Karin Welponer

in memory of Berty Skuber

Berty,

the flame-red mane and the resonant voice have fallen silent, yet through her vast body of work she remains present. We met in the 1960s, and although we worked in very different ways, an immediate and heartfelt understanding arose between us.

I could only admire her dedication to meticulously painting tiny squares onto the canvas. Building a great whole out of countless small elements runs throughout her entire oeuvre.

Surrounded by this rich sensitivity at the Prackfolerhof, I felt warmly welcomed by Berty and Henry. Henry wrote the text for my catalogue on the cube, cooked risotto with freshly picked chanterelles, seasoned with the aroma of many cigarettes, accompanying intense and stimulating conversations late into the night. Here, on this remote farm, you had the privilege of being left in peace, yet remained in lively contact with the entire art world.

After Henry passed away, Berty and I began — in a way in his honor — to continue our conversations. A dialogue, an exchange of thoughts without words, in keeping with our visual language.

For many months we sent each other a message every day via WhatsApp: an ultra-fast post — one photo sent, one in return — me in the morning, Berty in the evening. What moved us, what caught our attention: sometimes a direct response, sometimes a break, a fleeting situation, an unexpected perception, something intimate, something trivial, a wink; Berty orderly and aesthetic, I more often oblique.

After an accident, I temporarily ended our dialogue of hundreds of messages with the last withered leaf of the tulip tree in the garden.

At the Franzensfeste Biennale (2024), we exhibited our works in two adjacent rooms: Berty’s letters and collages in a display case, and my drawings of vulvas arranged around a red carpet.

This became the impulse to resume our dialogue. These wordless messages continued to reveal much about both of us. The enigma of ourselves, in which we disclosed something, yet so little at the same time.

In this exchange, a web emerged, woven from harmonious and contrasting leaps of thought — with irony, poetry, humor, even censorship.

We learned from one another, discovering more than we could ever have discussed, for misunderstandings are interpretations — shaped by how the recipient understands the gift.

Throughout the hours of the day and into the night, a sense of anticipation built: what would the response be? Would it open a new facet? Would there be an exploratory continuation, a current event worth engaging with?

Then the images multiplied, showing the evening silhouette of the forest ridge behind the Prackfolerhof, on which Berty had written buona notte with her finger.

I paint you a buona notte in the clouds, dear sister in spirit — I will miss you deeply.