Upon a spectral sea, where Böcklin once painted the silence of eternity, Mona von Wittlage stages a startling intrusion of the contemporary. A lone golfer, drawn in blood, propels his swing against the immensity of the dark cypress and monumental cliffs. His fragile, human gesture collides with the timeless stillness of death’s island.

Here, the sacred meets the profane, the eternal shadows pierced by the ephemeral arc of a ball destined to vanish. The figure, absurd yet tragic, embodies the human compulsion to play, to dominate, to inscribe movement into a landscape of permanence and silence.

Golfer Island is at once homage and provocation—a meditation on mortality where blood traces life’s stubborn pulse against the backdrop of annihilation.