There is no single female gaze. When women look at women, the gazes are as varied as the personalities of the photographers and their models - anyone visiting Johanna Breede's gallery this summer can see this for themselves. We encounter tender glances and encouraging ones, those that look cautiously behind façades and those that are thrown at a person as if casually catching a glimpse. On the gallery walls in Berlin's Fasanenstraße, it is mainly silent glances from wome…

When the gallery doors open again after more than a year of Corona restrictions and lockdowns, the question arises: what have we missed the most? What have we suffered the most from? Under the most modest of all titles, Johanna Breede's UNTITLED invites us to a concert of wishes that holds a whole grab bag of answers. Here "untitled" does not mean without a concept, but rather elevates the greatest possible freedom, for which we have longed for so long. It is the freedom of choic…

It is the year 1969: In the French Church of St. Moritz, Herbert von Karajan, then Chief Conductor of the Berliner Philharmoniker, conducts Arthur Honegger's Symphony no. 2. The exact circumstances of the concert are not known. The only thing that remains is the silence. Robert Lebeck has sculpted them on a minimalist composition of light and shadow. But each before and after is cut off: only the genius and the great silence; the moment between two sentences, between two bars or two notes. …

Love loves small things. Love doesn't seek big pathos or emphasis. Love hides in the profane; in the shiny shoes in which one has journeyed or in the perfect fold of a beautiful dress. The really big things often lurk in the smallest of details. "I believe," the American poet Walt Whitman once wrote, "a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars." It is a poetry of dignity and nuance. This is a credo about the interplay of all things and the reverberati…

We alone are the insiders of our interior worlds. Within ourselves we feel safe and yet often isolated and sealed off. At the same time, hope is almost always contained therein: evident itself in windows, in the gates of the eyes. Each window is a link, a step between the interior and the exterior. The window functions just as with the lens of a camera - it is the point between the camera obscura and the outside. The point where light breaks through and illuminates another world. A…