LOVE TO REMIND, WS 20/21
'This city', you almost don't want to give it that title, it is so much more and also less than that. Perhaps it is more like a ruin. The ruin of a once so splendid time. Of an age that must have been so full of splendor and perfection, so different, so vast, that it defies our imagination.
No, it can't be put into words, it evades our minds so definitively, and yet she, she
holds up this mirror of the past to us with a sneer. With its houses that seem almost organic, like gigantic plants that grew too high, in the relentless struggle for the last rays of the sun, before they lost all their life and are now only dusty gray skeletons. This way the wind whistles so ghostly through their labyrinths of abandoned corridors and staircases. Their windows are dark caves. They grow up in front of you until they butt up against each other and fall down at your feet into immense depths.
These knotted houses, so knotted are they that perhaps I am mistaken and, in order to stay as close to the truth as I can, would have to speak of them in the singular. Yes perhaps it is this that denies this ruin the title 'city. It seems to be only a house. Overgrown over the centuries.
Whoever lives here, and this cursed place still harbors ancient life is a last descendant of this venerable time. The Anthropocene has passed, man with his former supremacy belongs to this ancient past as well as the creatures from which he emerged. Driven out by a bigger, darker power that comes from there, well who knows actually from where. This new age assigns to man and his kind only an insignificant role, at the edge of an event, which they themselves will never be able to see through, before they dissolve in absolute insignificance. They have become unimportant for an earth, a planet that is so different from the one they briefly ruled. So now they eke out their existence as ancient extras. The stubbornness and the obstinacy has remained to them. If I judge them as indifferently as possible, as if I were not myself one of these ancient relics, then I cannot understand how these creatures can possess so much beauty and knowledge, nor how they can carry so much destruction within them.
An endangered species. Hardly any of them seem to know, many do not pay attention to the stories. They do not believe in the old tales of the former glory and splendor of mankind, and if I did not have evidence that, I believe, revealed to me the perfect truth, I would consider it equally improbable. But these proofs seem to me so clear and final that I have no other choice but to believe them completely. The old books, filled with characters, which reveal themselves to me only in isolated fragments, are so purposeful and exact in their representations. What a final horror comes over me when I suspect what else could have written them, if not representatives of our kind.
I think I catch a glimpse through the curtain of time. We have remained in this ruin among all the dark houses whose origins we can only guess. We still live a little.
Love to remind you: To think about our future
Future. If you want to talk about the future, you also have to position yourself in relation to the past and the present in order to be understood. That is what I would like to do at this point. If we think of the dimension of time in a straight line, the starting point is the beginning of the past and the ending point is the end of the future. The past is the identity of life and the future is the end of life. The present is the line itself, in other words, perception is in the present. So when I speak of future I actually mean a fictitious present from which one looks into the past.
Having said this, it can now be understood that it is precisely this subjective look back that forms the basis of my term paper. And every idea of the future is subjective. It is about telling stories. Stories about ourselves, because no matter what the future is, we are always in its past. But if you don't let the people talk, then the objects that surround us talk. Objects have
have always had a narrative power over people. This is playfully exploited here.
At the beginning of this term paper, an idea of the future emerged. It is merely a thought-provoking impulse, whether concretely told or inconcretely imagined. It is likewise a part of my way of telling. This is inevitably also reflected in the objects, in their form, their appearance.