Most of this work is, in my opinion, crap. German art from the 80s tends to be overblown, self-important and shallow, and this comprises the bulk of the collection. But there are a few gems I noticed during my inspections. One that I would often pause to look at was a giant canvas entitled "Sympatische Communistin" (Pleasant Communist Woman). It is a simple work, a head shot of a woman in Communist party regalia, but at the same time enchanting, and on a few occasions I found myself transfixed. It was only after several weeks, though, that I noticed the artist's name: Martin Kippenberger.

There were a few other Kippenberger pieces in the hotel, but clearly more minor pieces, and so besides "Sympatische Communistin" I figured he was just another local artist who had happened to hit it right with that one work. In fact, what else I saw of Kippenberger convinced me that he could not be good, at least in my mind — a lot of self-reflexive hooey about the trials and tribulations of art in modern society; self-promotion masked as high-concept.

A few nights before I was to leave, I had dinner with Dr. Peters. He asked me where I was headed next, and I told him I had a job teaching English in Austria.

"Where in Austria?" he asked.

"Oh, it's a tiny town, 1,500 people. You've never heard of it," I said.

"No, I know Austria very well. Where is it?"

"Well, it's called Jennersdorf, and it's in the -"

"Jennersdorf! I know Jennersdorf very well. I have been there four, maybe five times. My good friend Martin Kippenberger moved there after he got married. In fact, he is buried there."

Jennersdorf

Martin Kippenberger died in 1997 at the age of only 44. It was cancer, and his death came as quite a shock to the art world — by remaining a force well into the 90s, he had proved that he had staying power, that he wasn't just another bastard son of the ludicrous 1980s art market. His art was exhibited around the world, and he gave guest lectures at places like Yale and Heidelberg.

How a world-renowned artist came to be buried in a microscopic Austrian village is this — in 1995 he married Elfie Semotan, an Austrian photographer with whom he had worked on a number of previous projects. She divided her time between Vienna and St. Martin an der Raab, an artist's village in Burgenland, a province in the southeast corner of Austria. (St. Martin, in turn, is only about a mile from Jennersdorf.) The two moved there soon after their marriage, and planned on making it their semi-permanent home.

I arrived in Jennersdorf at the beginning of October, 1999. This part of Austria, a stone's throw from Hungary, is a bit of an anomaly — it is one of the few parts of the country without mountains, and from its low hills you can see deep into the Pannonian Plains that stretch into the east. It is a pretty place, but most people would also add that it is desolate and economically depressed. Not the sort of locale you would expect to find an artist, much less an artists' colony, and yet that's just what St. Martin is.

South Burgenland takes a lot of pride in its artisanal mantle, and so it was a bit of a surprise for me to arrive and find no one with any clear memory of Martin Kippenburger. I asked some of the older teachers — they had never heard of him. I asked Karl, the art teacher — he had heard of him, as well as his wife, but had no idea he had spent time in those parts. None of his biographies mentioned his time in St. Martin, though they all note he died in Vienna. I began to think maybe Dr. Peters had been mistaken.

And then I began to find traces of Kippenberger in the area around Jennersdorf. Not eyewitnesses, just vestiges of his presence — I would walk into Gasthauses and find a signed print by the artist hanging behind the bar, or a photograph of him with the owner. And, of course, the grave.

For some reason, I waited a couple of months before looking for the grave of Martin Kippenberger. It wasn't for lack of time; I only worked 12 hours a week. And it wasn't a question of access, as I passed the Jennersdorf cemetery every day. I think I was waiting for something, some big event like meeting his wife that would make a visit more symbolic. But she was always out of town, and I'm not sure what I'd have said if I ever did meet her. Finally, in early December, I gave up and went.

And was disappointed. Maybe disappointed is the wrong word; I was certainly confused. It took me a long time to find the grave, because what I was looking for wasn't there. A flamboyant German artist would surely have flamboyant headstone, I thought. But when I finally came across it — after three trips back to the office to make sure I had the directions right — I found not a gaudy piece of art but a simple wooden cross, accented with a bit of gold leaf. Kippenberger's name, and his dates, and that was it. A single votive candle.

Chicago

I left Jennersdorf this last May, and after a bit of traveling moved to Chicago in August. I had enrolled in a master's program at the University of Chicago, and though school didn't start until late September, I was eager to get settled in my new town. Found a an apartment, a job, friends. Cable, Internet hookup, a newspaper subscription.

Chicago is, to say the least, very different from Jennersdorf, and I often catch myself in deep thought about the juxtaposition between my current life and my previous. At times it seems like it was ten years ago, at times a different life altogether. I have photographs and memories, but nothing else to remind me of a relatively large chunk of my life.

So it was more than a little strange when a flyer for a Martin Kippenberger exhibit fell out of my newspaper one day. And not just at any museum, but the Smart Museum of Art at the University of Chicago. And not just a general retrospective, but an exhibit of his hotel drawings — over his career Kippenberger had executed hundreds of sketches on scrap hotel stationery from around the world. Including, of course, the Hotel Chelsea.

Full Circle

So it comes full circle. I am sitting in the Smart Museum, staring at a wall full of Martin Kippenberger originals drawn on Hotel Chelsea stationery. There are over 100 in the collection, drawn on stationery from around the world, but over 50 are done on Chelsea paper. The entire wall is dedicated to a series he executed in the late 1980s. The stationery has an image of the hotel and café in the upper right-hand corner; the street corner it shows is the same street corner I had to sweep every morning before setting up the outside seating. The address, at the bottom, is the same address I had to write down so many times while helping with the books.

Is he following me, or am I following him? Two of his other works, dated from the early 90s, are on stationery from the Hotel Okura, where my family and I lived for two weeks when we moved to Tokyo in 1984. And I certainly don't seek him out; he just appears, from time to time. What would he think of me, were we to meet? Would he care?

One of the works, in the middle of the Chelsea wall, is particularly precious to me — it is an early draft of "Sympatische Communistin." I see it, and laugh, and the other patrons look and me and wonder how anyone could get so excited over some overblown German artist.

E-mail Clay Risen at risenc@yahoo.com.