About the exhibition

Sophia Süßmilch and the exhibition of the Little Man
(Self-portrait with Crocodile)

Pain, dude. You can’t even imagine the pain that this Sophia Süßmilch is feeling in her head.
But, never mind. We all rot away one way or another. In capitalism, and the art market is like the worst evil of it all, things must work – must, must, must, chop-chop.
And as a female artist, you have to be the very best, very special, stand out from the herds of sods so keen on individuality.
So pressure builds up – the moment you open your eyes in the morning, you have to have the most ingenious ideas and if you rest for even five minutes, they will have passed you by.
You’re certainly not allowed to go about it like the Little Man and have a life. Consisting of many different varying parts, until the life is over once again and everything goes back to normal.
Her life was over the moment she submitted her portfolio at the Academy of Fine Arts.
Wham wham wham! Süßmilch, come on, hang out your breasts and the painting will sell in a jiffy.
Now that the woman is about to turn 40 soon, the pressure is lodged in her head.
Because: even if she wants to be a goddess, she is still a small human with her damaged skull that has to spit out ideas.
The images dash, the pussy hisses, the nerves whoosh and the heart still feels.
The belief is planted in her heart: she was not born to be a genius, and yet, maybe if she tried really really hard, maybe then.
If they had assigned her as class representative at least once back in her small town, we would all have been spared all this artist nonsense.
Life is suffering, life is a headache: it sits there like a crocodile biting on to something, too lazy and too dumb to run. The moment she handed in her portfolio, the trap sprang. It got her and sits there ever since.
Do you already know? Do you know it, too? I don’t want to be alone with my pain.
You don’t have to be alone, Sophia Süßmilch, because I am you and you are me. Alas, aren’t we all just the Little Man? Just a thought, Süßmilch, in the middle of the pain. There it is, the thought of “The Little Man”, who is with you and the two of you are rid of loneliness. It’s the thought that counts.
Be a Goddess, be good and normal, he says.
This is beautiful
We are here, crocodile, man and me.
And when in pain
You don’t have to be alone.
We share it between us, because together we are strong.
Capitalism likes this too, because division of labour is optimising.
The first thought of the day always has to be:
Je suis moi, je suis toi, je suis The Little Man.