Friday, 17 June 2016

Dodged a Bullet

Next to me lies a pile of documents I have wanted to post about.

Flyers given at the Karneval der Kulturen, where I pressed my body against other bodies with the intention of going nowhere really and ate spicy, fatty chicken from an African vendor because he said it was "lecker, lecker, lecker" and it smelt like home somehow. The map from the photowalk I partially did with the C/O Berlin, where we walked through Stephen Shore's exhibition and then tried to photograph the city in his style by collectively creating a visual diary that didn't feature any spectacular views, memorable moments or key locations, which we then posted on Instagram using the hashtag #BerlinSurfaces. I left after we had ice-cream somewhere near Bellevue, as there was something else happening that day and I felt I wouldn't be able to do it all, despite Nike telling me to 'just do it' and Sheryl Sandberg saying we should 'lean in' and society saying that we can 'have it all'. Another factor in quitting the walking tour might have been my hangover and lack of sleep, but we'll never know.

Also #BerlinSurfaces
Some pamphlets from Berlin's Gallery Weekend further form part of the pile. I remember we were both late, meeting up near the Museumsinsel and checking out extremely expensive art placed lonelily in large, high spaces. Even one of Hirst's spot paintings hung in one corner.

Hirst in space. 
We then went to grab coffee and lay in the sun in front of the Dom, before exploring the works of Daniele Sigalot in one of the galleries. He makes paper planes from aluminium that make you want to return to childhood afternoons spent in gardens and pretending to be something fantastical.

The last station we visited was Spruth Magers, where everything was a bit weird and hovering in the realms of art categorisation where people say "I don't really understand it". Alexandre Singh had a fun installation titled The School for Objects Criticized AE where ordinary household objects such as bleach, a toaster, a slinky, a stuffed skunk and others that I can't recall have conversations ranging from art criticism to sex to God and death, with new characters being illuminated by a spotlight when they enter a scene.

Alexandre Singh
Now the stack of papers has been worked through, digitalised as memory, and the move tomorrow can begin. My own place, my own space, maybe to hang up Hirst in a corner. Or, alternatively, something I could actually afford. 

Tuesday, 7 June 2016

I'm no good next to diamonds

The past few weeks have been laced with exhaustion. I would ask myself what fresh hell the fates could come up with, how much shit I'd have to wade through to get to some point far off in the distance that signalled an end to whatever this limbo was. And I'd wallow in the apparent hardship of things not working out quite as planned, also because I had not in particular planned anything.

But the tides have turned somewhat. May the odds be ever in your favour, and all that.
One of the reasons is that I get to see JR on a daily basis. The new job is situated in an old industrial area that is being gentrified to seduce startups and other exciting medium-sized enterprises to use the tall stone buildings as bases. One of the towers features an image that was part of JR's 2013 project Wrinkles of the City  where the portraits of an older generation on buildings that have equally stood the test of time indicate how people grow and change with the hardships and joys that their cities experience.

I wonder if this will be true again in 50+ years when a portrait is created of this generation, a generation that is constantly on the move and wanting to experience the world. Do we all have a home? A place we cling to, a place we can return to, when all else breaks away? Or do places and spaces become increasingly irrelevant as concepts of what home is in a time of crisis have to adapt to people being driven by the hundreds of thousands out of the cities that were once theirs?

Questions for another day.