In the past, if you went to downtown Munich, where until 2008 the Southgerman newspaper lived between Marienplatz, Sendlinger Strasse and Viktualienmarkt: the flâneur Herbert Achternbusch. Spillery oddball with a hat on his stubborn head and a mischievous face, always dressed in black, an original Bavarian genius and the only legitimate descendant of Karl Valentin, whose stature he resembled. “Grüß Gott, Mr. Achternbusch,” he was then greeted. And if he wasn’t too grumpy, because he could be a grumbler before the Lord, a short, guaranteed curious conversation ensued. Born on November 23, 1938 in Munich, the universal artist – hyperproductive as a painter, filmmaker, actor, writer, playwright and lateral thinker when this word was still a distinction – died earlier this week at the age of 83, according to friends and companions . A message that makes sad and rich Munich a bit poorer and more desolate.
Herbert Achternbusch died: obituary for an original genius – culture
