Flieger 1964

Curator: What strikes me immediately is the tonal range. It's stark. Editor: Indeed. What we're observing is Gerhard Richter's "Flieger," a gelatin silver print from 1964. It presents a fleet of airplanes against a blurred sky. Curator: Blurred almost to the point of abstraction. But what those dark, formless blobs scattered around—those feel heavy with unsaid meaning. Editor: Those could suggest explosions or perhaps flak bursts—reminders of the photographic image's source material, echoing the visual language of wartime documentation. Note Richter’s blurring—it softens the image, perhaps intentionally undermining the authority we typically associate with photographic records. Curator: Precisely! It also suggests the fragility of memory, or the subjective nature of perceiving a historical event. The planes, icons of power, are dwarfed by the sheer space and these looming black blots—the psychic scars of war perhaps. The lone plane trailing smoke communicates loss and vulnerability. Editor: Formally, this is interesting—the arrangement, or the lack thereof, challenges the viewer to find a focal point. Our eyes jump erratically around the plane formation, the dark marks, and the plane in distress. Curator: The composition guides you to sense an unstated story about memory, trauma, and a sense of hovering dread. Its aesthetic choices—its graininess, and contrast—reflect German Expressionism while dealing with postwar themes. Editor: Perhaps that combination speaks to the heart of its strength. This melding of historical content and form asks for consideration in many different layers. Curator: Exactly. The print becomes an emblem—resonating, both then and now, with complex emotions surrounding conflict.