Two young girls rush passed us on their bicycles: laughing and singing. Touching wooden etchings, depicting the Jesus Story, decorate the heavy solid doors. Walking into the small, almost cramped little room, Monique and I are intrigue by the simplicity of everything.  Just a single corner window allows the somber early autumn light of mid August onto the bronze art objects on display. No special spotlights. No security gate, no alarms signaling an entrant, – even nobody in sight!

The studio of a sculptor, in Lukas Strasse in the south Bavarian village of Oberammergau, has much more to offer than only a display of art works – magical music, welcoming warmth, enshrouded emotion

Hello! Guten Morgen!

I endeavour to get a response from somewhere.

Still no reaction, only the music … and then the figure of a grey-bearded man in his mid-seventies appears in the doorway in the darkest corner of the room.

Ja, guten tag … Hermann.

During a previous visit to Germany in 2008, we also visited this small village off the normal tourist beaten track. It is only every tenth year that crowds from all over the world gather here for the six-month duration of the Passion Play.

Back then it was a bleak winter’s day. With great expectation we visited the studio of this renowned Bavarian sculpture, Hermann Schilcher, to purchase a very specific mural piece, displayed in the corner window. But the studio was locked and nobody responded to our urgent ringing of the door bell.

The work of art, symbolising the Trinity of Father, Son and the Holy Spirit, a dove, was surely not destined for us then. And now, when looking around at the limited space of white walls, I again can not trace it anywhere. I feel a sense of disappointment, almost an emptiness which I am sure I also project towards him.

I explain to Hermann the background of our visit now. His original almost emotionless face immediately changes into a warm smile of understanding. Nodding his head as if understanding my true enthusiasm, he mumbles some words in German.

I tell him of my childhood-dream of attending the Passion Play since my parents’ attendance of the 1960 performance. A new light sparks in his eyes; he invites me into his working studio, some steps down from where he emerged earlier.

The rough hands move the chisels and hammers. Deeply grooved like branches of an old tree trunk, each finger tells a story. With diligent care he moves the many sketches and half completed moulds and wood from the work space to the wooden box in the corner of the room. And slowly he takes off a weathered cloth covering something.

There, covered in a layer of old dust, he lifts up the bronze circular piece of art, of which we have dreamt so long …

With a smile he comments:

Normally I keep the last original casting of all my works of art, but this time I am prepared to let it go. I can sense your total passion to possess it!

I experience the same feeling of excitement when scoring the first winning runs in a cricket match way back in secondary school! Exuberance! Joy! Fulfillment!

You’ve mentioned the Passionsspiele of fifty years ago. You are aware of the fact that only those who were born in Oberammergau or lived here for at least twenty years, may perform in the Play. That year I was chosen to perform Jesus alternately with another young man from the town. Both the influence of my father, the sculptor, as well as those performances, inspired this work of art I love to call “Dreieinigkeit – drei Liebe”.

Hermann reaches out with the priceless piece in both hands. I take the inspiring bronze work of art and hold it close to my heart, knowing that we will never depart of it. The symbolism and the touching story are far too precious and personal!

Walking out of this tiny heaven of art, and realising that I have really met a Jesus from Oberammergau, it is as if I hear the voices of an angels’ choir. And in the street in front of the studio, the same two young girls of the town are singing the chorus in the scene of Jesus and the children…
                                                                     - Johann Beukes