A post of good intentions

this is.

For the next days I'll try to leek out some Berlinale gossip, maybe even thoughts on the moving pictures.

But not for today.

Today I need to talk about wood and architecture.

My colleague and I moved from our office to the general Berlinale press office. We are residing in the Hyatt hotel now.

In here, everything is made of precious wood and dimmed light.

middle brown parquet zigzagging across the floor

doors and walls made of heavy wood varnished in black

big organically shaped tables in the reception area formed entirely out of convex tree slices

and on top of it all, a cocktail table consisting of a huge put-up branch of some strangely frayed looking tree

Yet, I do not feel out of place here. All of this creates as soozing atmosphere.

Also soozing: Behind my desk, in my back, there is a window. I know that if I turned round and had a look outside, I could see the Philharmony and its Kammermusiksaal by Hans Scharoun. Both of them I like a lot.

A friendly place.

With friendly architecture.

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.

tales from beyond the bubble wrap. part 2

I've been travelling by train, too.
Travelling at 210 km/h. Made me think of Virilio and his screens once more. But I will probably talk about this some other time.

I've been travelling to a ritualistic celebration held by people I do not really know. Sun and hills and church bells, you know.

I've been watching. But I've been also taking part. Wrapped by arms that wanted to include me right away. Friendly and warm. I liked it, the way you like to look at the screen (Oh, there it is already again, I couldn't help.): Tell me a story. And it gets even better if I find myself in it, in any way.

Still, I am not inside the bubble wrap. Can't be. Those people are! I am outside. - No, this is no post-puberty lamentation about me being the misunderstood outsider. Come on! I'm past that. -
They do everything to be sure and safe and comfortable. Somehow, I would love to be/think/live this way, too. But this safety wrap obscures your vision, doesn't it?

Boo, I'm getting banal and cheesy again. Can't help. Not that my vision is un-obscured. No.

Btw: It's not a new thought, this. Not at all:

/ Wenn jemand eine Reise tut, /
/ so kann er was erzählen. /

And in the end:

(...)
/Und fand es überall wie hier,/
/Fand überall 'n Sparren,/
/Die Menschen gradeso wie wir,/
/Und eben solche Narren./

Matthias Claudius: Urians Reise um die Welt. 1774.


Addendum:
Saturday morning.
I'm sitting in my Berlin flat, looking outside at swirling particles.
I'm under water. Rays of sunlight passing through the glass that separates me from the outside. Little bubble passing by and up.
If I open the glass, they'll come in and will be soft and gentle.
Now, that's my kind of bubble wrap!