Movement

The movement of a human, the movement of beings, the movement of object, the movement of water, the movement of mass. The movement of observation. The movement of thought. The reduction through movement. The increase through movement. The movement of light. The movement in darkness. Transparency as visibility. Transparency as invisibility.

Space

From Bruce Naumans confrontation of the studiospace and the absence of the artist in his 2001 installation Mapping the Studio IIalong with Marina Abramovic’s 2010 performance The Artist Is Present inside of MoMA to Bonn, 2021. The Artist Is Transparent. 20 years into 21st century. Transparency means something is present but see-through. Showing what is usually lying concealed behind it. 

Even though it isn’t concealed anymore by the transparent mass, it is actually still behind it, just not concealed. Transparency is the theoretical absence of something. When cyclopes are manufacturing a helmet for the greek god Hades, wich gives the carrier of that helmet invisibility, then he becomes invisibile and transparent. Whatever is perspectively behind Hades when he wears the helmet becomes visbile. The foreground leaves its shape as a cutout of the backround. The invisible background takes the place of the transparent foreground, becomes visible and covers up something itself. This process would maybe lead to the back of the head of the viewer, if assumed the view, the perspective on to something would be a stream. Everytime it touches some thing, this thing turns transparent. So transparent, in fact, that it is invisible. Arrived at the back of the head of the viewer, this vision breaks through the corpus. The transparency of one self. 

Reflexion

A irresistible force meets an immovable object.The view onto a window and through that same window into the courtyard.The observer behind the viewer.As i lay in bed at the Kanalstraße i hear screams from the outside. From another flat across the parking lot.A man with a high-pitch voice whines and deep distress lays in his voice. He is literally blowing these words as if they have to be his last.„Please don’t, please, please help me, this just can’t be life! Please get me out of here, this can’t be life.“

He seems to be old and sobs and cries.I feel sorry for him. I ask myself where i would like to be right now.Something comes to my mind.He follows the voices of the parrots and floats through the valley of paradise to find than one tree.

The Artwork 

Inside the Wildcube, gibt der Klangwelt den geistigen Rang des Sakralbildes. Wie auch in Landschaftsmalereien Caspar David Friedrichs, der Mensch vor die Unendlichkeit der Natur gestellt wird und zum Gleichnis der Welt-und Selbstbefragung wird, wird er hier vor die Unendlichkeit seiner Denkmuster gestellt. Sie soll dazu beitragen die Auxese eines einzigen Gedanken in Relation zu vielen Gedanken zu setzen. The work consists of two found chairs, a screen, two foils, one tinted and one reflective, both translucent, a player and two headphones, the room is blacked out with molton fabric. Each headphone is hung over the back of each chair. The two chairs i had picked up from the side of the road in Bonn. One i picked up in Oberkassel and one near the Künstlerforum. Two chairs were put in the middle of the darkened room. In front of them a 40 inch screen hanging from the wall. Playing a 15 min. video which shows a performance-piece i recorded at a viewpoint of the Rabenlay at Oberkassel. Via the headphones each listener can hear a soundpiece consisting of spoken text mixed with different fieldrecordings from the city and outskirts of Bonn that i recorded over the course of our residency at our daily „fieldtrips“ Constanza, Michel and I took together with Stefan. The soundpiece is played in a loop and asynchronous to the video-work. Two chairs put next to each other represent two positions of a conversation.

It reflects on the potential of the sharing of a space, the sharing of experiences. The abstracted screen represents a virtual reality and it is not inside of the object. You can try to speak. Try to listen. When facing the screen, one can see the reflexion of his- or herself blended into the video. The visitors are part of the performance, part of the object. They are included, at the same time excluded from the object. The chairs were part of the „Sperrmüll“. After the exhibition they are given back to the city in the same way they were found, being put next to the street. Part of every conversation is listening. Picking up information. While living with Michel in the Kanalstraße, we talked nearly every evening while preparing food and enjoying each others company. Informing each other about habits or maybe cultural commodities, cultural phenomena, pop-cultural phenomena (chimuelo) etc. Each personal backround had somehow served us as a frameworkon how we arrived at this place. Why Bonn? I felt like we are not only exploring this place but also the links of the causal chain that made us anchour in NRW. It became a kind of mystery on how we got here. The soundpiece tries to follow these narratives and form a reality with researchdone through remembrance. Fernando and Michel brought a recording to Bonn, they took a walk through Valparaiso. As i remember, Michel walked for about 2 hours through the city with a recording device. Recording the soundscape of that place. As i remember, they didn’t talk and Fernando was always walking a few meters behind him and taking pictures. 

I heard the city is usually lively and full of people. This time there were almost no people. Rare voices and packs of dogs reclaiming this city. I went to bed in Kanalstraße, while listening to the Valparaiso-recording. Slowly forgetting the iconic vision of „Michel and his mic“ and „Fernando calmly observing“. Slowly picking up all the details of the sounds and transforming my swinging eardrum into thoughts, dreams, into memories…

…tack, tack… tack, tack… tack, tack…

…about 2 weeks have passed. Bonn in contrast to Valparaiso is a vibrant city these days. Less restrictions, lots of social actitvity. People are meeting in Bars and Cafes to watch football games and chat in the heat of the sun. Bonn seems like a utopian dream. The timing of our visit with less restrictions starting just last week, makes it seem as if it has been like this forever. The listening experience of Bonn is diverse as can be. We took daily trips from our residency in Plittersdorf to the „Künstlerforum“ in the northern part of Bonn. Once the center of power, it left a massive infrastructure to fill. A partly amassed infrastructure actually, because in 1969 the city of Bonn incorporated a few outskirts and residential areas to the city of Bonn. Bad Godesberg, Duisdorf and Beuel.a conglumerate of sound- and visual experience. Both attached to each other.We sit at the shore of the Rhine, I close my eyes and still I can see the cargo ships sending the waves of water to me. The deep heavy sound of the motors transforms into a grainy sweep through the shells murmuring at the riverbank.A confident sound of the leaves emerges through the movement of the wind.

…tack, tack… tack, tack… tack, tack… 

…The rubber-wheels of the cars are sequencing the traffic into the heavy structure of Adenauer-Bridge right over my head. What would it sound like if I’d be blind? If i’d have lost my eyesight while running for a future that my generation was able to see? Running from police, running from my father, my neighbor. Running from men. I’d be young, just as I am. What it means to look back, what it means to move on. I can feel a tension rising. A very light and subtle rustle becomes a heavy omnipresent rush. So loud and whilst deep-frequent that I feel the water moving through me, form a pattern and move in rhythm to that bridge as a tram is crossing the river. I can feel the intrusion of this past and open my eyes. I recognize this place. I am here. Save and calm. Tears of joy running over my cheeks pushed out by the light that is warming my face…

…tack, tack… tack, tack… tack, tack…

…I wake up and it’s cold. The dogs are barking. Sending these barks far through this labyrinth. Echoes and reflexions climb the steep hills of my city. I remember when I used to live up the hill in my grandmothers house. These doors only open twice a week to bring in the groceries.

My little brother helps me with my studies. He reads me my books cause it’s hard for me to recognize the words. I used to cry a lot and it heals me. But now I feel dried up. 

I remember the flames that got me to this room. Every year there is flames….my father was part of the acensorista, every friday he took me to his workplace and showed me the lift and its mechanics. Driving down the hill… 

…tack, tack… tack, tack… tack, tack…

…That was before he disappeared. To finance my studies i used to have a decent job in Petorca picking avocados …It was a warm day, I wanted to go home to Valparaiso but didn’t have enough money to pay the trip back home. So while I was walking through the city I asked some people for help. At one point I heard a guy standing near his SUV saying that he will drive to Valparaiso later that day to do some business. So i just asked him if i could join him. He said yes. While driving I didn’t hear anything. No barking, no wind, no traffic, no people. Only his voice talking to his phone. In school i saw pictures of US-American soldiers giving away Coke bottles and chewing gum to the German Children just as the war ended. I never saw any war, but sitting in his SUV I felt one I never recognized. A few weeks later I was in Petorca again. I had already worked a few hours. It was sunny. Then I recognized the same SUV that took me to Valpo approaching through the rows of trees. It was the same guy getting out his car. Still on the phone. Not recognizing me. Screaming at me… then he stopped… He recognized me. I could hear shame transforming his voice. He turned around got back in his car and drove away. He was the plantation-owners son. Next day I lost my job. I know why. While we locked eyes there was another fear in his than mine. His fears are my reality. His fears are my consequences. I have never been to Petorca again. When in 2019 I walked out this room to fight for my future, I wasn’t fighting for mine. Just like my mom didn’t fight for hers, when she went to work. All of that are intrusions of this past. I don’t know why I don’t feel trapped but probably I am and I don’t have to close my eyes to hear the shots…

…tack, tack… tack, tack… tack, tack…