Well, it varies. It's wonderful,

but you have no time to paint.

That's a problem. You can suffer.

Over here, please.

Towards me once more.

And to the side. That's it.

- You already have so many!
- One more...

Oh, just throw them all away.

- I'm not at all radical.
- Pardon?

Hello, Mr. Arns.

I'm not radical.

Is it possible
to be too hyped during your lifetime?

Would you like to help us
hang two paintings upstairs?

I just want to get out of here.

Mr. Richter, I have a little request...

My girlfriend is a big fan.

Could you...?

Not right now.

Let's just go over there.

We're almost there.

I should have brought the photo.
There it is.

Nice, isn't it?

A fence.

Yes.

The lighting makes a big difference.

It was sunny then.

A lot of work for a little picture.

This is my "mini cage".

And that one there?

Courbet, isn't it?

The tree.

A beautiful picture.

And so modern. I think...

You could photograph
or see a tree that way today.

And the sculpture?

That's amazing...

I wonder what makes it so good.

It has the right quality...

the one I believe in.

It's something that belongs to art

and could be in any artwork

but, in fact, it's rare.

It's very curious.

You need a critical eye for pictures,

your own as well.

Yes, but I have a lot to compare with...

Theoretically, if there were no decline,

your storehouse of treasures up here

would just keep growing.

That's what I use for comparison.

But this here is a special case
because of the mutilation.

I don't know what effect that has.

Beautiful colors and shapes, lovely.

But the mutilation...

Most likely, the contrast

makes it more beautiful.

It's quite brutal.

I regard it with caution.

- And the movement it expresses?
- Yes, that's pretty good.

- She's leaning to the side.
- Look at her arms.

And the one behind you?

That was an invitation.

A Picasso graphics exhibition.

Photographed,
mirror-inverted and enlarged.

I wanted to know

what it can tell me today.

This brutal thing here with its growths,

its deformed, squashed head...

And that's an astonishing photo.

It's fascinating
how peaceful it looks, how normal.

When you look closely, they're having

a nice little chat.

But this is the commando
that was forced to burn corpses.

I can't explain it.

It's crazy.

He's standing as if balancing on a log,

so normal.

Can you remember the first time you saw
something like this after the war?

At the academy in Dresden,
right at the start.

American documentary photography,

not smuggled,

but somebody had it and we looked at it.

It hasn't let me go since.

The images

and reports of these atrocities.

I don't know what to do next.

It's not working.

- It's not working today?
- No.

I can't smear that on after all.

That was an error.

- The blue paint?
- Yes.

We should talk about the film now.

What would happen
if you used the blue squeegee?

It would totally destroy it.

It was an overblown idea
to add that now.

Because you were at a loss?

There's always that,
that's not the problem.

It won't work.

At the moment it seems hopeless.
I don't think I can do this:

painting under observation.

That's...

...the worst thing there is.

- The worst thing?
- Yes, worse than being in the hospital.

It's been a while
since I was in the hospital,

but I felt just as exposed.

Maybe the Philip Glass film isn't so bad.

Walking in the street and so on...

You said
you were unhappy about the camera.

It's watching me.

And because I know that...

I walk differently...

Something's just different.

Painting is a secretive business anyway.

Someone who's not suited for the public,

who's rather quiet,

who's a bit cowardly out there...

Someone who wouldn't speak up in public
but then goes for it here in secret.

I remember how I used to worry:

being afraid when I showed something
that people wouldn't notice.

Notice what?
That you had let it all hang out?

Yes.

It's a nice feeling
between being caught and...

being seen.

Being seen?

For the quality to be recognized
and the mistakes perhaps overlooked...

It's a complex thing:

something you do in secret
and then reveal in public.

You can also hide behind it.

- Behind the pictures?
- Yes.

- I don't quite understand that.
- Neither do I.

It's an...

aggressive business,

or occupation.

I like how Adorno explained it:

you can't put pictures together.

Paintings are always "mortal enemies".
That's the correct term.

It has to do with destruction.

Each painting is an assertion
that tolerates no company.

This picture is in London now?

Yes, I drew it again,
but the second one is often...

BENJAMIN BUCHLOH, ART HISTORIAN

Where are the flowers?

- Too bad.
- Not there.

The black and white one there.
That's this one.

A really tragic picture.

- Here you can see it better.
- Oh yes, the albino figure.

Goodness!

You can't tell what it was modeled after.

Looks like Cranach.

This is our little boy.
It's varnished here now.

The original is a school picture.

These are the only three
that are still interesting.

- Which ones?
- The distorted, figurative ones.

The flower, the little head...
That's probably the best one.

And the red one?

- It works.
- Yes.

Good, isn't it?

When I first approach a canvas,

theoretically and practically
I can smear anything I want on it.

Then there is a condition
I must react to

by changing it

or destroying it. There's no concept.

It's not like a figurative painting
with a template.

Something happens spontaneously.
Not by itself, but without plan or reason.

So it's about not having a plan.

And my first thought is:

Automatism, a 20th century movement

that proposed painting without a plan.

- But that's not the case.
- No.

It's not the idea that without a plan
the subconscious will articulate itself.

Or the other model: without a plan...

you avoid compositionality.
Like Ellsworth Kelly.

Not that, either.

Composition by chance.

So the question is:

you paint without a plan
but you know exactly when it's right.

So what's the correlation between
planlessness and making the judgment:

"Now it's a painting"?

Each step forward is more difficult
and I feel less and less free

until I conclude
there's nothing left to do.

When, according to my standard,
nothing is wrong anymore, then I stop.

Then it's good.

And what's right and wrong?

The wrong consciousness,
material or process?

It just doesn't look good.

Then it's wrong.

Can we dig deeper
than looking good or bad?

- It's extremely difficult.
- It is.

We're all completely equal here.

The producer and consumer,
artist and observer,

both must have one quality:

to be able to see if it's good or not.
To make that judgment.

Is "good" related to "truth"?

Yes, of course.

So there's a component of truth

- that a picture must express to be good?
- Yes.

And that goes there.

Isn't that right? Yes.

I'd really love to paint over this one.

- White!
- Take it back?

- No, bring the paint here.
- That's easier.

A ladder.

I'm anxious to see
what happens over the next two weeks.

Whether they'll stay like this
or get painted over.

- Might they be painted over?
- Sure. If they don't stand their ground.

They have to hold up here for a while.
If they're still good, they've made it.

If not, they'll be painted over.

It's got to go on the wall,
even if I do paint over it.

That one gave me a real fright.

I thought it was horrible.

- That one?
- Yes.

It's nuts, but that feeling's fading.

You have to understand it first.

You can't influence it.

What can't you influence?

You can't influence the painting

by saying something about it.

If I say: "Great, leave it like that",

he's more likely
to consider changing it.

Why?

Maybe because
he was looking for a reason.

- To change it?
- Yes.

When someone likes it too much,
he has a reason to destroy it.

Of course!

I think so.

- How come?
- Everybody knows the feeling:

you love something, talk it all up,

and two days later you suddenly see:

complete rubbish.

All wrong. It's no good.

Two days later, it's a bit better again.

It needs some time.

After a while you just know.

"Director's Choice"
wants to print a painting.

KONSTANZE ELL, STUDIO MANAGER

Richter Studio, Ell speaking.

Mrs. Richter,
can your husband call back?

Thanks.

- Your wife.
- OK?

I have this for you, too.

- He won't be here until October.
- Good. 2011.

We have a file on the planned exhibition
if you're interested.

That's the disadvantage.

- Which one? The white one?
- The white one.

The risk is
that I whitewash the other one, too.

- All the more reason to put it away.
- Yes.

Now it has a definite advantage
amidst all the whiteness here.

All the whiteness?

Everything's white.

And that one's snowed over.

It has no...

no gimmicks.

No lines.

- Exactly.
- No nothing.

- Just the things that happen to be there.
- Yes.

Mr. Richter,
you once called painting

a moral act.
What did you mean?

Painting isn't just a question of
aesthetics, of painting pretty pictures,

which perhaps isn't very difficult.

That's all I meant.

Do you mean
the artist's private morality

and honesty towards his work

or social morality,
an artist's role in society?

Both.

It starts with one's personal morality,
but you're not alone.

You're automatically part of society.

Where did all these photos come from?

I've dragged them around forever.
In boxes, but disorganized.

Now I want to put them in order.

What can I throw away?

What was when?

Look how little I was!

Four years old, maybe five.

You get so used to photos, you think
you know the guy, but it's not true...

You know the world of the photos,

but not the world they photographed.

I can't remember it.

The photos create a world,

but I don't know
what's happening outside of the frame.

I don't even know where it is.

I don't know this woman.

It's my mother.
I know that from the photo,

but not because I remember it.
How old was I, two?

Oh, that explains the suit:
it's my sister's christening.

It's a massive intervention.

It was something unknown

before photography.

I don't get it. Intervention into what?

Into our...

knowledge, our consciousness.

Having photos
that can document every step.

I should throw them away.

But can you part with them?

That's what I'm trying to figure out,

if it wouldn't be better to forget.

- And your profession?
- It developed slowly.

First I simply enjoyed doing it.

And I couldn't imagine
it could be a profession.

So we searched for something
that seemed like a sound profession:

in a printing shop.

My mother took me there

to get me an apprenticeship.

It was noisy and it stank

so I refused to do it.

When you see the guys at the presses,

you know how awful it is.

I don't remember where else we went.

And then it started slowly.

Your mother wanted you to have a job.

Yes, but something that suited me.

You need a profession, after all.

Then I wanted to become a doctor,
but that didn't work out.

So I made a start
as a dental technician.

That was dreadful.

I'll never forget that tour

through factories in Zittau.

Waking up to reality

is terrifying.

The little girl.

Good morning.

Hello.

Where is that?

In the academy. This is our teacher,

Heinz Lohmar.
His paintings weren't so great.

I was in his class.

But he wasn't a leader.

Other teachers were like saints.

Just like the students

who wanted to go to Beuys:

they needed

a saint.

I could never bare that.

So he was great,
a down-to-earth Rhinelander!

But later you said:
you have to and want to believe.

We do, every day...

Preferably with caution and skepticism.

I'll never forget
a fellow student at the academy

who painted flowers.

He sat there at the easel,

whistling for joy.

And I thought: "Stay critical, boy.

You're deceiving yourself,

pumping yourself up to like it."

A bit neurotic, really.

How can you explain your maturity

at such a young age?

No idea.

There must've been a kind of benchmark.

You can keep looking for it,

that so-called benchmark.

Seeing the photographs,

I thought of your mother.

She set pretty high standards herself.

Well,

it makes for a catchy story:

I grew up reading Nietzsche and Goethe...

But that wasn't really...

And I didn't always believe her either.

You didn't believe her?

No.

As a child you want to...

You don't want to believe them.

You have to distrust your parents and
you can see through them pretty well.

You left Dresden, East Germany, in 1961.

Did you ever see them again?

No, never.

I was a recognized refugee.

A certified political refugee.

And it wasn't possible.

I couldn't get a permit...

a travel permit for the East.

Not until 1987
when I had an exhibition there.

With the ambassador...

suddenly everything was possible.

But they were all dead by then.

Did you realize in the early 60s
you'd never see them again?

No, absolutely not.

You think things will change
and that it won't last.

You don't think
people will grow old and die.

When you leave them, they're young,

50 or younger.

You think they'll stay that way.

Like bodies preserved in glaciers...

found 50 years later.

You hear those stories.

They're too spectacular.
I can't really say.

I haven't seen them in a long time.

The last time, in Berlin, was horrific.

They were so artificially staged.

The MOMA in Berlin, a famous exhibition.

The whole room was like cheap theatre.

How long did you work
on the October Cycle?

One whole summer.

That was a difficult subject.

Well...

I did it. It's a job

when you do it.

Doing it makes you feel good.

I try to work my way through it.

It's better than doing nothing

when I'm powerless.

That's the basis for green.

The plan is: four green ones.

That's why there's so much red.

Don't look.

Don't look for a day.

From above.

I just need a reminder.

Wonderful.

- Tell us about it.
- Well.

You arrived...

Full of fear, sore muscles and

paracetamol.

Horrible!

It makes a big difference

when the paintings are hanging there
like a performance.

Like an opera you've written on paper,
on the studio wall, in the dirt...

Then suddenly it's there.

It was really good.

Americans are so enthusiastic.

They come from all over

and they're not shy

to say what they think.

At my first exhibition in New York,

at least 30 years ago...

at Onnasch, 1972...

35 years ago.

I was showing photorealistic
and grey monochrome paintings.

Two young artists came over and said…

I was baffled.
Because we're always so reserved.

"Interesting exhibition"

is the most we say.

"Oh, not so bad".

That was secretly painted in.

Did you see it?

The yellow? No idea how it got there.

A panning shot for Madam.

Man, is this fun.