By Dietrich Heyde
Orpheus (1962)
Like a great, distant and beautiful song, it has stood there since its arrival, reminding me, always reminding me of only one thing, that love alone is strong as death, and passion irresistible as the realm of the dead, as it says in the Song of Songs and as is painfully suffered by Orpheus. The formal language of Martin Mayer's Orpheus is captivating and enchanting. It has something of a timeless melody that tells of how beauty and virtue, longing and devotion were still one and so far removed from all triviality. For there is no part of this Orpheus that does not look at me; no movement that does not become a mirror of the human soul. But what is the point of all these words?! I would just like to say once more, and now with the example of Orpheus, how beautiful, downright powerful and therefore convincing the formal language of Martin Mayer is and how it affects us.
David plays for Saul (1979)
The strings of his harp, whose sound and melody comfort and strengthen us as often as we look at them, are the forms that Martin Mayer gave to David singing and performing before Saul. His figure is for me both of great erotic radiance and of a power that nothing and no one on this earth can resist, and (at the same time) of a purity and innocence as white as the snow on the cedars of Lebanon.
When David first comes before Samuel, the prophet who is to "anoint" the shepherd boy to succeed Saul, he is described thus: "He was brownish, with beautiful eyes, and of a goodly countenance." (1 Samuel 16:12). "Of a goodly countenance" means not only "handsome" (as Buber translates), but at the same time (in the sense of the educational ideal in ancient Israel) "virtuous". This is reflected, I think, in the form Martin Mayer gave to the young David, who is so full of devotion and leans towards the old king's ear in the deep knowledge that music is well able to drive away evil spirits.
If the young David is already ravishingly successful, the old king is even more so. The language of his interpretation is deeply moving. Completely turned inwards, he hears but does not see the young man. What dignity the sad king sitting with his royal crown exudes! He is truly a tragic figure in the ancient Greek sense. The human side of the fact that God rejected him and chose David is reflected in his face. It almost seems to me that Martin Mayer gave his innermost sympathy to this old, "rejected" king. The sounds of the heart flowed from him into his design.
But Martin Mayer has not only given a timeless face to the moment of rejection and election. He has also given a face to the theme of age and youth. Does not old age also have a touch of "rejection" and youth a touch of "election"? Even though we know that all seasons belong to human life! Just as David and Saul are assigned to each other, Martin Mayer also addressed the issue of how difficult and painful it is (or can be) to be subject to transience and that we humans therefore need consolation, especially in old age. Every human being needs a David who sings and plays to us, who encourages us to discover what we are capable of (in our limitedness) at every age and who whispers in our ears what we are called upon to realise.
Martin Luther (1983)
The statue of Martin Luther by Martin Mayer is an impressive figure in every sense, commanding respect and esteem. You can believe in his willingness to resist the emperor and the pope, yet he remains deeply humble and stands, not trusting in his own strength, but in God's "dynamis", which is revealed in his Word. He beautifully shows the people who pass him by what they can and should expect from the church, that it shows them the Word that is truly worth trusting in life and death. That was and is Luther, and to have cast this in artistic form, to remind people of it in the "Denk-Mal", that is the merit of Martin Mayer. Although some may say that one must first study theology in order to know and create what is appropriate to the Word. He knew it; probably precisely because he did not know (much) about the other, Martin Mayer knew better than we theologians.
Bukolika (1984)
The Bukolika by Martin Mayer is wonderfully coherent and perfect in form. She sits on the earth and rests completely within herself. Yet at the same time it is as though she were not entirely of this earth and completely withdrawn from himself. Form, posture, and expression of the figure have "cancelled out" these opposites. Everything about Bukolika looks upwards, into the distance, not only the eyes, but also the limbs. Yet her gaze is grounded. Does this not become clear in the falling line that begins with the hands that support the head so securely and make the gaze skyward appear permanent, reaches over the arms, which in turn are supported by the knees, to the legs and feet, and the tips of the toes that are connected to the earth? Of course, the falling line is no less an ascending one. What a harmonious movement from top to bottom, from bottom to top. From the head to the toes, everything is one. No part of the human body is alien or disconnected from the whole.
Whenever I look at the Bukolika, I am overcome with the desire to follow her gaze out of the city with its noise. There is something floating in her moment of longing, a longing that seems to me wonderfully dreamy and oblivious, because she rests so completely in looking. It seems as if far above, beyond the weightless clouds, Bukolika sees what she is looking for – the silence and stillness of the hands, the resting of all activity. But what her gaze seems to be looking for far up in the distance, she has found not outside but inside, not far away but very close, deep in her own soul – leisure. How do I know that? Her hidden smile told me. The knowing smile that plays around her lips – the creator and builder of the Bukolika has depiced it masterfully.
It was the Greeks who showed us the dignity of leisure. From them we inherited the insight that the highest form of life is a life devoted to contemplation. But this respect for leisure went hand in hand with the Greeks' contempt for "banausic" pursuits. Vergil recognised that agriculture was a fundamental condition of civilisation and emphasised the dignity of physical labour. When the Christian monastic orders emerged, it was the first time that contemplation and physical labour came together. Both belong together. Work is as much a part of human dignity as leisure.
The Bukolika is intended to remind us restlessly active people, who are always lacking time, how important leisure is. Whoever looks at the sculpture properly, takes their time and does not mindlessly rush past it, will feel the powerful and healing effect it has. They will always try anew to bring work and leisure into a creative, healing balance in everyday life.
St. James Pilgrim (1989)
A surge of light and summer heat beat down on me that October day as I stood before Martin Mayer's Pilgrim to Santiago. He walks onwards, marked by his scallop shell and hat, staff and calabash, the patron saint of pilgrims. With the cathedral behind him, he strides forward with his head slightly bowed, in simple robes and barefoot, strangely unconcerned by all that is great and powerful in the world. His step is concentrated and determined, his goal written in his heart and mind. In short, he walks like someone who is carried by an invisible centre – who knows something better in this world.
The sculpture has found an ideal location. People stop in front of the pilgrim, pause, take photographs with him while cheerfully standing on his big toe, which has already turned golden from the touch of so many feet. The figure can be appropriated in many ways. I got into conversation with some passers-by – they were visitors from Manila, students from France and mothers from Speyr, whose eyes fell on the expressive figure between their shopping. The Pilgrim does not mingle with the people like a stranger, but like an old acquaintance and confidant, like someone who has been walking with them for a long time. Nevertheless, as he "walks", he does not allow himself to be taken in by the haste of his contemporaries. He asks critical questions of those passing by. For example, whether we shouldn't make our life's luggage lighter so that our path becomes longer, or what the goal, the perspective in our lives is.
I looked at the Pilgrim and allowed myself to think. How long I sat there in silence, I don't know. In the meantime, however, the sun had moved to the other side of the street. The gables of the houses cast long shadows that merged on the pavement into a strangely shaped mountain range. In this moment of diffuse light refractions, I suddenly felt as if I could hear him saying:
"Look at my feet! Only he who walks the road of his life barefoot feels something of its power and its breath. Only when his step is close to the earth is he able to communicate something of its peculiarity and its essence. But remember: The road you walk here on this earth is not the goal of your life. It is only a transition. If you have recognised that the goal of your existence lies beyond the road of this world, then you will walk and live differently, much more calmly, easily and freely. You will not lose your heart to the things of the world and you will find yourself as a child of freedom. So treat the world like a hostel which you will be leaving soon. You are on your way from shore to shore, from time to eternity."
Only then did I see how the shadows of the rows of houses, growing longer and darker, had turned into night. My gaze travelled from the pilgrim to the cathedral once more and from the cathedral back to the pilgrim. What a fine thing it is, I thought, that this St James Pilgrim exists. He translates the immense architecture of the cathedral, which impresses the visitor as much as it intimidates him and keeps him at a distance, into simplicity, into the earthly and everyday, literally onto the street where people live. He must be there, this St James Pilgrim, in this form, in which his being is perceptible. He must be there to remind us. He must live in us.
Christophorus
The Christophorus of Martin Mayer is, to put it in a word, humility made visible, cast into form. Whereby "humility" refers to our relationship with God. Unlike modesty, it is a gift from heaven. That is precisely what this sculpture depicts in such a clear and meaningful way: Christophorus receives humility from the divine child he carries on his shoulders. I particularly like the fact that Martin Mayer's Christophorus does not come across as pious. There is no religious pose, nothing that indicates a raised temperature of the faith. He is like a man from next door, one of the people. If he had to carry a heavy sack of coals instead of the child, he would tilt his head to the side and lower his gaze just as Martin Mayer has designed him. That is great. And it is the same with the child. This child is not a small adult (as in Brüggemann). He doesn't want to hold a religious lecture (with a globe in its hand and the gesture towards the triune God as in Brüggemann). He is simply a child, acting as a child does when carried on his father's shoulders, for example. Perhaps he also feels joy, or is even having fun making himself heavier than he is and pushing the man's head aside unabashedly with his little leg.
What Mayer has created here is a de-mythologised Christophorus. It is (to quote Bonhoeffer) a "non-religious interpretation" of the old legend. Basically a way of speaking about God in a secular way. Unlike the child, the man is a robed figure. How beautifully the two are joined as one, with the arms of child and man creating fluid transitions. It seems to me as if the right arm of the child and the left arm of the man suggest a circular movement. And all movement emanates from the child. What has been given form – what has been translated into the visible in this work – is the birth of humility in the human being, in every human being who can become a Christophorus, a Christ-bearer. The humility that we can all share takes the form of a child, the child of Bethlehem.
Goldwäscherin (1993)
Martin Mayer's Goldwäscherin made a concentrated impression in every respect. She gazed pensively at the bowl in her hands, from which the autumn gold of the chestnut leaves had long since blown away. She seemed to have found peace in her round. But something was different about her. All communication with the sculptures surrounding the gold panner had fallen silent. Something occupied her attention. Her gaze did not leave the bowl, not even for a moment.
I tried in vain to distract her and engage her in conversation. She remained motionless and silent. Finally, I followed her eyes and saw that many thousands of drops had formed a lake in the bowl which was always in motion. Winds were constantly conjuring up new shapes and figures from the drops, and they glittered as if they had taken in a thousand tiny suns. Suddenly, however, the winds fell silent, the little lake froze and all the glitter disappeared. And in the waters of the sky appeared the face of the Goldwäscherin. She saw herself as if in a mirror and seemed so enchanted by the sight that a tender smile played around her lips, but it disappeared again as soon as the winds entered the bowl and the waters moved again.
It is probably the case (loosely formulated after the apostle Paul) that we now only see ourselves as if in a mirror, but when we finally recognise how we are truly seen, we will see ourselves face to face.
Taken from:
Dietrich Heyde
Briefgespräche mit dem Bildhauer Martin Mayer
Leupelt, Handewitt, 2019
ISBN 978-3-943582-22-2