On Silence and the Soul of Art

08.10.2025

A conversation with art collector Désiré Feuerle, the founder of The Feuerle Collection

Next year, The Feuerle Collection in Berlin will celebrate its tenth anniversary. Founded in 2016 by Désiré Feuerle and Sara Puig, the non-profit institution has become one of Europe’s most distinctive spaces for experiencing art — a place where ancient and contemporary worlds meet in quiet dialogue. Housed in a converted Second World War telecommunications bunker renovated by British architect John Pawson, the museum invites visitors into an immersive, meditative encounter with early Imperial Chinese furniture, Khmer sculpture, and contemporary works by artists such as Anish Kapoor, Cristina Iglesias, Adam Fuss, Zeng Fanzhi, and Nobuyoshi Araki.

Harihara, Khmer, Pre-Angkor Style, Early 7th century, polished stone. Photo: Nic Tenwiggenhorn © Nic Tenwiggenhorn / VG Bild-Kunst,Bonn

Since its opening, The Feuerle Collection has been guided by Feuerle’s vision of creating not just an exhibition space but a sanctuary for perception — one where silence, light, and atmosphere shape the encounter with art. As the first institution in the world to present Chinese Incense Culture as a contemporary art performance, it continues to expand the boundaries between ritual, art, and sensory experience.

In 2025, the Collection presents “Alexander Graf von Schlieffen at The Feuerle Collection: Painting and Astrology”, a cycle of four exhibitions and lectures curated by Désiré Feuerle and running through November 2025. The series explores von Schlieffen’s artistic and astrological investigations into the cyclical nature of time and the transition from the Epoch of Air to the Epoch of Water. Conceived as a milestone leading up to the tenth anniversary in 2026, it deepens the institution’s dialogue between art, knowledge, and perception.

The Temple Set with 6 Figures, Khmer, Angkor Wat, 12th century, Bronze. Photo : def image ©The Feuerle Collection

Set of Bronzes Representing Apsaras and a Sitting Deity, Angkor Wat, 12th century, bronze. Photo : def image ©The Feuerle Collection

When Arterritory.com first spoke with Désiré Feuerle on the occasion of the museum’s opening, he described his collection as something deeply alive:

“All of the pieces that I collect – they are like human beings to me. I have a relationship with them. (…) There is a person behind each art piece – someone has created something very special, something that moves me, and that has moved hundreds of other people, too (if we’re speaking about old pieces). It is wonderful! For example, with some furniture pieces, it took four years of work to make something special enough to impress the Emperor of China... Hundreds-of-years-old items. I even have things that are more than one thousand years old – a Chinese platform – quite possibly the first seat in the history of Chinese furniture. You connect through that back to those times. There is a spirit around these pieces, and you can absorb that spirit.”

Nearly a decade later, our new conversation — held via Zoom — continues that reflection, touching on silence and perception, the soul of artworks, the meaning of peace, and the importance of creating spaces that invite people to feel rather than to simply look.

The exhibition “Ālexander Graf von Schlieffen at the Feuerle Collection: Painting and Astrology” marks the first time you’ve explored the field of astrology in your cultural program. Why did you decide to create this exhibition and curate it yourself?

You know, when I had a gallery in Cologne in the 1990s, I supported him. I always believed Alexander was a very interesting artist—very different. He already had his own style at that time, and I could feel there was something special there. Later on, when he moved toward astrology, I found it fascinating; you could sense that he was searching for something. He was a painter, but at the same time, very open.

I’ve collected what I believe are some of the most important paintings he ever created, and I’ve never shown them before. I love them—they were collected out of admiration and also as a form of support for him. I thought now is a good moment to show these works, which contain the essence of what he has become today.

It’s very interesting, you know, when you look at a painting created 35 or 40 years ago and you still feel there’s something truly special in it. But what’s even more fascinating is to see how he has evolved since then. That’s what drew me to make this exhibition—to let him also speak a bit about his world.

As for the installation, I always work with minimal intervention. I don’t like to overload a space—never. I believe that less is always more. For the eye, it’s often enough to look at one painting and really keep it in your mind; that’s far better than seeing many works but not truly seeing or feeling them.

So, I decided to create four exhibitions—four cycles—and that’s something different. I’m always open to many things, and I thought it would be the right moment to bring something truly unique into the museum this time.

Epochal Shift Drawing Original depiction of the epochal shift of 2020. The left circle represents the time from 1802 to 2020, while the right circle represents the time starting in 2020 and the next two and a half years.

But for you — what you discovered through Alexander Graf von Schlieffen's work about astrology — was it something new, or was it already a part of you?

I don’t really 100% believe in astrology. But on the other hand, I do believe that certain things are possible — that certain constellations can have meaning. I’m not the kind of person who studies astrology or asks an astrologer for guidance. It’s not something I go too deeply into. But I never exclude possibilities. I find it interesting, and I’m always open to listening.

What interested me most about Alexander wasn’t really astrology itself, but how he developed — how he moved from being a painter into another direction in his life. I found that very attractive, this evolution. It was a chance to see and feel where he is today, and at the same time to look back at the paintings from the beginning — when he was still searching for something that he later seems to have found.

Left: Alexander Graf von Schlieffen, Untitled, 1986, oil on canvas, 200x150 cm. Right: Alexander Graf von Schlieffen, Untitled, 1987, oil on canvas, 200x155 cm. Photo: Installation view by Jiani Yu © The Feuerle Collection

But you also created a kind of educational program, since there were four astrological lectures given by Alexander Graf von Schlieffen as well?

Yes, but you know, it’s because we had so few paintings. I thought it would be interesting — I chose a few of them, and then he gave a lecture. So there were four different lectures. And I found that very interesting, just to offer a different world to the people.

Because a lot of people, you know, when they come here… What we do here, I would never say it’s meant to be educational — on the contrary. I like when people discover for themselves what they like. We don’t have labels here, and I think that’s very important, especially for the younger generation. They appreciate being guided by their own feelings, by the atmosphere — to have a space where they can meditate or simply walk through and feel good. That’s important, to have places like this. And when there is great art around, even better. But, you know, I would never say, “Look how rare this piece is” or anything like that. When people ask, yes, I explain, but otherwise, I think it’s more beautiful to just feel something — and that’s enough.

I think from the very beginning it was important for you to create a space for silence and quietness. That’s why mobile devices are not allowed in the exhibition rooms, and visitors enter through a kind of silent room. What does silence mean to you personally — and also in your relationship with art? How would you describe it?

I think silence is important. I mean, you know, the world itself is not silent. So it’s beautiful to have moments where there’s nothing — no noise, no distraction — where you can reflect about yourself, or about situations in the world. I think that’s only possible through silence.

Silence also brings calmness. It slows you down — really slows you down — and that’s beautiful. I think after a while, when you stay in silence, you begin to react differently. For example, I love the desert. When you’re in the desert, it’s so beautiful — that absolute silence. It’s something very special, the way you feel things when it’s completely quiet. It’s difficult to explain; you just have to experience it. But it’s a very powerful experience.

I was in the desert once, and I had this feeling that silence is, in a way, physical — you can actually feel it.

Absolutely.

If we talk about experiencing art—and about your space in particular—many of us try to understand art mentally, through the mind, because we live so much in our minds nowadays. But for you, I think it’s much more important to feel it, to somehow encourage us to return to our feelings.

Completely right, what you say. For me, it’s very important that people feel more than they look. Because when you watch people in museums, many just go from one work to another, reading all the texts—nothing wrong with that, of course. It’s the same with students at the university: they have so much knowledge, but when you ask them, “What is the essence of this painting, of this sculpture?” they often don’t know.

I once gave a lecture to master’s students at Hong Kong University, and I could sense they had never been asked this question before. They could explain why this sculpture or that artist is important, but when I asked, “What do you feel?”—there was silence.

From my point of view, that’s what matters most: to feel a work first, and then see it. To feel the energy, because great works carry energy—even if the people who created them are no longer here. Great art, great architecture, great music, great poetry—they all hold this energy.

When I listen to a wonderful composition, for example, I try to dream into it, to let it take me somewhere else. That’s the beauty of it—it lifts you, it lets you fly a little. And through that, you sometimes feel the real dimension of the work. It’s a beautiful experience.

Installation view, Alexander Graf Von Schlieffen, Untitled, 1986, Oil on canvas mounted onto another bigger canvas, 153x205 cm. Photo: Installation view by Jiani Yu ©The Feuerle Collection

Can we say that an artwork also has a soul?

Oh yes, absolutely. It’s funny you say that, because I actually gave a lecture in Hong Kong about the soul of artworks. I really believe that each piece has a soul—you just have to be able to capture it.

That’s why, for me, how you present a work is so important: the light, the placement, the space around it. All of this helps to reveal the soul of the piece. Sometimes even a label, when it’s too present—written right on a plinth, for example—can completely distract you. You start reading, and you’re suddenly out of the experience. You can’t enter the quality, the energy of the work anymore.

But how would you characterize the soul of an artwork? What is it?

I would say it’s something you feel—just like when you meet a person. There’s an energy you sense immediately. You like someone because of small, almost invisible things; it’s the same with art. There’s a feeling around a tree, around nature, around a painting or a sculpture.

I really believe there’s something there—something that either attracts you or doesn’t. You don’t need to think about it; you just feel it. It might feel good, or powerful, or even unsettling—but there’s always a reaction. And I think that’s what the soul of the artwork is: that invisible presence that makes you respond without knowing why.

You already mentioned light. And in your space, you often play with darkness and light. You also said that you’re working on light installations yourself. If we go back to primordial times, light comes from fire. Why is light so important—in the way we look at art and in the way we create it?

I think light brings a sculpture—especially—to life. In ancient times, they worked a lot with light. Even the moonlight can be very interesting; it gives a very different, but very strong light. You notice that when there’s a beautiful sunset—there are sculptures you can illuminate perfectly, but when the right moment comes, when the sunset light hits a certain part of the sculpture, it becomes so beautiful that it’s almost impossible to achieve this with artificial light. I really think light brings a piece to life.

It’s the same with paintings. It’s very interesting when you look at them—and also with minerals. When you see a beautiful sapphire or a ruby in Bangkok, it looks completely different from how it looks in Zurich. But the laboratory that determines where the stone comes from is in Zurich. Sometimes they study a stone for a whole week because the winter light there is so gray. And yet, when you see the same stone in Bangkok, under that bright, warm light, it looks so much more beautiful. The same stone! So light is super important—it brings something special. You just say, “Wow.” And when someone else looks at the same stone somewhere else, it’s not the same. That’s beautiful. Minerals also have a certain energy—I really believe that.

Alexander Graf von Schlieffen Untitled, 1988, oil on canvas, 250 x 85 cm. Photo: Installation view by Jiani Yu ©The Feuerle Collection

Alexander Graf von Schlieffen, in his exhibition, talks a lot about cycles—that everything goes in cycles—and now we are entering the Epoch of Air, which will eventually transition into the Epoch of Water. What does time mean to you? How do you understand time? In a way, your collection is also very much connected to the notion of time.

How I understand time? I think it’s very much on us. There are cycles, and people say, you know, you have maybe this problem because you were born at this time, under this sign. I don’t believe in that. I believe, yes, you might be born with certain handicaps, but you can fix them—and it’s up to you. You can really take your life into your own hands if you truly want to.

A lot of people let themselves just flow—and that’s also okay—but when you really want to take your life into your hands, you have incredible possibilities to change something, to move yourself from the shadow into the sun, or from the sun into the shadow. That’s what I believe in. So it’s very much on us to live the life we want.

And of course, you need luck—or what I would call luck. But even luck, you can influence in a certain way. I believe that.

You did it?

I do. Yeah, I live like that. You know, I always do things—I have my dreams. And I think it’s beautiful to have dreams. Many of my dreams I’ve realized. It always starts with a dream, then you work on the dream, and you let it mature. And maybe after a while, you realize it’s not the right dream—but when it is the right dream, I think it’s interesting to find a way to realize it.

You once said that all art is contemporary. What is the notion of “contemporary” for you? Because your collection has this ongoing dialogue between ancient and contemporary art.

I mean, contemporary art for me—well, you know, it’s the same energy, the same vibe. It can be present in an artist today or in someone who lived a thousand years ago. If they were both alive now, I think they would like each other. They might even become friends, because they work on the same things, they live with similar values, with similar interests, and try to develop them.

And I think it’s very interesting that contemporary and ancient art—or, let’s say, anything created by a human being—always share something essential. They have a soul, coming back to that word again, and they carry the energy of creation. It doesn’t matter if it was made today or centuries ago—if there’s something in common, it’s this human essence. And that’s the beautiful thing. That’s what makes us different from a machine or a computer.

But actually, if we look back at history, art has been with us since really ancient times. Look at the cave paintings — why do humans need art? Why do we need to be surrounded by art?

I once created an exhibition of found objects. These found objects, for me, are as important as works by any great artist. What matters is to celebrate the piece—to give it the right place.

For example, there was a beautiful plant I found in South America. It was so striking that I thought, this is like a sculpture. I brought the dried plant here and showed it on a table, and it looked so beautiful. Then I began to play a bit with this kind of thing. A feather, for instance—a small feather—when you install it in a certain way and light it well, it suddenly becomes an artwork. You look at it and think, it’s beautiful.

Everyone can find something like that. I think it’s a beautiful idea—to walk around and find objects: some people look for shells, or a strange piece of wood, whatever it might be. I have a collection of many things I’ve found by chance throughout my life, and they are truly beautiful—art pieces in their own right.

So, in fact, this is also art. We don’t necessarily need art pieces made by people. For me, this way of seeing is something I deeply appreciate. Especially in an empty, simple house—when you have nothing, and you place, let’s say, a beautiful piece of food you’re about to eat on a table—it’s already so beautiful. The appreciation is so high, just by looking at it, which we rarely do. You look at the form, at the ripe fig, or whatever it is, and you realize—it’s a beautiful way of living, of really appreciating art that isn’t usually considered art.

You’re talking about feelings, and it just reminded me—some years ago I visited Naoshima Island in Japan. You know, there’s this special way Monet’s paintings are exhibited in the Chichu Art Museum, and in a way, your space also carries a kind of ceremonial or ritualistic feeling—in how the artworks are presented and how one enters the space. What does this sense of ceremony mean to you?

I mean, you just mentioned Naoshima—it’s beautiful, I agree. I was also very impressed when I saw it. Yes, I think it’s very important to celebrate something, in art but also in life in general. Not many people do that—we take things for granted. Most people don’t really select. I really think it’s important to be selective in life—in how you spend your time, in what you read. Especially today, the input of mediocre information is immense and growing. So, for me, this sense of celebration and selection is the appreciation of life itself. Life itself is an art piece. Everything is.

View of The Lake Room with reflections from the exhibition room on the lower ground floor (Early Khmer sculptures). Photo: def image ©The Feuerle Collection

In your space, you created the Lake room. Why did you make it? Is water somehow cleansing the gaze of the viewer?

Water is very important for me because it’s a big meditative space. I created a place—also through the way I illuminated it—where you can get a bit lost. You look into it, you can look for a long time, and eventually, you begin to see something—you see the water, but not immediately. And I think that’s beautiful. It balances the whole space.

There was no need to add more sculptures or more art. It was important to have a place where the eye can really rest and look deeply, to see the slight movement of water, and then go back into the exhibition. So this is a sculpture for the eye to look into.

And without even realizing it, when you look at it, it gives you another depth of experience. Because the reflections are unclear, a bit diffused sometimes, and that’s what I find very attractive. I like when you start to float a little, to lose your sense of orientation.

A lot of people, when they visit our space, I can see that they get a bit lost—and I think that’s very good. It’s important to get lost sometimes in life, in a very positive way.

When looking at statistics, you have many young people visiting your space. When you opened it, did you already expect that, or was it also a bit of a surprise for you?

I tell you, I always do things the way I feel they should be done. You know, I’ve visited many museums, and often I felt that something was missing for me in how you experience art. So from the very beginning, I wanted this place to be different—no labels, different light, a completely different feeling.

I wanted to create something that is purely about feeling. When I was installing the space, I tried to sense it—to feel where every sculpture belongs, where it “breathes” best. And I think the young generation appreciates that. They don’t want to be taught. They don’t want too many explanations or labels.

It’s like walking in a park filled with beautiful trees—there aren’t signs everywhere telling you what each tree is. Maybe the fifth time you visit, you ask, “What kind of tree is that?” But until then, you just enjoy it. I think that’s a beautiful way to approach culture and art—to connect through feeling, not through too much information.

I also believe that universities could focus more on this—on feelings and the soul of a piece. Not only on facts or context, but on why a work is powerful, what it meant to its creator. Of course, not everyone can do that easily, but I think moving in that direction would be wonderful.

For example, when we have our meditation days here, the room is always full of very young people. And I think that’s great — they don’t feel like they’re entering a place filled with such important artworks, even though they are important. But what matters is that they feel good, that the art touches them somehow. If a regular visitor — someone who doesn’t think too much about art — can come in, feel good, and be moved by something, that’s already a big achievement for me. When you can create a space where people feel good and want to return, that’s beautiful. That’s what art should do.

We’re living in quite turbulent times nowadays, and sometimes it feels like we can’t really influence what happens in the outer world—it just keeps going further toward the extreme. Is there a way to bring it back to balance and harmony, or do we simply have to pass through this in the most extreme way?

I think the main problem in the world is that people don’t talk enough. Most conflicts could be solved if there was more openness—if people would really sit down and speak. In all the conflicts and wars we see, things never start as something big. It begins with a small problem that grows and grows because people stop communicating.

The key to solving any problem is to talk about it before it becomes too big. Sometimes it’s too big. People freak out. This is a normal thing. You know, when you corner a dangerous animal, it will attack—before that, it might have just walked away. It’s the same with humans.

I think many of these things could be predicted, and often they are. I’m not a politician, but to me it’s clear that so many situations could have been avoided with just a bit of common sense and humanity. You don’t need to be a politician—you just need a healthy mind and the willingness to talk. But unfortunately, that willingness is often missing. And that, I believe, is the real problem in the world today.

Installation view of The Feuerle Collection.Adam Fuss, From the series My Ghost, uniquegelatin silver print photogram with Large Side Table with Everted Ends, Early Qing Dynasty, 17th century, tieli wood. Photo: NicTenwiggenhorn ©Nic Tenwiggenhorn / VG Bild-Kunst,Bonn

But how can we return to this healthy state of mind? Because if we look around, things seem to be getting worse. The statistics on mental illness are rising, which means that, collectively, our state of mind is not healthy at all.

Yeah, I completely understand that. If we had more places like we have here, or if more people would simply go to a park instead of looking at their mobile phones all the time—they’re completely addicted to them—it would already change something.

But we’re living in a time of total overdose, an overflow of information. Look at how nervous people are, how many people need psychologists today, how lonely many have become. We talk less and less with each other. And I think that’s natural—when there’s so much pressure, so much constant stimulation, people become tense.

Before, you would write a letter to someone—it took time to arrive, and you had time to think. Today it’s WeChat, WhatsApp, whatever—it’s just click, click, click. And people become nervous. They want to do too many things at once, to be everywhere. Of course, that distracts you from the essential things.

Naturally, many brains can’t deal with that anymore. It’s not good. We need balance—but suddenly, there’s no balance anymore.

In a way, that’s maybe part of the mission of your space, especially since you’re reaching a milestone next year—ten years. And in astrology, there are cycles of twenty-nine years, so you still have time ahead. How do you feel? What is the main mission of spaces like yours, and of institutional art spaces in our time?

I think our mission is simply to offer something different—to offer, in this very noisy world, a kind of alternative. Lately, I’ve also become very interested in film. You know, when I’m on a plane, I try to find a good film to watch—and it’s difficult.There are so many films, but the quality is often so poor, so cheap. It’s this fast-food mentality—in film, in food, in so many things.

So for me, what’s important is that a few people keep trying to create something with real substance. Whether it’s a film, a museum, or even a baker making the best bread—it’s all the same. When someone does something with love and pride, you can feel it, and people respond to it. They say, “Wow, what a bread!” or “What a place!” It’s about simple things, about quality.

Everywhere in the world, it used to be about money and career. But now, more and more, people are looking for time—time to live, time for quality of life. And I think that’s something good, a sign of change.

So yes, I think the important thing is that we feel happy in this world and create something that fits us, that comes from inside. And if more people would turn a little more inward, I think the world would already start to change.

My last question is about peace, because we’re speaking a lot about it now—it’s so important, and in many parts of the world, we’re losing it at great speed. Maybe this is one thing art can teach us: if you allow yourself time to stand in front of an artwork, you automatically become more contemplative—and therefore more calm. Maybe art doesn’t have the power to change the world directly, but it can make us more peaceful, help us embody this feeling?

Yes, I agree with you. I think it’s very important. Through art, you can reach everyone. It’s something beautiful and neutral. Art, in the wider sense—as I said before—is something healthy for the world. And I think that, worldwide, the importance of art is being felt more and more. There’s a growing interest in art, and at the same time, a growing interest in finding yourself.

Especially among the younger generation—people around twenty years old—I can feel that there’s really a change happening.