Scrapbook. part 2

I get paid to look at art.
Well, not exactly to look at it. Rather to watch it. To watch over it.
Because, you know, the art needs to be protected from its visitors. They threaten it.

#1
Mind your step, please!
Ooh, you stepped on the art. Haha.
-The art? Oh ... Sorry.

But mind you, in that same exhibition, there was also some art to step on!

Sometimes though, it rather feels as if I was some kind of caretaker for the visitors themselves.

#2
Excuse me, where is the exhibition?
Right here. You are already in the middle of it.
Oh. Aha? Thank you.

And sometimes I simply don't know what went wrong.

#3
Sagen Sie, sind das alles echte Filme hier?

The woman asking me this was at that moment visiting an exhibition devoted to art films.
Mhhmh.

In fact, I'm not really sure who or what I am protecting.
It's probably my own sanity. Or is it insanity?

Scrapbook. part 1

#manifestomonday

#1
The doors are barred with boards. Enter through the cellar.
A supporting construction hovering above me. Is it supporting, itself? Or is it supported? - Enter: Two hens. Bourgeois hens, I'm told.
The smell of fresh paint. White. And black.
The windows are barred, too. But I'm inside, not even seeing the boards.
Noise, a naked man sleeping. He's just pretending, I'd say.
Photographs, photographs, projections.
My head has started to ache.

#2
A decaying building.
A Former department store. Former furniture store. Former "Real" market.
A real market of the real again now.
A mock wardrobe which is not a mock wardrobe. Or is it?
Beautiful black paintings which are not paintings but pretend to be hidden behind curtains.
Remnants of an old pleasure ground seen from the staircase.
A carpet made of salt and one with words and some more carpets above.

#3
A dark and empty salesroom.
I'm standing with my back to the window, looking out of a window, seeing pedestrians passing.
An artist's flat and workspace.
He is absent.
Lots of knives. Two old sausages. A caligraphy letter.
Now my back is aching, too.

To be continued.