Nothing feels more real at times, that the awareness of an other time. While in science labs, the possibility of time travel might still be in its working stages, the experience is not entirely impossible in the everyday. All it takes is context. Marinated in history, clouded in the ashes of ideology and financially running on a very strict diet, Berlin is one of those cities, where the probability of such journeys is still relatively high thanks to some of the buildings which shape its sky line. One such vessel in time is the “Versuchsanstalt für Wasserbau” or Berlin Model Basin (VWS).
Its exterior façade, a giant pink pipe penetrating a grey cube, resembles a model of the inside of a flushing system, super sized. Constructed in 1976 as a physical basin to carry out hydrodynamic and navigational engineering tests to improve the design of ship models, the building was shut down in 2004. An architectural innovation in its day, it was admired for its purely Functionalist principles. Function is the priority, form follows. Yet as time passes and function becomes obsolete, the roles begin to reverse, it seems.
Although no longer in official use, the building’s life-support comes from the neighbouring university research projects and a few permanently stationed white-haired boys. Their constant presence makes them blind perhaps to certain particularities of the structure which immediately jump at 2011, monochrome-accustomed eyes. The place is drenched in colour. Pink pipes, yellow cables, green heaters, orange wires, red machines and I was back in 1976, in something simultneously simulating a scientists’ playground and an ambitious sci-fi movie set. Although I initially set out to appreciate the technological work inside, I found it hard to trust machines dressed so colourfully. Would more respect be payed, if it were concrete or stainless steel? I wondered.
And why pink for the exterior? Urban legend has it that the City’s Planning and Development Office, concerned about the effects on the city’s skyline, were against the original pink proposal. It was decided that the construction would be carried out in the official colour of the VWS, blue. The blue turned out to be unstable however, and like disappearing ink, faded over time, reverting back to its original. Whether this was really the case or simply architecture student gossip is debatable. Although it seems unlikely that architect Ludwig Leo, whose philosophy was strictly Functionalism, would commit to such an artistic intervention, our guide did offer a more pragmatic answer to the query: “The pipe is covered with insulation and pink was the cheapest.”, the colour, it seems, not only serves to reflect the technologies of the time, but also the time itself.
If you find the idea of space travel more appealing however, you don’t need to go further than your wrist watch, the design of which is pretty much based on the measuments of the solar system, compressed. A mini pocket universe, avaliable at all times, sounds cooler than an iphone, almost.
So finally, after 7 months of schwarzfarhening*, the system got me too. It happened on a rainy Freitag, I was feeling kinda down and sorry for myself. One of those days when any illegal activity is highly unadvisable, remember, negative energy is highly contageous. But of course, live life to the fullest right? I didn't buy a ticket. And it happened on my favourite route as well! Just as the doors were about to shut at Warschauer Strasse and I was about to enjoy one of the best panoramic views of Berlin from the Watergate bridge (Oberbaumbrücke), two dodgy looking men walked in. Something in me skipped. I knew danger was in the air. And they pulled out their passes, like guns, and announced a bit louder than was needed, with complete unnecessary bravado, the search was on. Uh oh. Of course in my panicky state, my attempt at fumbling through my bag " searching" for my non-existent ticket was completely useless. And I cannot lie to save my life, so there was pretty much nothing else I could do but admit my crime, and try and swallow the embarrassment of being escorted off the train by these two weird looking men. They made the perfect couple by the way, shorty and fatso - a timeless classic. Ok, one final attempt to escape the inevitable - try to play the tourist. So I showed them my Cypriot passport and pretended like I was here on holiday. Yeah, sure, they probably heard that one a few times before, but my act was completely pathetic. Maybe if I was a better actor/liar, I'd have a chance. Monsieur Gaullier was definitely right, no use being an actor if you can't lie - if you don't really believe in what you play, who the hell will!?
So finally the myth of der Controllerman became a reality. 40 euros and all, I do consider myself quite lucky - this was the 2nd time I saw a real life controller, despite all the horror stories friends have been telling me about having been checked like 5 times a week. And the 1st wasn't even in the metro, but the tram, where escape is much easier. Of course, I am at an advantage, as my bike is my usual method of transport, so the probability of seeing one considerably decreases, but still, 7 months is quite an achievement.
What really did it for me though was the trip to the Penalty Office. They actually highlighted the walk of shame with big fat footsteps, bright yellow, with the big black BVG letters beaming like grinning faces, perfectly visible in all sorts of weather conditions. It's incredible, everywhere else the Germans are experts in the art of being subtle. Bright colours, standing out, making bold statements - big NO NOs, but when it comes to obiding the rules, they happily highlight them in the brightest of colours. As with all things Made in Germany, they hit the spot in the functions department this time too. The yellow footsteps definitely don't make you feel like the clever one.
Composition with yellow building in the background.
*Schwarzfarhen = literal translation "back going". Schwarzfahrer = Abusive term for those who travel without a valid ticket. Of course this word exists in the German language.
Further Seeing:
Schwarzfahrer. Oscaring winning short film by Pepe Danquant. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XFQXcv1k9OM
It’s always good at Panorama Bar/Berghain on Sundays, but this Sunday was something else. You know those stories you hear of hardcore religious fanatics experiencing spiritual awakening in Church? Well I think now I know what they are talking about. Only for me it was with music.
It all started with the words: “I am not going to Panorama Bar this weekend.” I actually made a point of this all week, and announced these plans out loud, to anyone who would listen. Was I trying too hard to conceal the inevitable....?! Perhaps. My reason? I wanted to miss it a bit. The last few weeks have been a bit of a Panorama overdose and it was beginning to loose its special factor a little… So, I thought, logically of course, it would make sense to make a little break. I was doing quite well with all the rational reasoning in my head, until Sunday dawned and the little thrill-seeking voices started their usual mischievous whimpers about not wanting to go home. It didn’t take my fellow party friends long to convince me. Ah, peer pressure. I am amazed at how little will power I have sometimes. Weakling. So, with whatever was left of the voice of reason in my head, I thought, I can just pop in, a few hours won’t hurt, besides, what else am I going to do on a grey Sunday afternoon….?! Yeah, right. Any reasoning you try and make before you go in, well you might as well forget it, or better, leave it at the cloakroom.
Definitely advisable to leave ALL belongings in the cloakroom by the way. This I learned the painful way, after running around in a “close-to-a-mini-heart-attack-state” for about half an hour trying to locate my bag amidst tripping bodies, flashing blue lasers, a sea of broken glass bottles and a couple having sex. (Yes, I know, maybe it was a bit rude to disturb, but they were having sex in the booth exactly behind the spot where I left my bag for “safety keeping” so in my moment of desperation I had no choice but to search the contents of their dark little hole. I think they were too caught up in the act to notice though.) In hindsight, perhaps this temporary state of emergency added to the outburst of euphoria, which followed later, you know the “cannot-appreciate-pleasure-without- pain-theory” -- definitely true.
Anyway, let me get to this awakening. It was one of those special day-night-morning-evening (fuck who cares what time it was, the concept of time completely ceased to exist at this point) moments when the music held complete control. Like a massive maternal octopus, she spread out its tentacles and caught hold of me whole, and wouldn’t let go, no matter how paralyzed my body was. I’ve seen this octopus before, a few months ago at Bar 25 with Axel Bartsch, and then another time at Berghain with Ben Clock. Thank you guys for fuelling my visual imagination with such vivid visions of great sea creatures. Perhaps, it’s because I feel so good, therefore so light, therefore like I’m floating, when the music is so good, that I start to think sea things. Tooon, tooon, TOOOON, TOOOON.
The octopus then turned into a wave -- a massive cotton one, gradually drowning all the bodies in its sound, paralysing, hypnotising, catching them so strong, that they could do nothing but obey. And dance. But it wasn’t conscious dancing at all, the energy was coming from else where, and loads of it, fuelling limbs to move up, down, up down. Endless pulsation, hours passed, but I just couldn’t get enough.
And lets not forget the smiles. People tell me I’m a smiley person. I like to smile, but I considered myself an average smiler, until I came to Deutschland. Its not a very common habit here. People seldom smile, even if you’ve seen them out nearly every weekend for the past 5 months in all sorts of places and all sorts states, still you might only get half a smile, if your lucky. But this Sunday everyone was smiling. We were all connected under the same techno blanket, all present at the same sleepover where our sleep deprived bodies were giving it their all on the dance floor. Mutual pleasure. Seeing the pleasure on other peoples faces and being able to feel at that exact point exactly what they are feeling. Togetherness. This feeling is better than any high really.
And when I thought it cannot possibly get any better, it did. Every tune that followed, penetrated more, deeper, twisting and turning my insides inside out. And then, after all the peaks, came the mother of them all – they played the tune which has been stuck in my head/macbook/ipod on repeat for the last week -- “Blind” by Hercules and The Love Affair. A tune which I prayed for Villalobos to play last Sunday, of course knowing in my right part of the brain that there would be no way he would play this quite dated and extremely poppy track, but in a hopelessly romantic way, still trying to send the brain waves across the crowd. And now, a week later, it is as if my prayers have finally been heard. I could not believe it. They actually read my mind. Finally I knew, God exists.
DJs responsible for the spiritual heights of the night: Dixon (Inversions) and Ame (Inversions). Watch their space.
Never underestimate the importance ofthe curator. Lets repeat that. Never, EVER, underestimate the importance of the curator, especially when it comes to contemporary art or in this case that which calls itself ‘recycled’. This years Preview wonderfully illustrated that a lack of one reveals trash art for what it really is...crap. Used tea bags suspended from flourescent orange tubes with nails and...cabbage tits...wtf?!! I was embarrassed. Not only did most work look like it was pretty much assembled the night before, after scavengering the bins of Berlin...but there just didn’t seem to be any point in it, at all. And that is pretty bad.Shouldn’t there be some sort of government censorship office, particularly here,on socialist German grounds, to filter this crap out, and protect the public...?!(Especially when they have the nerve to charge a tenner for it...Further investigation into the subject is definitely needed.)
Funny to say now but on the way there, on my bicycle, I was pretty excited. New emerging artists, sculpture, installations, abandoned airport -- in my head I had all sorts of incedible visions -- vivid fantasies of crazy constructions bouncing off the abandoned concrete walls, massive spaces full of experimentations, concepts, minimal, monochrome, industrial and all those other |this is so Berlin| assosiations. But no, nothing of the sort. Instead I was greeted by a very modest (& very colourful) collection of rather suspicious looking assemblages, which looked like they had been thrown together there and then and arranged like attractions at a village fair, with all the blinking lights included. Never had I seen such pointless art installed SO badly ( masking tape was a dominant feature).Even my dog could’ve done better. Now what is the point of holding it at Tempelhof Airport if you’re not going to take advantage of its architecture? They might as well have held it at the local school gymnasium. It would’ve been cheaper AND the heavy smell of airport food could’ve been avoided too.
Although no spititual awakenenings/revelations/exits from reality were reached, some valuable lessons were learned. First– appearance is all. (The 10 second first impression rule could not have been more true). Now I fully understand the importance of the curator.It is not even so much the work, but the presentation which lures you in. Professionalism, organisation of space, negative space, attention to the smallest details, symmetry, harmony, knowledge and proper use of technical equipment ( hello?! Lighting anyone?!) -- these are the vital foods for a healthy exhibition diet. Without them, the work might as well be dead. Second. I realised just how damn hard it is to make garbage art look good. Now I can really appreciate all those scrapyard-like installations that somehow manage to transcend their status and move you. Third (and this was a bit of an epiphany from a photographic perspective) I realised the difficulty of making something look bad on camera. Maybe its because I never really take photos with the intention of making my subject matter look bad, usually its the opposite, but this time I wanted to document the tragedy on sight. But, you know what? It was pretty damn hard. Every photo I took somehow managed to make the work look better than it actually was, even with a flash. I found this pretty annoying, but eventually did manage to get a few revealing ones. (Photos coming soon)
But all in all, I would actually like to thank the Preview organisers for this learning experience. If it wasn’t for such shit around, we wouldn’t be able to appreciate the good stuff. I wonder what all the other polka dot wearing bohemian types thought as they stood pensively over the cabagge titted totem doll. Why..??
"Why this roe deer is so fat and the elephant so thin?"...erm it looks like a kangaroo to me and what elephant?!
A keen interest in Zoology was a prominent feature.
Organic Minimalism.
The tranny Totem Dolls; a cry against coloniality and experiments in cross dressing using, erm fruit & veg. One of my favourites.
Used tea bag suspended from nails stuck into fluorescent orange tube. Could be some sort of modern day Voodoo. Detail.
A modern day family union, in the clutches of capitalism and globalisation, carved in wood..?
Chav Mum. Detail.
All things come to an end. Especially if constructed out of cardboard and masking tape.
Cardboard horse. Why they needed to tape the back of the single piece of cardboard is open to suggestion...
Masking tape. Detail.
Communist fantasies of equality with extraterrestrials. We are all bound by some sort of cords. Here they appear to be coming out of the mouth, rather uncomfortably.
Polka Dot woman next 'Moving House' installation..?
Ever since moving to Techno capital I’ve had a problem with going home. It seems that here the club always wins. I was quite happy in the UK, the set would finish, the club would close and, of course there were the initial moans of not wanting to leave, but those quickly passed as I knew it was the end. In Berlin it’s a different story.
The clubs here adhere to a different set of rules. There is no specific closing time. The club closes when the last person leaves. It’s potentially infinite. So you have to be quite disciplined and remember to leave at some point. Now this could be quite dangerous for those with a hedonistic streak, those who cannot discipline themselves. But the reasons cannot just be tied down to wanting to stay out. There must be a deeper understanding of this phenomena and its effects on the brain. So what it is about the nature of the clubbing scene here that is so infecting? Lets talk about techno.
I decided to look into this matter after fruitless attempts at googling such phrases as “the influence of techno music on the brain”, “repetition in techno and the brain” etc etc which left me frustrated. Most of the writing tells the same old story; it’s the drugs, drink and smoke, blah blah blah. This doesn’t paint a very good a picture of the clubbing scene. And for gods sake, can we please abandon this “clubs are all about drugs” stereotype. Thousands of people attend clubs, travel continents to go to festivals, dance for hours – the appeal must be more than just substance abuse. Techno is actually a very delicate and intelligent form of music. Do you know anyone who can listen to salsa music for 15 hours and not get bored?* This is what fascinates me about techno. The potential depths its infinite nature offers (Black hole anyone?)
So I’ve been in Berlin for a few months now, and as I said before, I am still struggling with the going home issue. But at Melt festival I had a bit of a revelation (and it did come when the sun was rising, a very appropriate pathetic phallacy my Literature teacher would say. Ok its a bit cheesy but revelations are always beautiful, especially when the sun comes out.). I realised I never want to go home because the music doesn’t let me. Techno is based on repetition. Its constant beat grabs hold and doesn’t let you go. While most music is linear, say a rock song with lyrics or a symphony, ie it has a start, middle and an end, techno tracks are built on another measuring scale. They are building blocks in a potentially never ending set which oscillates, grows, diminishes, breathes, but in theory can go on forever, and ever and ever. That is because repetition is endless. It is a different dimension. Under the influence of techno time ceases to exist, you enter a different reality where there is no start or finish. What dimension it is, I don’t know, but it definitely has a very strong hypnotic power on the brain. Not everyone likes the constant banging of course.
According to my mum, it is highly dangerous for your mental health. “If I listen to it for longer than 10 minutes I’ll go mad.” Hey Mum, did you never think it was you who first infected me with the techno beat? Being in your womb for 9 months and listening to the constant beat of your heart, must have left some sort of techno imprint in my brain.! So those who enjoy it, probably find they have similar problems. It is like a love-hate relationship, which is easy to develop, based on the never satisfying pleasure which techno provides, as you crave more and more and more…
But as with all forms of intelligent music, techno has a very strong healing factor I believe. For me it is my meditation, my exit from reality and thoughts and worries of every day (it is also my gym. Dancing for 10 hours once or twice a week beats any gym goer, I’m sure. Tests should be carried out accordingly. Those interested please get in touch). In the presence of techno, the mind becomes free as the repetitive beat switches something in the brain and puts you into a state of trance. A direct relationship between the beats and the body follows. I love dancing to techno because I do not dance consciously, my body sort of moves by itself, it feels the beat and it feels as it there is no bypass between the music (which enters the ears) and the brain. It’s a direct route from ear to muscle. Nietzche did say that music is the most direct form of art, precisely for this reason. That the brain doesn’t get involved. There is no thoughts, just feelings. Try it, it can be revelationary experience (particularly if you are on 2 hours sleep and have been dancing for about 10 hours and the sun comes out) but don’t forget to go home.
*I do not intend to offend salsa music, or any kind of music in any way. I simply use it as a comparison, between linear and non-linear types of sound. You have to admit, 15 hours of salsa would be a b it of an overdose...
The Germans never cross the road when the man is red. A small detail, which you wouldn't normally pay attention too, until you are stuck in the situation. It goes something like this... I stand at the crossing. There are no cars around for miles in site. I stare at the red man. I look around and everyone is waiting patiently. I try to out stare him, kind of hoping that if I focus all my energy he will turn green quicker. But nein. After a few seconds of stressing myself out in this manner, I give into temptation and cross. But the feeling isn't too good, I feel like I've broken some serious laws.
It's funny to observe how some people, the daring few, follow, once you've taken initial action. That can say a lot about people. Do they quitely grin to themselves afterwards, having done something naughty? I wonder. These guys are so subtle that you have to look extra hard to find that smile. But these trivial details can actually reveal a lot about culture.
In London, traffic light crossing is a completely different story. People just don't have the time to wait, even if they wanted to. Sprinting from A to B with Tesco's sandwich in one hand, Blackberry in the other, Londoners don't even have the time to sit down to eat their lunch. Or if they do, their companion is their beloved laptop. Sad.
In Russia things are even more extreme. Its war. The drivers find it fun hitting the gas pedal instead of the breaks when approaching pedestrian crossings, while the street-crossers get their kicks from jumping on the road the second the light turns red. If you ever visit, I suggest you use the underground crossings, especially in winter, when the roads are pretty much like ice rings.
The Germans on the other hand, stand and wait patiently. It seems like they have all the time in the world. And they don't question the law. Its kind of relaxing, handing over control. Red stop, green go, and you don't have to think much for yourself. Its all been drawn out for you. But nein. I just cannot do it. And it's not even because the opportunistic Londoner inside me cannot resist the temptation to disobey, but more the frustration that I am wasting my time waiting around. I got places to go, people to see, things to do, rush rush rush rush. And here I got this red dude, who is, I am sure, programmed to last much longer than normal, or that's what it feels like anyway, prohibiting me from crossing a completely empty street..! It's all a conspiracy.
But then I stop and think. Isn't that one of the major reasons I moved to this city? To get away from the chaos that is London? Precisely. Berlin is chill town, with an amazing beat. It's really not what I expected of a German town before I came here though.* When I thought Germany, I thought strict rules and regulations. But nein. People here can pretty much do whatever the hell they like. The did try to implement the smoking ban, but you can pretty much smoke everywhere still, eat your own food at bars and restaurants, drink your own beer. Clubs just don't close and you can get away riding the metro for free most of the time. At first it seems like no body cares. But after a close study of the behaviour at the traffic lights , I think I am starting to tune into Germanness.
They don't need the laws, the law comes from within. Its like they were born with a sense of correctness, so no need for external oppression, Big Brother style. People will buy the metro tickets anyway.
A slightly different case in London though. A no there is a no, and they will turn it into a big ban. No this, no that, and extortionate prices for half a cucumber wrapped in cling film. No wonder people disobey. It's quite ironic really, but its true; deny the people something and they want it more. They don't just drink, they get wasted.
No so many cocaine addict neurotics here thank god. And sure, maybe here people won't get as many things done, seal as many business deals (if you calculate the amount of seconds lost each day waiting for the man to turn green) but at least they are not stressing. And probably end up living longer as a result. It might take me a while to adjust, lawlessness and opportunism is just too tempting, but then so is relaxing. Maybe its a healthy alternative for the body and mind to wait for Mr. Green after all.
*Berlin is unlike any other German town however, so will have to travel around and get back to you on the traffic light situation there.
