Su­san­ne Tunn’s œuvre is cha­rac­te­ri­sed by mo­ve-­ments which are gent­le and spon­ta­neo­us at the same time. She works with pre­ci­se­ly plan­ned blank spaces crea­ted in stone; she al­lows tin to find its way; she draws empty con­tours di­rect­ly onto the wall. The weight (of the ma­te­ri­al) and the light­ness (of the in­ter­ven­ti­ons), the in­si­de se­ar­ching for empti­ness and the evol­ving shape which finds an ab­sence, exist side by side, com­ple­men­ting each other. If you dream, you will find your­self. If you find a shape, you for­get that there was a pro­cess. A cer­tain slow me­di­-ta­ti­on is a di­men­si­on in the works of Su­san­ne Tunn and is ex­pres­sed very subt­ly. Howe­ver, if you hold one of Su­san­ne Tunn’s small ligh­t-­grey he­arts in your hand, you feel for one mo­ment what you feel – if you still feel. It is as if so­me­thing from in­si­de emer­ges into the out­side. A frigh­te­n­ing, yet ten­der me­mo­ry of a world which only exists in this way in the in­ter­space.
Su­san­ne Tunn needs the chal­len­ge, the ex­tre­me­ly heavy mat­ter, needs the ten­der ge­stu­re which di­vests its­elf: I shape, you offer re­sis­tan­ce. All of her works be­ha­ve asym­me­tri­cal­ly with each other in a dou­ble mea­ning; they crea­te a peace that tells of her se­arch and of chan­ges which ren­der it pos­si­ble to find her very own ac­cess.

Mi­cha­el Krö­ger