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. 

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