Growing up in post-war Germany in the late 1940s and 1950s, I had little exposure to art at first. In fact, I didn’t visit a museum until I was 40 years old. It was the Musée Picasso in Paris, and I was immediately captivated by the works I saw there. When my wife and I furnished our first apartment—and later our first house—I began looking for artworks to hang on our walls. Of course, my budget was limited, but I already had a clear idea: the works should be abstract. I bought works on paper by Hubert Berke and K. O. Götz. Looking back, I would say that this first purchase marked the beginning of my journey as a collector.

How did the idea of establishing your own museum come about?

After that first museum visit, I went on to see many more, regularly visited galleries, and took part in auctions. Over time, I realised I had acquired more artworks than I had wall space. Among them were several large-scale pieces—by my favourite artist Helen Frankenthaler, as well as Robert Motherwell and Frank Stella. The largest work in my collection, by Toshimitsu Imai, is 20 metres wide.

Since my wife and I don’t have children, and we’re both getting older, the question eventually arose: what will happen to the collection when we’re no longer here? I spoke with several museum directors, but none of the proposals truly convinced me.

My collection is carefully structured—it offers a comprehensive view of many artistic movements that emerged after 1945 in Germany, Europe, Japan, and the United States. For instance, I own works by all the Gutai artists. When you entrust a collection like this to a museum, you want to ensure that a significant portion remains accessible to the public. After all, the greatest joy lies in having the artworks seen—by as many people as possible. None of the people I spoke with could guarantee this to the extent I had hoped.

The idea of founding my own museum didn’t actually come from Max Hollein, the then-director of the Städel Museum, even though he once said to me—half joking, half serious—“Why don’t you build your own museum?” The real motivation came from something else: the belief that a museum would allow us to introduce children to art and spark their creativity.

When I sold my two companies in 2017, I finally had the resources to turn that vision into reality.

You’ve said that collectors have a public responsibility. How does that take shape at the Reinhard Ernst Museum?

When it comes to my passion for abstract painting and sculpture, I follow two guiding principles. First, my wife and I believe that art should be accessible to everyone. With our museum, we invite people who are interested in art and architecture to engage with abstract art. Just as importantly, we want to reach those who may have never set foot in a museum before.

Because engaging with art—this has been clearly shown—unleashes creativity. And that brings me to our second guiding principle: my wife and I are deeply committed to fostering creativity in children. Creative children are more confident, they come up with original ideas, and they find unconventional solutions. That’s exactly what we need more of in Germany—and we want to help children discover and express their creative potential.

That’s why the Reinhard Ernst Museum is reserved exclusively for children and young people in the mornings. Over the past twelve months, we’ve welcomed 580 school classes and more than 15,000 visitors under the age of 18. That’s something I’m especially proud of.

What kind of learning experiences do you want young visitors to have at the museum?

With our inaugural collection presentation Colour is Everything! (on view until summer 2026) and the special exhibition Helen Frankenthaler. Move and Make (on view until 28 September 2025), we want to show that artworks can be created in unexpected and unconventional ways.

After 1945, painting was no longer confined to standing at an easel and applying paint to canvas with a brush. Artists like K.O. Götz, Helen Frankenthaler, Kazuo Shiraga, and the recently deceased Günther Uecker used their entire bodies in the creative process. Paint was thrown, scraped, dripped, and smeared. The resulting compositions challenge our usual ways of seeing and invite us to develop a new understanding of what painting can be.

And that, in itself, is incredibly liberating. We want to pass on this spirit—the idea that in art, it’s okay to take risks, to explore new paths, and to experiment freely.

What reactions from the public have surprised you?

I’ve been surprised by how much the architecture influences our visitors’ perception of the artworks. Many see the museum itself as a total work of art—which is exactly what I had hoped for. I’m especially pleased that even children respond to it in such a direct and emotional way, sometimes saying things like, “This museum is so beautiful, I want to live here.” To me, that’s the greatest compliment we could receive.

You’ve had a close relationship with Japan since 1972—as reflected, among other things, in the museum designed by Fumihiko Maki. What does this connection mean to you personally?

As an entrepreneur, I travelled to Japan several times a year over the course of decades. Through these visits, many friendships were formed and deepened, and I came to know and appreciate Japanese culture in all its richness and diversity.

What impressed me most in a professional context was the extraordinary precision that characterises Japanese craftsmanship and thinking across all fields—the architecture of our museum is a perfect example of this.

Take Fumihiko Maki, for instance: he’s a Japanese architect who has built all over the world. His museums and other buildings can be found in North America, India, and China. What they all share is a sense of clarity and restraint that is anything but cold. One of his guiding principles was “Towards a humane architecture”—and it’s true: you feel at home the moment you step into one of his buildings.

What criteria must a work meet to be included in your collection, and how do you go about acquiring new pieces today?

It’s actually quite simple—I have to like the work immediately. I trust my gut feeling completely. Over the years, my sense of taste has become more refined. I’ve visited countless museums and galleries, and that kind of exposure really sharpens your eye for quality. On top of that, I’ve spent countless hours poring over exhibition catalogues and studying auction listings.

What is your view on contemporary art and the (contemporary) artists you exhibit?

At the mre, we feature five in situ artworks that are permanently integrated into the museum’s architecture. These are by Tony Cragg, Katharina Grosse, Bettina Pousttchi, Karl-Martin Hartmann, and Claudia Walde. Each has a sculptural quality and, for me personally, they are closely tied to the creation of the museum itself.

That said, the majority of works in my collection are paintings. When it comes to contemporary artists, I’m particularly interested in how they continue to push the boundaries of painting—what images they create today, and how they do it.

Starting 26 October, we’ll be presenting the group exhibition Helen Frankenthaler moves Jenny Brosinski, Ina Gerken and Adrian Schiess. All three artists have engaged deeply with Frankenthaler’s work and her approach to painting. I find it fascinating how their works either echo or deliberately break away from her legacy.

Ina Gerken, an artist based in Düsseldorf, was a master student of Katharina Grosse. A few years ago, she spent three months working at the Frankenthaler House at the Skowhegan School of Painting and Sculpture in Maine. She has developed a highly distinctive body of work, marked by a seriousness and poetry that is immediately palpable. At the same time, her paintings reflect a focused, thoughtful engagement with Frankenthaler’s practice.

What three pieces of advice would you give to someone who wants to start collecting art today?

I’m happy to share what has helped me personally. Most of the works I’ve acquired were purchased at auction. I find that auctions create a certain distance from the artist and the work—something that isn’t always the case in a gallery setting.

First: set a clear budget and try not to exceed it. I’ll admit I haven’t always managed to stick to mine, but in most cases I have.

Second: thorough research is essential. Before making a decision, you should look closely at price developments and comparable works by the artist. That kind of preparation can help you avoid unpleasant surprises.

And finally—what matters most: collect what you truly love. If you’re not yet confident in your own eye, it’s wise to seek out good advisors. But the personal connection to a work should always come first.

What are your hopes for the next generation of collectors?

For me it is troubling that artworks are increasingly being treated purely as speculative assets. In the hope of a quick rise in value, they’re often purchased and then disappear into storage—sometimes for years.

I find that deeply regrettable. Even when a work belongs to a private individual or a corporate collection, I believe it remains, in some sense, part of the public good. Art is meant to be seen—by as many people as possible.