and there was rest. nothing really happened, so it seemed. the mind was left to travel happily to locations displayed in kind words and tiny saturated pictures. I liked the view from a speeding street car, droplets on a window, behind the slow looking glass more water, a river, I forgot the name. Another picture, a glimpse of an academy. The academy, we shall say, the one where Beuys and Richter and the Bechers and who else... Lupertz (is he still there, acutally?), Penck, Immendorf, Oehlen, Trockel, Ruff, and who else... oh does it really matter now?... seriously...
we traveled further... a kitchen, all tools arranged according to some very successful formula... apples, oranges, other exotic fruit and all of it noted with the help of Ludwig Sütterlin... the one who's beautiful looking writing was prohibited in 1941...
And we bite off time in little sweet chunks, they are delicious. And we are not quite sure why nothing really never happens, even when there is rest... and nothing really pretends to happen all the time.
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update... Hmm...