Phoenix is a large-scale multiple canvas installation I had in mind and my heart for many years. It touches on the traces of explosions I have found on the walls of a chapel inside one of the oldest cemeteries in Berlin, in Kreuzberg—my neighborhood, where I often go for meditative walks. I have gazed at this crater for at least ten years, knowing that one day, it would give birth to an artwork.
At first, I was struck by the sheer force of the explosion, its massive imprint seared into the two back walls of the edifice—a scar from World War II in a place meant for rest and peace. In German, Friedhof—cemetery—translates to Garden of Peace, yet this wound on the chapel embodies for me the essence of total war: a war so absolute that even the dead are not at peace.
I was drawn to the countless stones, each a fragment of destruction, forming the shape of a single explosion. War is never the act of one alone—it is the weight of many, the burden of all.
I imprinted each stone onto canvases of the exact dimensions, gathering the scattered pieces like a puzzle. Only then did I see the full image revealed: the impact had shaped two massive wings and the form of a uterus.
The title Phoenix came to me at that moment—because only from the deepest pain and destruction can something firm and luminous rise. The uterus, the sacred place of creation and infinite possibility, emerged from this violent past.
Standing before this monumental painting, I think of today’s wars. And yet, I know—they, too, will birth compassion. They, too, will give rise to love. A beautiful Phoenix is about to rise.
— Nadia Kaabi-Linke
