You have to sit with people, and create a forbidden zone.

When Ida presses herself against me, and I see her child heart climbing into me. We lie there, nestled, on the mattress of her bed supported by pallets, enclosed in the low ceilings of a social housing complex, to breed from there as a nucleus the understanding of the city buzzing around us.

Berlin pumps like a heart. The streets vein into the land. And as the stars turn above us, we germinate as the texture of this collective temporality.

There is nothing to plan, nothing to solve, nothing to heal.

Anyway, it is interesting how close I am to Winckelmann in the sense that art needs a historicity in order to be understood at all. It is embedded in the principles of how people think and live.

Current art tries to expand the realm of the ordinary and to renew it. I, on the other hand, want to stabilize the ordinary and, in a broader sense, constitute it in the first place.

It is striking that what I find most meaningful in my notes is often not what I find most important while writing. Often, the whole evaluation and understanding of the notes is completely different from the time of writing. The subconscious in it – or should I say the being? – speaks, has its own logic and way of thinking. Something going beyond of what I intended.