Although the base of the Constance pier light is marked with a green fluorescent tube at night, the upper part is obviously part of the red light district. At a height of 14 metres, a festive fire lights up every six seconds. Locals may have become accustomed to the sight of the peculiar tower, but those unfamiliar with the area may blush at the sight. The pilot light turns out to be the top light of a jester's cap. It is supported by a nine metre high lady made of concrete, epoxy resin and limestone powder with, well, harmonious and consistently exposed lines.
"Imperia", as the statue is called, is as pretty as she is tall, and she seems to entice with horizontal services. She looks proudly over Constance and is clearly not afraid of catching a cold, as her clothing is quite manageable in key areas. In contrast, the two comparatively tiny figures that Imperia carries on her raised hands are completely naked. Their contours bear witness to an increased calorie intake and a marked increase in wrinkles with age. The headdress of the starboard figure is an imperial crown, the other wears a tiara, commonly known as a papal crown.
If it had been up to the Constance local council or the Catholic deanery, the provocative Imperia would never have been erected in this prominent location. Every year, tourists take 2.8 million photos of the clear landmark by day and night, which is probably unrivalled by any other beacon. The statue was conceived and created by Peter Lenk. The 76-year-old satirical sculptor sits in his kitchen in Bodman on the far north-west of Lake Constance and gazes happily into the drizzle outside the window. It is his favourite sailing weather, there are few boats on the way and he is looking forward to today's trip.
An exclusive pleasure
Never before has a journalist been allowed on his yacht. Even today, he has to wait on the jetty while the boat is being cleared. "I'm used to sailing alone, it's the quickest way," he explains. He knots deflectors for the jib and jib sheets from the six foreship cleats to the mast. Soon the diesel is chugging along, a little later the harbour entrance is astern, mainsail, jib and jib are in place. The clouds have cleared, the sea is empty and the artist is in a great mood. The imposing Stengen topsail is not rigged, the gusts in the fjord-like Überlinger See are too treacherous. At the moment, only a breeze is blowing across the end of the lake.
The handholds are in place, although Peter Lenk has had little practice in the summer that is now coming to an end. The weather was probably too good, it's September and only his second outing. The crew's first mistake: using the word "corrugated iron" in connection with the hull of his "Vlieland". "Well no, you can't call it that, it's fluted sheet steel," says Lenk about the clinker-like folds in the surface. It is a beach lifeboat from the 1880s, probably built at the Havighorst shipyard in Bremen.
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The "Vlieland" was once a lifeboat
At the time, the 8.5 metre hull weighed just 1,350 kilograms, considerably less than solid wood specimens. This made it easier to transport it to the beach by horse-drawn cart, drag it into the water, push it through the surf and haul it to the harbour. But even with the lightweight construction, it remained a Herculean task for the ten crew members, eight of whom rowed. On its last mission on 5 March 1942, 40 men towed the "Reichspost" over pack ice off Langeoog to the water's edge, after which rowing lifeboats were finally history in German sea rescue.
In 1980, Peter Lenk found the gaff cutter through an advert on Fehmarn and moored it on Lake Constance. However, his love for the area was over after four years. "The inspector from the district office complained that the ratio of red and white colour on the lifebuoy was incorrect. That's when I realised that I had to leave." He moved the "Vlieland" to Port Cogolin in the Bay of Saint-Tropez, where he sailed and lived with his wife Bettina in the off-season from then on.
The owner is as special as his cutter
At the time, Lenk positioned himself as a courageous artist who did not care about disrespectful behaviour or installation permits, as reported by "Die Zeit" and "Der Spiegel". Balancing on iron stilts several storeys high, Peter Lenk installed the "Mauerkieker" on Berlin's inner border. Here, too, there was no authorisation, and the hand-held implementation had the makings of a state scandal. "Laughing border guards don't shoot," Lenk said confidently at the time. Maximum attention and thin ice - that's how he gained notoriety, strict rejection and recognition.
His nine-year spell as a salaried art teacher at Nellenburg-Gymnasium in nearby Stockach was also over for him in those eighties. "Teachers, especially those for secondary subjects, should do something different every ten years anyway," he says today, "otherwise the entertainment value drops." This was undoubtedly the case with Lenk; pupils were allowed to give themselves grades and starting times were regarded as a recommendation - for pupils and teachers alike. "I told him that he had to be on time," says his now retired headmaster, "but Peter Lenk replied that you didn't have to tell him that, you had to tell his horse." Lenk rode the eight kilometres to school every morning.
A self-directed conversion
Lenk also took an unconventional approach to his boat. Before moving his "Vlieland" to the Mediterranean, he bolted an iron keel underneath and removed the box for the previous centreboard. The draught of just 30 centimetres was ideal for beach rescues. However, the form stability was designed for rowing and at best for the wind pressure of a short rig, but not for the leverage effect of the current topsail. The previous owner had already converted to the current cutter rig, and the mizzen's mast foot has since served as the foundation for the newly added engine. Draught now: 140 centimetres.
While leafing through his files, Peter Lenk discovers a conscientiously typed fine notice. The background: for Berlin's 750th anniversary celebrations in 1987, the Senate organised a boat parade with a grandstand of honour. Lenk wanted to take part, but was not allowed to. "We smuggled the ship of fools on a low-loader in the heavy evening traffic onto Breitscheidplatz in front of the Memorial Church. The telescopic armoured tower was extended, we lowered the side walls so that the low-loader was invisible, and the Berlin police searched for it by helicopter without success."
But there were also difficulties in the harbour of Cogolin. The costs increased, "you were no longer allowed to work on the boat yourself there", and in 2005 Lenk's time with his "Vlieland" in France seemed to be over. He sold it, but the new owner did not change the flag certificate to his name. There was a resale to baffled new owners and a gruelling dispute about the difference between ownership and possession. In the end, he gave his repurchased "Vlieland" to an acquaintance. Lenk was no longer in the mood for windy interested parties.
A circle closes
And the recipient returned the cutter a few years ago. In the meantime, Lenk had come to terms with the Lake Constance shipping regulations and they had come to terms with him. "The inspectors are no longer so harsh today. It's more about the matter at hand, which has changed considerably."
Well, regulations. So how did the 18-tonne Imperia end up on its pedestal, the "Pegelhäuschen" in Constance harbour, in 1993? Despite adversaries? In a cloak-and-dagger operation and with cunning. Peter Lenk tells the story as he steers another turn off Bodman. He sends "Vlieland" through the wind with the rudder attached to the ogive, and the ship follows willingly. Lenk takes the sheet out of his hand, "I do that in all weathers". It was well known at the time that the opponents in the local council kept watch at the harbour in the evenings. "When they went to bed, we could get started."
Prior to this, the previous lattice mast of the steering light was cut off and donated to the Josef Martin yacht shipyard in Radolfzell. All parts of Imperia had already been loaded onto a ferry on the other side of the lake at the Friedrichshafen federal railway harbour for the coup. The Kressbronn-based gravel company Meichle und Mohr, owner of today's Marina Ultramarin, had provided a lorry loaded with gravel to ensure a stable position on the water. The lorry then had to wait behind the Hörnle in Constance before they could later start setting up. The particularly objectionable parts of Imperia were carefully covered with tarpaulins.
While the plinth was being placed, the agitated mayor of culture, Wilhelm Hansen, appeared on the pier at two o'clock in the morning, recalls Peter Lenk, recalling the minutes that took everyone's breath away. "He asked me what on earth I was doing there. There was a clear decision from the city council that this statue should not be erected under any circumstances. I reassured him that it was just a static test and that the two assembled parts would be taken down again the next day. Well, then he could go back to sleep in peace, he said. I wished him a good night." The following night, the remaining parts were put together.
Five days later, sports students commissioned by the tourist office used abseiling techniques to remove the tarpaulins, exposing all the particularly eye-catching body parts. "What a circus that was," remembers Horst Eickmeyer, the mayor at the time. He had been a supporter of the project, but only had one vote on the local council. "I then had Peter Lenk make me an offer as to how much it would cost to relocate to a less prominent alternative location. That amounted to 120,000 marks, and the council didn't want to approve it." This led to a stalemate that still exists today.
Horst Eickmeyer, however, sees the statue outside his window every morning and is delighted to see it.
However, even after 26 years, the response from the Catholic Deanery of Constance to the question of whether they had come to terms with the Imperia was rather narrow-lipped: "I regret to inform you that this topic is not currently being discussed. We wish you all the best and God's blessing." The higher ordinariate in Freiburg is more diplomatic. The installation has been clearly criticised, the work of art is still divisive today, "but the freedom of art should be respected, even if it can provoke and break taboos".
A separation is imminent
Will his current art project have the same fate as the Imperia? Peter Lenk gives us a tour of his studio. The work is due to be finished in just under a year and is already filling the hall, which is several storeys high, as a clay model. We are not allowed to reveal who is depicted. Peter Lenk's sculpture still has to be covered with silicone, a mould maker will reinforce the soft negatives for him. In the negative moulds, the sculptures made of glass mat, epoxy resin and calcium carbonate are laminated to form a new positive, as in GRP boatbuilding. When a pütting on his "Vlieland" came loose a few years ago, he did it himself and the laminate is still holding up today.
Peter Lenk now only uses his "Vlieland" as a motorboat; the mast and sails are in storage. The reason is a shoulder operation that no longer allows him to raise the gaff. And he would like to sell the boat. The draught of 1.40 metres is too great for the current and recurring low water levels of the lake to move the boat sensibly.
This article first appeared in YACHT 01/2021 and has been updated for this online version.
Technical data"Vlieland":
- Havighorst/HB shipyard (presumably)
- Hull length 8.50 m
- Width 2.55 m
- Draught 1.40 m
- Weight 3.5 tonnes
- Year of construction around 1880
- Large/jib 40.0 m²
- Topsail 10.0 m²
- Engine (diesel) 25 hp
