Abstracte compositie 1919

This is a tiny etching by Erich Wichmann, maybe from the 1910s or 20s. It’s a black and white frenzy of marks. I can imagine him bent over a plate, scratching into it with a needle, lost in a private world of lines. You know, looking at this, I feel a kind of kinship with Wichmann. I bet he felt compelled to make marks, just like I do. Maybe he was wrestling with something, trying to pin it down, or maybe he was just letting his hand do the thinking. Those scratchy lines, they’re nervous, urgent, like thoughts spilling out. It’s like a hidden landscape, or a secret code. These dark marks almost look like a forest, a dense thicket, or maybe even a storm cloud. I love how the light peeks through, giving it a sense of depth. It reminds me that art is always talking to itself, artists responding to each other across time, picking up the thread of an idea and running with it. It's a reminder that ambiguity can be a strength, inviting us to bring our own experiences and interpretations to the table.