Anton Meier Galerie

Dieter Roth

Dieter Roth

small hat salad by dieter roth

Dieter Roth

Small hat salad, 1974–1975

drawing with depth by dieter roth

Dieter Roth

Drawing with depth, 1974

electric bulbs by dieter roth

Dieter Roth

Electric Bulbs, 1965

structure of hope by dieter roth

Dieter Roth

Structure of Hope, 1983

Tuesday, March 23, 2004Saturday, June 5, 2004


D. Roth was born forty-six years ago among the butchering Germans at that horrible stretch of time, when that cannibal, awful Hitler, Adolf, was just getting the Germans going at their best hit, butchering war. Hell was loose, but Roth survived, beatings and scoldings he survived, shitting and pissing in his timid pants, poor shaking little turd, he even managed to live through that rainstorm of bombs and grenades, awful smashing horror, brought about on all, the living and the dead, by the horridly cruel cool English and the annihilatingly man-eating cannibals, those fanty (fantastically) cruel citizens of the so-called United States of Northamerica, horrible man-killers. Roth got out of that place (described) by chance of being one of the citizens of his horrible home country, namely, selfrighteously, murderously Christian Switzerland. He survived, pantpissing there for 12 years. Then one of the friendly Danes helped him out of it, getting him to beautiful, beautiful Copenhagen. Having managed to happily survive there for a year, matrimony got him, catching up with him. An awfully, dreadfully fearful drain he fell down into, wriggling there, at the bottom, pissing in his wet pants, shitting and drinking terrible, awfully pissing lots, screaming for mercy. Again he managed to escape, this time to a place that soon proved to him to be full of his like, butchering bastards, dwellers in shit, pissing in their pissingwet pants, eating each others awful bodies and souls, dwellers of Hell. He did escape though, to another place, thoughtful eyes watching him (the eyes of his second parents, his children), doubling his raging shame. Steamer of the dampsteaming wet, shitpissing pants, stumbling around the corners of the all encompassing butcher's shop. Turdknickering awful bastard of fear, complaining. - Dieter Roth, Barcelona, July 1976