A little gray cat skitters around the woods surrounding the School of Sculpture Berlin. It has a short tail that twitches as it surveys the thicket behind the kitchen tent. I fill a glass with water and lay it at my feet for the cat, it drinks and I listen to the sound of machinery.
Living on campus on the first floor of Treskowstrasse 25 (or in affectionate shorthand, T25) is an exercise in constant human interaction, in which the concept of privacy does not really exist. The bathroom is usually the only unoccupied space in the apartment, and my flatmates have found me more than once sitting on the
Vala and I shared a cappuccino with her parents, talking about Pavement and Mahler before going to the Scharf-Gerstenberg to discuss her series, “The Atlas of the Stranger.” Vala worked with BCB and the museum on the Ein Buch Ein Uni project, writing the exhibition catalog for the exhibition “Goya: Yo lo vi — Ich
Every Sunday, and every day between 22:00 and 6:00, Berlin is peacefully quiet, or is at least supposed to be, yet sounds remain. Some recklessly, and some with permission. Construction halts, but the birds step in to fill the empty sonic space. Trams hum. Outside my window voices carry on. I wake up many a
I only ever knew Clare Wigfall’s work on paper, so seeing my former creative writing professor read a story, microphone in hand, lit up in the far corner of the lowered stage, I was struck by the realization that creating a story could exist outside of just writing one. “What makes a story?” I thought,
“We walk in the shadows in giants,” I tell my friend Laila, before realizing that this isn’t the phrase. It’s ‘stand on the shoulders of giants,’ isn’t it? I don’t think they noticed. Either way, the accidental adaptation is a fitting one for what we’ve just witnessed—a multi-media spoken word event in which the two
I walked into the Pierre Boulez Saal on a chilly Saturday night, I found my music class among the crowd and exclaimed to them, “Everything around here looks so new!” I’d just walked over from the U2 stop at Hausvogteiplatz and was surprised by the tall, modern buildings, smooth concrete, and shops that seemed to
I have often wondered if places hold traces of the past beyond the past’s material inscription. If the pain or joy of a family who has moved out of a house still resides there in some ineffable way. If tragedy stays somewhere in those walls. If memories float through the hallways. Or maybe, the presence