Behind the scenes with Pay Matthis Karsten : Breaking the Frame: Risk, Purpose and Berlin’s Art Scene

Yuval Aluf

Photo: Galerie Judin, Berlin

Most university students don’t really know what they want to do after graduation. Pay Matthis Karstens, now 36 and a widely acclaimed gallerist, was no different. “I always thought I would go into the museum world or academia,” he admitted. “While all my peers took internships at galleries and auction houses, I was the only one working in museums, publishing, and research.” At the time, Karstens was actively involved in all three fields. Even when offers came from museums and academic institutions, he remained unsure, unable to see himself committed to a single track.    

His mentor, Pamela Kort, curator and art historian, told him that ignoring the art market was simply a form of ignorance. She urged him to speak directly with galleries and immerse himself in the world of collectors and the art market. At that time, he received multiple offers from museums and academia, but none felt right. They promised stability yet left him feeling unsatisfied and uncertain. “I wasn’t sure what to choose,” he recalls, “everything felt like it would lock me in for years, without leaving room to move elsewhere.” So he followed her advice, searching for the sense of purpose he had been missing. Through this path, he met Juerg Judin, a Swiss-born gallerist and curator who has led Galerie Judin in Berlin since 2008, and who would become a close friend. They soon found a shared a passion for the German figurative movement. Together, they began preparing a catalogue raisonné of Judin’s drawings. At first, it seemed like a purely scholarly work, but slowly the idea of a gallery crept in: “It just snuck up on me, a sale here, some advice there.” By 2014, research had turned into a full-time career working in galleries.    

Pay admits that for him, art is never meant to be consumed in silence or in ‘a vacuum’. “Buying art, presenting art, it’s always a social experience,” he explains. That belief is visibly embodied in the unusual temporary space where we met. Instead of walking into the white, intimidating cube typical of galleries, you step into the interior of a converted 1950s gas station in a Berlin neighbourhood. The modest rooms open onto a garden where the sound of water runs in the background. The smell of coffee beans drifts in from the cafe, and the terrace spills onto the greenery outside, inviting people to linger and connect with one another and with the space. As Pay puts it, this atmosphere is intentional: “The space insists on creating accessibility and building a community.”   

Photo courtesy of Pace Gallery and Galerie Judin

The idea behind the space? To break the threshold that makes so many people and buyers afraid of galleries. When I asked him about the new buying audience of the art world, Pay said, “Museums feel natural to them, known, but a gallery? Many ask themselves: How do I behave? Do I need to buy something?” By staying open on the weekend and welcoming those who may not buy the art, the gallery seeks to turn visitors into a community. Visitors may stay for the coffee, the art talks and lectures in the garden, or simply for the art. In doing so, they will inevitably encounter curators, collectors, or even their neighbours. The art collection is no longer locked behind intimidating walls but instead immersed in everyday life, mingling with residents and passers-by.    

Another innovative approach is that of the partnership with Pace Gallery, one that Pay says rests upon decades of friendships. “Juerg Judin and Marc Glimcher knew each other long before Juerg became a gallerist, back then he was a film producer and collector.” But through listening to him, I understood the collaboration with Pace was never just about the business but rather grew out of the changing necessity in the art world. Whilst mega galleries increasingly reach for younger artists, smaller spaces continue the quiet, vital work of nurturing them from the start. What once would have seemed unusual, two galleries joining forces, now seems almost a necessity. The story of the gas station’s conversion into a gallery space is no less unusual. Built in the 1950s, the station was later purchased by Juerg Judin, who lived there and eventually transformed it into a gallery space. "It was always a place connected to art in some way,” Pay tells me. “First it was Juerg’s private collection, then for dinners, social events, and eventually exhibitions.”   

The feeling of home lingers in the space, encouraging people to feel differently than when entering an institute. The gallery’s permanent space in nearby Potsdamer Strasse is a vast printing hall, a monumental Brutalist-style building. By contrast, the gas station and its surrounding garden offer a different, more intimate experience. Both locations offer different and distinct experiences of art.   

For years, Berlin has been known as Europe's centre of artistic production, though not necessarily as an economic centre. “It was always the place where artists came,” Pay explained, “not the place where collectors stayed.” Cheap rents and creative freedom attracted talent from across the world, yet institutions struggled with funding and as a result collectors looked elsewhere. Now it seems the balance is shifting. Pay describes how rising costs are making it harder for young artists to live here, even as more collectors arrive. At the same time, institutions face shrinking budgets and are becoming increasingly cautious. Berlin now hovers in a moment of uncertainty, as the city is torn between its legacy as an artists’ city and the pressure to become a full art market hub like London. For Pay and the gallery, the decision to stay and expand locally rather than choose Paris, London or New York is a declaration of faith. “We still believe in this city,” he told me simply.     

When describing his early years, Pay admits he once imagined museums as the pure side of art, driven by research and free from compromise, whilst the market was tainted by money and dependence. His experience has taught him otherwise. “Both are shaped by politics and money,” he said. “In museums, a curator might not decide on a show until their forties. Boards, donors, visitor numbers: those are the factors that guide you.”    

The supposed purity of the museum and academic world is, in practice, just as entangled as that of the commercial side. By contrast, Pay explains that galleries can sometimes act more freely even if risks fall directly on them: “If we decide to publish a ‘catalogue raisonné’ or stage a show for an artist, it is our choice and our risk.” For him, the important lesson was to understand that neither museums nor the market is entirely pure or corrupt. Both are systems where ideals meet realities; understanding their inner workings is as crucial as understanding the art itself.    

Pay’s story perhaps carries a message for many in the art world: there is no single pathway into it. The future rarely follows the plan one imagines, and we should remain open to its uncertainties. As Pay puts it, “What used to be rigid has become fluid: museums, galleries, universities, they all connect now. The art world has become one system with many layers.” His words are a reminder that the path into the art world is rarely linear, and uncertainty can also be the beginning of new possibilities.