A mode of expression that can also be found in Mike MacKeldey’s work. Like Jaccard, he dispenses with a descriptive, representational background and instead offers a space for imagination. His portraits do not fill the entire canvas; they occupy the center of the painting while leaving room for other pictorial motifs—thereby deforming the construct of power traditionally inherent to Baroque portraiture. He allows the raw canvas to show through, creating a “picture-within-a-picture” effect that is further intensified by colorful scribbles and abstract figures that seem to clamber across the surface. These marks inevitably recall the work of the American painter Cy Twombly (1928–2011). Twombly rejected concrete depiction and, abandoning oil or acrylic as primary vehicles, focused instead on pencil and the bare canvas. What may initially appear chaotic or disconnected reveals, with longer viewing, a distinct dynamism—a rhythm, even a new form of narrative structure.

In Twombly’s Leda and the Swan (1962), three key elements become legible upon closer inspection. Near the bottom, the title can be discerned; from the center toward the upper right, hearts appear; and along the upper edge, a lone window stands isolated, without further pictorial elements. Suddenly, the work’s anchoring in the myth of Leda and the Swan becomes apparent: Zeus transforms himself into a swan in order to seduce Leda and impregnates her. The hearts provide visual cues to this narrative, while the seemingly aggressive, erratic strokes and scratches convey its rhythm and surging momentum. It is as if the painter’s sensations find their direct expression through the pencil on the canvas.

It is precisely this depth of inner, unrestrained articulation that MacKeldey’s paintings continue. He, too, leaves messages embedded in his works—signals that must be approached rather than decoded. Sometimes these are single words recurring across paintings; sometimes they appear as full sentences that read as ironic, yet remain only partially comprehensible. At other moments, they are sequences of letters whose semantic relation refuses to settle—phrases that seem to have sprung directly from the painter’s imagination. When a word appears to be recognizable—“Loki,” for instance (cf. Boawrj, oil on canvas, 2022)—viewers may instinctively place it within a familiar cultural frame, perhaps Norse mythology, only to find that such interpretive certainty contributes little to an authentic encounter with the painting. And indeed it does not—because a visit to the artist’s studio reveals a sweet, fluffy cat who answers to the name “Loki.” A small word—four letters—quietly confronts the viewer’s intellectual ambition and, with disarming charm, gently makes fun of it.

Equally amusing is the fact that the scribbled word “Laphroaig” (cf. Laphs Kongi Brause Klause, oil on canvas, 2022) is not to be attributed to any historical figure at all; rather, Laphroaig is a Scottish whisky. Knowing that whisky is the artist’s preferred drink, the discreet word-number combination “70cl,” found along the lower edge, becomes entirely coherent. Alongside these scribbles, MacKeldey’s recent paintings repeatedly introduce a figure resembling a fantastical creature. With a green face, squid-like feet, and an arm gesture turned toward the viewer—one that recalls Aby Warburg’s (1866–1929) concept of the Pathosformel—it emerges at the front of the canvas. The figure occupies a special position within the work, as it is stylistically and chromatically distinct from the portrait and appears to welcome the viewer with an open, warm gesture. MacKeldey strengthens the impression of its significance by consistently placing it on a pedestal—an element that makes the creature appear elevated in relation to the other figures in the painting. The pedestal, traditionally an instrument for disseminating messages and reaching an audience, underscores its role: this bright being guides viewers through the artist’s universe, as if introducing it.

The association with an octopus, triggered by the creature’s feet, recurs—transformed—in other figures as well. It appears as though smaller figures positioned near this fantastical being wear a kind of collar: an “octopus collar,” unfamiliar and strange, yet faintly reminiscent of a theatrical ruff or a Victorian “father-killer” collar. Such collars evoke formal occasions and create a temporal link to the portrait that shimmers through in the background. Looking at the paintings from 2022, the “octopus” seems omnipresent across different levels: as a word, a motif, a symbol—one that cannot be anticipated through logical narrative sequences. The viewer cannot fully follow MacKeldey’s thoughts and instead encounters an artistic mind that remains fascinating precisely because it cannot be made fully transparent. Remarkably, the works leave viewers with questions and open associations without provoking the need for resolution. It is as if the artistic freedom experienced in these paintings finds resonance within the viewer’s own sensory world.

MacKeldey’s works blur the boundaries between the real and the fictive: the naturalistic rendering of the portrait, the abstract fantasy beings, and the cipher-like signs that tap into a collective memory merge into a singular, unmistakable pictorial language. They captivate through their uniqueness, recall the technical mastery of great painters, and activate imagination with striking immediacy—leaving behind a sense of liberation, a lightness akin to something childlike.