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Paul Hoecker is a largely forgotten 19th-century painter, who was also a professor at the Art Academy in Munich, where I studied myself more than one hundred years later. He could be considered the first modern art professor there. He taught his students plein air painting and encouraged them to find their own styles, which was very different from other professors who were still teaching students to copy them. For a time, he was quite famous. For instance, he represented Germany at the first to the third Venice Biennials, participated in the World Fair in Chicago, and co-founded the Munich Secession. For many reasons, he should really be present in the art history books. However, in 1898, he lost his professorship at the Academy, most likely due to a conflict surrounding one of his paintings in which he used a male sex worker as a model for the Madonna, with whom he supposedly had a sexual relationship with. This blasphemous act led to his complete exclusion from the commercial art system and erased him from art history, at least until now.

When I was a student at the Academy in Munich from 2008, I was longing for a queer present there, which I couldn’t really find. This drove me to look further into the past, and I was shocked that the only figure I could find was this painter from the 19th century, about whom I couldn’t find much more information either. But soon after my studies, I came across his resignation letter.

An archivist at the Academy pointed me to an archive where I ended up finding the resignation letter. In Magnus Hirschfeld’s autobiography I also came across a letter written by Hoecker, in which he talks about his queerness. Those two letters became the inspiration for my quilt about Paul Hoecker, with the opening lines of both texts printed on it. The quilts, which I’ve been making for over ten years now, are always dedicated to people, bars, or magazines from queer history, which are often overlooked. It’s a way to make space for queer history.

After exhibiting the quilt, I met Christina Spachtholz and Stefan Gruhne at the Forum Queeres Archiv München, which is a completely self-organized archive. There we started our research group. I think it’s important to point out that our desire to research Paul Hoecker’s legacy didn’t come from a state-run institution. Later, Nicholas Maniu, from the same archive in Munich, joined. I think I can speak for all four members of our research group, when I say that Paul Hoecker is not only a matter of the past but of the present, affecting our lives in very tangible ways. The research is ultimately about how canons are constructed and, more importantly, about the violent processes that led to these constructions. Hoecker was 17 when homosexuality was criminalized in Germany through the introduction of Paragraph 175 in 1871. During the Nazi regime Paragraph 175 was further tightened. It wasn’t until 1969 that the paragraph was relaxed. In 1994 it finally got completely erased from the German legal code. For a long time, the mere act of remembering Paul Hoecker could put you in danger. Perhaps that’s one of the reasons it took so long for someone to find the energy and courage to revisit his story.

But Paul Hoecker is also a great example of someone who was really brave. He could have denied his sexuality, but he didn’t. Instead, he resigned from the Art Academy.

After his resignation, he spent several years in Italy, in places like Rome, Naples, and Capri. At the beginning of the 20th century, many queer people, but also communists and leftists, moved to the island of Capri, which became a hub for cultural exiles. Hoecker was in contact with other queer contemporaries, including people from Germany. In a way, he found a kind of refuge in Italy. After being pushed out of the art world, Hoecker was now only able to paint for gay collectors in Italy. This shift is reflected in his work. From that point onwards, his paintings started to present more clear homoerotic motifs, sometimes even depicting the lovers of his collectors. These biographical developments also began changing his brushstroke technique. Now he was referencing Renaissance painting. I highlight this because, in the autobiography of Magnus Hirschfeld, Hoecker tells him that it was only when he learned about the queerness of Renaissance painters like Da Vinci, Michelangelo, and others, that he could come to terms with his own sexuality

I think it’s beautiful—and actually very powerful—to see how art can transcend generations and act as a tool for emancipation.

I think the interesting part about our research group is that we are an interdisciplinary team. Christina Spachtholz and Nicholas Maniu are art historians, Stefan Gruhne is an architect, and I’m an artist. Each of us has a different expertise and a different approach to research. I studied painting, so my methodologies are largely self-invented, built out of my own desire to find answers. In a way, this desire led to the creation of structures to help us in our research. When we first started, the most important thing for us was to learn more about Hoecker’s work. That was the most difficult part, because so few of his works are known—he was so thoroughly excluded from the art market and art history. Some of his works were destroyed during the wars, and others are still considered too obscure or undervalued by major auction houses to be accepted. Most of his paintings exist in private collections, and very few are held by institutions.

Getting in contact with these private collectors has been fascinating. With some of them, we’ve developed deep and personal relationships. Earlier this year, for instance, I traveled to Switzerland with Nicholas to visit a collector who had acquired two later works by Hoecker in 1964 and lived with them for over 60 years. Because we are a non-commercial and self-organized archive, people trust us more. It’s easier for collectors to relate to us, because we can better understand the deep connection they have with Hoecker’s paintings. These personal networks are proof that, even though Hoecker was pushed out of the official art world, a certain queer underground culture never forgot who he was. For example, we found reproductions of Hoecker’s works in Der Kreis, the only queer magazine published at the end of the Second World War.

Many of these paintings are connected to family estates and personal histories. People grew up with them, inherited them from their parents, and continued to preserve them. To me, this is fascinating—how we view and discuss art outside the institutional framework. What do these works mean to their owners? What do they represent in terms of social relationships, kinship, and status?

We started with an open call and looked through various websites. Every couple of months, someone would reach out to us. If works were being sold at auction houses, we’d contact them and ask them to forward our letter to the buyer. At the beginning, we only knew of a handful of paintings, but now we know of about 40. We’ve found works in the Netherlands, Italy, Germany, France, Ukraine, the UK, and Poland. We also know that before the scandal at the Art Academy, some of the works were sold to the Russian Zar and at the Chicago World Fair, but we haven’t been able to locate them yet.

Yes, during the exhibition, one collector reached out to us. She grew up with a Hoecker painting in her family home, and after her parents passed away, she rediscovered it. She Googled the artist’s name and found out about the exhibition at Manifold Books. For her, this felt like a way to connect with the loss of her parents. The painting depicts a monk praying at the feet of Jesus. It was beautiful to learn how the painting resonated with her. This project sometimes feels like a snowball—slowly gaining momentum, where each step leads to the next.

Yes, the letters were crucial for us to understand more of his life. Hoecker was very close to his niece, Vally Walter. The great-grandson of Vally received a collection of letters, photographs, and other documents from the family, which became pivotal for understanding Hoecker’s life. We found around 60 letters, which illuminated his financial hardships, his attempts to sell his works, and his connections with queer people. In one letter, he mentioned his reluctance to visit Sicily, maybe because of Wilhelm von Gloeden’s photographs of boys from Taormina. As a former academy professor, he feared that going to Sicily would reignite the scandal. 

These letters provided a deeper understanding of Hoecker’s life, especially his time in Italy. Losing his professorship was a significant blow, but in some ways, it also liberated him. You can see that freedom in his later works; his brushstrokes became more expressive and his style loosened up. His earlier paintings, such as Pierrot (around 1890) or Der Abend/La Sera (before 1897), already show a sensitivity that evolved into a more liberated form of painting. Especially the serie of nun paintings, reflects a shift toward more mystical and symbolic themes. 

I think Paul Hoecker was very aware of these layers of meaning in his work, even if he wasn’t consciously framing it that way. For example, Vesuvius—a painting of two young men with the volcano erupting in the background—was shown at the Third Venice Biennale in 1899. The volcanic eruption could be seen as a metaphor for the scandal in his life, erupting just as he faced the consequences of his sexuality.

On a personal level, I think the work has enabled a kind of friendship across time, connecting me with Paul Hoecker, but also with people of other generations like the queer collectors who have owned Hoecker’s works for many years. I never see my works as finished. They are evolving conversations—each one sparking new connections and friendships. 

For the Triennale, I created a performance about my dear friend, the artist Cosy Pièro, who passed away last year. This was the first public moment I could truly talk about her since her funeral in July 2023. The performance took place in a bar set up by artist Publik Universal Frxnd. I also installed three of Pièro’s works there, one of them had originally been displayed in a queer bar during the 1970s. Many of the drawings and paintings she had displayed in her bar Bei Cosy before were confiscated by the police and likely destroyed in 1963. For Cosy, her artistic practice was inseparable from her bar—a social space where people interacted with her work directly. But most people didn’t understand that connection. 

I had researched Cosy’s work for more than ten years. As Cosy’s health deteriorated in her final years, I realized I would have an immense responsibility to remember her, if she would pass away. In 2017 Publik Universal Frxnd and I recreated her bar at Rongwrong in Amsterdam. For that project we were still able to ask her things like, ‘Do you like the glasses?’ I was so grateful to have that time, and to show our works together before she passed in 2023. We also pushed for her to receive the lifetime achievement award in Munich just a year before her passing. That recognition meant a lot to her. 

The performance at the Triennale was a moment to reflect on remembrance. How can we create new ways of preserving an artist’s legacy? So many female and queer artist didn’t receive the recognition they deserved, and their histories were only rewritten after their deaths. In the case of Cosy, a woman and queer artist, there were limits to what she could achieve, because the whole system was stacked against her. I think it’s crucial for our generation to ensure that now these stories are being told while the artists are still alive. This is why I’m planning to make a film about Cosy’s friends, many of whom are still alive. I want to show how they continue to live with her art and how it’s integrated into their lives. Through friends and family, her art is stays alive. 

I think it’s crucial to understand that the far-right wants to separate us, isolate us—and that’s why solidarity is so important. The fight is not just about your own cause, but about connecting with others and fighting together. This is why I think it’s so important to share these stories and create space for conversation and learning. It’s about meeting across differences—generations, cultural backgrounds, and experiences—and not letting these differences separate us. These moments of solidarity and knowledge exchange are under attack, especially with universities being defunded and peaceful protests being suppressed. Now is the time to talk with each other, to listen to each other. 

There’s a growing polarization. This is a dangerous trend, especially when the far right uses identity politics to separate people. For example, figures like the German AfD leader Alice Weidel who use her lesbian identity to justify racist statements. This is not new—homo-nationalism has a lot of precedents. In the Netherlands this was already strongly present 20 years ago with Pim Fortuyn, whose Islamophobic culture enabled Wilders and his racist rhetoric of today. We urgently need intersectional queer solidarity against racism.

It’s important to remember that queer people have always had their place in history, even before the term “homosexual” was invented. For instance, in the 19th century, the term “Urning” was used to describe queer desire. It was coined by Karl Heinrich Ulrichs, a German lawyer, writer, and pioneer of the modern gay rights movement. The word refers to Greek mythology, to the God of Uranus and his creation of Aphrodite without sexual intercourse. In 1867, Ulrichs went to the German Lawyers Conference and stated: “We shouldn’t criminalize same-sex desire between men. I call this ‘Urning,’ and I am one of them.” This was the first public coming out in modern history.

I find it striking that the identity categories we still use today are concepts that surfaced in the 19th century, closely connected to the industrialization process. We continue to employ the word “homosexual,” which emerged to pathologize, medicalize and criminalize same-sex desires. We’re essentially still using a vocabulary of oppression. The language we choose is crucial, and we should allow it to remain fluid and poetic. While also being more sensitive to colonial histories and how they shape our understanding of identity.

As for myself, I want to continue this process—creating works that honor the history of lost art and those who have been erased from history. Our work with the research group is like detective work—finding lost pieces of history and bringing them back to life, even if only through photographs or reproductions. That’s what keeps the memory alive. 

At the moment, I’m developing a larger fabric piece that speaks to the lost works of Paul Hoecker. As for the group, we’ll continue the research and the investigations. One of our goals is to find an institution interested to organize an extensive solo exhibition with us showcasing Paul Hoecker’s oeuvre in detail.