By Christa Sigg
Every child is familiar with his boar in front of the hunting museum in Munich's pedestrian zone. Also with his St Francis or the buxom Olympia – a visit to the Munich sculptor Martin Mayer in the Borstei.
One of them lolls casually on the floor. Two others gaze up into the air. In between them, one plump woman dreamily opens her bent legs, while the next stretches her marvellously expansive buttocks out towards you. It all feels a bit like Ingres' “Turkish Bath”. Only here, the Pasha sits right in the middle of it all: Martin Mayer smiles, and his piercing blue eyes shine in a challenging way. Being surrounded by so many women – it's certainly something many men dream of but not many achieve.
They are, of course, in miniature. The sculptor keeps most of his ‘daughters’ around him in that form, and in the drawings hung close together on the wall that provide a nice overview of Mayer's work, which is otherwise difficult to encapsulate. The at times larger-than-life figures are scattered throughout Germany, some of them in Munich, such as 'Bukolika' (1984), who sits, lost in thought, by the underbridge at the Ludwigsbrücke bridge. Or the almost four metre high 'Olympia Triumphans' (1972), balancing upside down on a ball in the Olympic Park with her legs spread wide apart. And, of course, the regal boar that settled itself down on Neuhauser Straße in front of the Hunting and Fishing Museum forty years ago.
He is the opposite of many of today's self-assured artist-performers, who hire a PR squadron for their very first group exhibition.
All of these stately works that have long been part of the city, like the fish fountain on Marienplatz or the satyr and bronze boy in front of the Oberpollinger. But as is the case with artists who are highly visible in public spaces: You never really know them. Mayer doesn't even like being referred to as an artist. 'I'm a sculptor,' he states emphatically. But he is so modest that you almost want to shake him. He is the opposite of many of today's self-assured artist-performers, who hire a PR squadron for their very first group exhibition.
Yet Mayer already had a lot to show for himself at a very young age. In 1952 he was represented in the 'Great Art Exhibition' at the Haus der Kunst when he was just 21 years old. This was in part because he started early. Theodor Georgii took him into his care when he was just 15 years old, and the talented youth was immediately introduced to Munich's traditional sculpture scene: The academy professor Georgii was Adolf von Hildebrand's most important pupil and was also married to his daughter. Mayer was soon also being taught in the sacred (studio) halls of the German-Roman sculptor in what is today the Monacensia. Mayer, who later took over the studio, still owns the master's tools. He began to work with Hildebrand's sculptures in a very practical way early on when, after the war, Mayer helped his teacher to restore Hildebrand's Wittelsbach Fountain that had been destroyed by bombs.
He says this with a clear Berlin accent; the few years he spent there after his birth in 1931 seem to have been formative. As was Andreas Schlüter's baroque equestrian statue of the Great Elector, which made a great impression on him. He saw it and wanted to be able to do something similar. A few years later when Mayer's parents – both commercial artists – noticed that his school work in Kaiserslautern and Weißenburg wasn't going as well as they would have hoped, but that the boy could draw brilliantly, they started looking for a creative education.
At the time, a foundation in craftsmanship was important, as was the confident handling of materials and the exploration of reality with the eyes and hands. You weren't allowed to be comfortable, but Martin Mayer still swears by the knee breeches he wears to work. And if you ask him about his role models, he points to the street and not the museum. At first this sounds as if he is teasing you, as his works are reminiscent of Aristide Maillol or Marino Marini, and even Renoir's ladies come to mind, but Mayer - and this is what he means by this - has never copied nor tried to emulate anyone. His squatting and crouching women, these hearty ballerinas, do not correspond to the classical ideal of beauty anyway. More like a buxom Bally Prell, but with a little more waist. Because that's what really shows off the bum. The most important thing, says Mayer, looking slightly rakish.
On the other hand, there is nothing lascivious about these female figures. Even the shame they display is never obscene. Mayer's girls don't know what they are doing. Like children at play, they enjoy their own bodies and are entirely self-absorbed, but without the slightest hint of narcissism. It doesn't even seem to occur to them that anyone might be watching. And the few men that run through Mayer's oeuvre, the St James pilgrim in Speyer or St Francis, who has moved from Sonnenstrasse to St Anne's Square, are also completely at ease and cheerful.
It is surprising that the church has not appropriated this artist's works. His St Francis, striding out into the world, radiates trust in God and the certainty of his protection.
It is surprising that the church has not appropriated this artist's works. His St Francis, striding out into the world, radiates trust in God and the certainty of his protection. There could hardly be a better way to express the unique joy experienced by people of faith. On the other hand, the many nudes with their unseemly poses in his oeuvre were probably not considered acceptable, and Mayer has often been criticised for them. In 1973, when his Olympic bronze began cavorting within reach of Günter Behnisch's stadium, he recieved abusive letters and insults far below the belt.
That time is long gone. Martin Mayer stands at the window with his snow-white, slightly unruly hair, surrounded by his voluptuous fairies and his graceful wife Sigrune, and shrugs his shoulders. He has nothing more to prove. A lover of the female form could not wish for more.