Goes around comes around

Back on Rudi-Dutschke-Strasse in 'Sale E Tabacchi', stood a black monolith with the number 28. Sale E Tabacchi is a beautiful restaurant and cafe recommended by T. After a while a woman came out of one of the doors of the monolith and had a conversation with the four people at the table beside me. I could see that there were two seats inside facing each other with a table in between. I could also see a pair of headphone draped over the back of one of the seats.

It turned out to be a Christian Boltanski project. He is collecting heartbeats. The black box was designed by "some architect" and the heart beat recordings were being taken by a lovely young German woman who kept getting mixed up between English and French. I was surprised by how valve like my heart sounded. I asked her about the number 28. She told me she felt too embarrassed to press the button to change the number displayed, a device to call the next participant, as it made a loud ringing sound that would resonate around the restaurant.

I could hear the conversation between the well dressed middle aged German man and his younger American male friend at the table beside mine. They were speculating about the black box. I interjected as I was getting up to leave, telling them it was a Christian Boltanski project.
"He's an arsehole."
"He is a very nice guy."
"Is he?"
"Yes. His art is shit but he's a really nice guy."
"All art is shit. There is only one artist over the past century who was any good my dear."
"Who's that?"
"Picasso."
"And Duchamp? And Beuys?"
"Beuys was a fucking lunatic."
"I agree about Duchamp. And of course Kurt Schwitters."
"He is shit. I have three Schwitters."
"Sell them."
"No, I wouldn't sell them if I were you."
"Do you want some sex?"
"No, I get enough thanks. Bye."
"Bye."

What the fuck are you laughing at?

Missing

There are always a couple of no shows when you hold auditions so it wasn't a surprise to me when one of this mornings didn't make it. Communication with him had been patchy. Had I told him to call me when he got here as I have no bell? In one email he changed his audition time, which isn't how it works, so I emailed him back with another time that didn't clash with anyone elses. He didn't reply. An hour and half after I the time I suggested to him, I got a text:
"Fucking shit! You sent me over here and I had to find your room and then you are not here."
A couple of emails and text were then exchanged. S suggested that I shouldn't have been so reactionary.
"I take great offense to being addressed in this way"
"I think its even a no budget art project, otherwise you would handle with the actors more professionell and wouldnt be such a mimose."

Mimose is German for Mimosa, a genus of tropical and very delicate shrubs, herbs and trees. Mimosa Hostilis is a plant that contains large levels of the powerful hallucinogen Dimethyltryptamine in its roots. Dimethyltryptamine is naturally produced in small amounts in the brains and other tissues of humans, and other mammals. Several speculative hypotheses suggest that it plays a role in promoting the visual effects of dreaming and near-death experiences. In medical tests, patients whose bodies produce an excess of Dimethyltryptamine or have ingested Dimethyltryptamine, have reported contact with 'other beings'. These are alien like, insectoid or reptilian in nature often set in highly advanced technological environments. Subjects reported being 'carried', 'probed', 'tested', 'manipulated', 'dismembered', 'taught', 'loved' and even 'raped' by these 'beings'.

Similar to a Bucks Fizz, a 'Mimosa' is a cocktail drink made from one part champagne and two parts chilled orange juice.

Fun and games

J and P told me about a shop completely dedicated to table tennis, somewhere in Prenzlauer Berg. This would be good to find, so I could take advantage of the public table tennis tables that are in the many mini parks and squares around here. I wonder when these were installed? On reflection, trying to play table tennis on your own is nuts, so forget it.

Last night, while waiting for a train, a middle aged middle class German couple chatted with me and a couple of twenty something English boys who had just arrived in Berlin on holiday.
"Have you called for the train yet?", the German man teased the boys.
After waiting for a long time in the cold we got on a train. As a group we spread ourselves across a number of seats as out of four sets of two double seats, we took up three. The fourth was occupied by a young man and his little white dog which had a thing about licking people's earlobes, especially ladies earlobes.
Turned out, the middle aged couple live near me.
"Go to the Wall Museum on Bernauer Strasse", they suggested to the boys.
The young man with the little white dog turned around and smiled.
"I live in Wedding", he said.
Reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket, he deftly flicked out, his switchblade. This was the kind of gesture that I suspect to those in the know, would prove that he does indeed live in Wedding. The blood drained from one of the English boy's faces. The dog man folded the blade back down and put it back in his pocket.
"What's Wedding like?" I asked.
"Not good. I have two children." He shrugged.
"I'd say it's cheap to live there at least".
"Yes, and my house in my castle".
The train stopped at the next station. He got out. So did the German couple. The train sat in the station for a couple of minutes. Then it reversed it's direction, taking me and the English boys back to where we came from.

Carpet art

D came over and suggested a Stasi Museum excursion.
"Why not".

Well for one, it's difficult to find if you do not know what you are looking for. It's situated in 'Haus 1' within a complex of unremarkable high rises in Lichtenberg; a complete Stasi Village, which apparently once had a total staff of 25,000. One of the buildings, which is currently concealed by scaffold covered in heavy duty plastic sheeting, looks like it has bronze mirrored windows similar to those in the former Palast der Republik. If this hadn't been under wraps we would have identified the block immediately as former GDR and therefore close to, if not the, destination. There are no street signs for the Stasi Museum.

I went into Morgen Rot, a vegetarian bar near the studio. I was searching for 'the longest latte' that J had told me were the pinnacle of artist residencies. Instead I found a rooibos. They were playing Grace Jones' new album and it was the first time I heard it right through. I thought about the guy who runs the rehearsal studios across the road from my place in London and how chuffed he was telling me he was now playing bass in her band. This two degrees of separation prompted me to read a Sunday newspaper interview with her. She said how disgusted she was with the current permission seeking culture in New York, compared to it's hedonistic heyday in the late 70's and 80's.

"But in saying that, you should just do what you want to do".
At a lecture last night at e-flux, which is the site of the former united nations plaza the speaker discussed possibilities for the 'agency of contemporary art' using three ideas, 'pandemonium', 'amusement' and 'secrecy'. There was no conclusion. I imagined Z spitting out a retort about the ineffectual maxims of liberalism and thought I must finish that book of his that I bought before coming here.

Please

Thanks

Well done America.

And a huge thanks to C, who saved the angst, repetitive strain and tears caused by a funding application from being utterly futile.

I found the franks doing a search on Obama at bellepoq.wordpress.com/tag/obama/

Whether you ask or not

A woman who is in the process of doing a Phd proposal about Berlin as a centre for cultural production suggested to me in an email that I was "integrated into the Berlin art scene." She has never met me and has no idea what I've been invited to.

A man called Marco in Charlottenberg fixed my radio mic's for free. This makes up for last weeks tripod trauma. It's also a relief as rental in not cheap but it is surprisingly easy in comparison to renting video kit in London.

Last Friday night, with an abundance of artists in town, we did the classic, troupe marches for over an hour across town for the right restaurant. K started feeling responsible and he took a call from another K who told him that he'd previously presided over the same scenario in Oslo. We eventually stopped and ate pizza at a place on Auguststrasse which was like being dropped into an Irish wedding - although you wouldn't normally eat pizza at an Irish wedding. As the place filled up it reminded me of music nights at The Macbeth when R and J ran the Hoxton Distillery above it.

Now all the Art Fairs have packed up and the cold is moving in. I bought a bike for €80 called Hercules off a Canadian woman who is moving back home.