Believe me, when you feel like you’re in a creative rut, there’s nothing quite like visiting a few Holocaust museums to clarify the costs of apathy and provoke the absolute necessity of creatively maneuvering the present horizons.
Its sad here. Winter in Germany is always moving. Unnerving public calm to the degree that all people in crowds seem lonely. Cold, five hours of sun yet everyone is underground on the ubahn(subway) or nestled in their labyrinthine apartment complexes, hiding from tease of vitamin D. Strong willed honesty fills the dinner tables. Brash, like my life in America is some kind of sitcom found on the internet. Cheesy, witless, and tiresome. The affluent fled when the wall fell and took industry and globalization west and south leaving in the wake an empty place for bureaucracy… and more importantly, opportunity to be born.
Berlin is a common ground for the survivors, the refugees, the lost, those caught in the in between and no one wants to share stories. They want to write new ones down, right now. right here. The beauty is the cacophony of wayfaring souls. the layers and layers and layers. If you can see through all the history and the shit… the decay and death are acting like fertilizer of what is yet to come.
I’ve heard tales of the spring in Berlin. When there is singing and dancing in the streets. When the sun reigns and the bars are empty because the whole town has fled to the parks and rivers to have picnics and romantic encounters. Performances leave the institutions and museum Island is abandoned for the tourists as happenings and spontaneous collaboration erupt in the strangest of intersections. Maybe I’m dreaming on this full mooned Valentine’s Day in Eastern Berlin… but this dream I’ve hopefully allowed to creep into my work.
I haven’t drawn from a model in over a decade. I seem to always be late for the drawing sessions so I always end up on the floor and wrestling with foreshortening.
I have German lessons once a week but I’m still feeling overwhelmed by fragmentary understanding. Listening ever so intensely for the recognizable syllable or associative gestures, my eyes glaze over as the sound and layers of meaning grind my face into the sand of the cultural shore break. This is how I feel.
I’ve been working on a Sci-Fi novella as a knee jerk response to my frustration with my paintings thus far. Sometime last week when I was trying to describe the loss of self felt when teleporting (becoming temporarily omnipresent) I looked up at my paintings and realized they are exploring the feeling of being lost and disoriented and the longing for language to make sense or culture to give meaning and context to that feeling. So I’m going to try to finish the series this next week(Ill post detailed photos), now that I have direction about being directionless!
I painted some hearts to send as mail art this month but the Deutsche post did not like the shapes of my envelopes… so sorry that they will all arrive a bit late… except the one I delivered in person tonight. I hope it was enough to spark what was unvoiced in my ranting nervous wreckage… that namely, when faced with a smile that can melt the sun, can this fragile little heart find the courage to pursue such a light.