Shadow Puppets

Last night the bulb stopped working on my studio-mate's projector. So instead of watching his film we had to amuse ourselves.

Bacchus Goes to Berghain

“So you understand then?” my hairdresser asked, her voice sing-song Swedish. “When I say that the place is magic most people have no idea what I am talking about.”

I smiled. “Of course.”

I was sitting in the wide hallway of her apartment in a salon chair, looking at myself in an old vanity she’d converted into her office. Bottles of Bumble and Bumble crowded the narrow shelves. A girl came out of the bathroom in a towel and waved to me enthusiastically before ducking into another room. Jens Lekman’s Shirin came to mind.

“It’s actually one of the reasons I moved here,” she said.

“Berghain?”

“Yeah.” She considered this for a second while her hands worked quickly to fold strands of my hair into sheets of foil. “Actually, I think that, at the time, it was the only reason I moved here. There is nothing like it in Sweden.” She was a DJ and recently started producing her own tracks. Techno was playing from her laptop in the kitchen. It was clearly the rhythm of her life-pulse and it made sense that she’d pitch camp next to the main artery.

“I like how deadly serious everyone is about having fun,” I said. But it was more than fun. Fun was the amateur stuff. This was more essential than that -- professional hedonism, trance states, ecstasy.

“Absolutely! You have to clear your schedule. You can’t try to squeeze it in because it might take six hours to really start to feel it. And you have to be open to that.”

She led me to the bathroom where I knelt on cold white tile and leaned over her bathtub – letting my hair down in a curtain. She set out the shampoo and conditioner and then left me and the handheld showerhead to work it out. When I emerged, she handed me a lemon ice pop.

* * *

It’s no wonder that the fringe kids of our generation flock to Berghain (and the upstairs Panorama Bar) to lose themselves somewhere in the dark between the neon spots, the hollows between body-rattling bass beats and those shadows that slip between the whites of cigarette smoke and fog. It’s natural to crave a release for the body and the mind. We’ve found it in so many ways throughout history -- religion being a major player. Think pagan rituals, Baptist revivals, glossolalia, tribal dancing, all-consuming prayer as a choir fills a domed cathedral with an achingly sweet melody, yogic meditation. And, of course, today’s fanatic zeal for techno resembles nothing so much as the cult of Dionysus, which was based on indulgence, intoxication, and frenzied dancing until you become possessed by the god of the party himself.

Hipsters don’t have a lot of religion. Sure they wear a lot of long, dangly crosses from their necks and ears and have them -- scars of an oppressive Catholic youth incarnate – tattooed on their forearms. But it’s not where they are looking for enlightenment. They live in an era that is increasingly driven by logic and rational thinking, especially here in Germany, and the ones on the real outskirts of things are not usually embraced by church groups anyway. These kids also have more than their share of societal stress and identity issues to puzzle through and sometimes they just need a break. Berghain is a place that gives those nagging cyclical and obsessively calculating mental processes a rest – literally they are blown away by the sound system -- and allows the mind to bliss out. The body part works in much the same way – you’ve been up for thirty hours, you’re on God-knows-what and you’re dancing so hard that you can’t think about those extra pounds you may or may not have gained this week because your boss said that thing and why did they have to open that vegan cupcake shop on the corner. There are no mirrors allowed. Once you’re in, you’re in and you can do whatever, wherever you want.

Berghain is a reincarnation of a gay fetish club that was popular in the 90s. There are still nooks and cubbies and corners and oversized shelves tucked into all the dark corners. It’s just that sometimes when you peer into them now, you see a man and a women having sex. But only sometimes. Bacchus was often depicted as a young man with girlish features. I think it was pretty well understood that he swung both and every which way.

Caravaggio's Bacchus, 1595

The old power plant building rises out of the industrial cityscape like the House of Usher, foreboding and electric. (In this case, the lightening is on the inside and one watches it streak across the windows.) The line of miscreants trails from its door like entrails. Often slick with rain on black leather. The guys at the door have the impossible job of sorting out who’s come to play from the spectators – with only tattoo patterns and the geometry of ripped jeans to read like tarot cards. The line snakes slowly forward from Friday to the wee hours of Monday’s morning but never seems to shorten. Once inside, some stay for days. The blinds are ceremoniously lowered each sunrise to a cheer that lifts the heads of the revelers – for a moment reminding them of a world outside the concrete walls. But the knowledge is quickly cast off as they catch the next sonic wave into the fray.

Because it is important for people to have things that they take seriously and Berghain-goers often blow off the things that most people take seriously, club-prep is a sacred affair. They catch up on sleep and feed themselves and slick back their hair. They do it knowing that they will be spit out of the place looking like drowned rats. It’s much like an animal might be cleaned and decorated for presentation before being slain at some holy alter. They preen so that they might be properly destroyed. I learned yesterday that the club’s nickname is The Church. My studio-mate wanted to go to a bar with his friend but was turned down. “Nah man,” his friend said. “I can’t go out tonight. I’ve got Church tomorrow.”

(There are no photographs to accompany this post because the bouncers confiscate all photo-making equipment at the door. However, when my friend was caught with drugs in his pocket, he was gently chided (tisk, tisk!), handed them back and ushered inside.)

Business or Pleasure

“What are you doing here?” they say. Often.

“I don’t know!” I say brightly when I don’t feel like going into it. They laugh. I laugh. The subject is abruptly changed.

When I’m feeling particularly chatty, I will respond that I’m taking a German class and working on a project about German mythology. “I’m an artist,” I say. Their baffled looks are warranted. Certainly it’s not as clear-cut as, “I’m an orthopedic surgeon.” Especially coming from someone who doesn’t have a gallery, isn’t working at one and isn’t in school. I am not here on a grant and I don’t have a solid grasp of the German language. So what the bloody hell am I doing here?

It sounds somewhat fanciful, but the best answer I have is that I’m here because I want to find out what it means to be an artist. It’s possible that I could have gone anywhere as long as I had some degree of anonymity, distance from the art-dialogue I was used to and a new cultural and physical landscape to explore. Specific things drew me to Germany (my heritage, its painting history, certain stories, etc.), but the important thing is that being in a new place has allowed me to take my blinders off. When you are too comfortable in a culture and location, it is easy to become oblivious to the absurdities and wonders of it. It becomes difficult to keep a critical and analytical perspective.

Stepping back and into the role of an outsider forces you to constantly question and learn just to get by. It also allows you to carry some of that curious energy back with you and see your home base with fresh eyes. At least for a little while.

As opposed to being in school, where I’ve been stationed for all but one of my post-kindergarten years, there is no model to follow on how to structure my time making art or what to focus on. Even sitting in this café writing a blog post feels somewhat arbitrary. (Don’t get me wrong – I love it. My writing muscles were stiff after two years of visual art school and writing feels like when I went to yoga for the first time last week and the Germans kicked my ass and then covered me in a blanket and gave me a scented-oil neck massage.) I have to battle the I’m Wasting Money, I Should be Working Constantly, Art is Self Indulgent and Art is Useless demons and I’d rather do it in a place where other people’s ways of thinking don’t sway me, especially those whose opinions I respect and who value stability above the rest. I am trying to make my decisions based on constant growth. Lovely in theory. Anxiety-ridden in practice.

So – best-case scenario – I use this time to build my own model of artist-ness, from what I can gather via intuition, serendipity, trial and error. Hopefully, as I find the spaces, times and voices that fit, it will start to feel more and more purposeful to wake up and move some colored oil around.

I am savoring this period between grad school and when very soon much of my time will be dedicated to financially supporting my art-habit. It is comforting to know that I am not alone in using this city as Purgatory. It’s is a hot-spot for people trying to navigate their vices and desires and work their way toward some personal “True North.” I guess it’s fitting that my expat painter friend from Brooklyn has taken to calling me Dante. He claims the role of Virgil in this whole ordeal. I’m not sure I agree with the casting, but that’s another story.

A new roommate moved in yesterday. A student from the outskirts of Paris who is here doing an internship with the French-German theater. We introduced ourselves. “Are you working or in school?” she asked me.

I hesitated.

Another roommate overheard. He threw his head back and laughed. “That’s a tough one,” he said.

Liebes-Lied

Kaori Ito dancing and Marcus Hagemann on cello. I saw the piece at MICA MOCA (www.micamoca.de) in Wedding this afternoon. It's title, 'Wie soll ich meine Seele halten, dass sie nicht an deine rührt?' is the first line in Rainer Maria Rilke's 'Love Song.'

Love Song

How shall I hold on to my soul, so that
it does not touch yours? How shall I lift
it gently up over you on to other things?
I would so very much like to tuck it away
among long lost objects in the dark,
in some quiet, unknown place, somewhere
which remains motionless when your depths resound.
And yet everything which touches us, you and me,
takes us together like a single bow,
drawing out from two strings but one voice.
On which instrument are we strung?
And which violinist holds us in his hand?
O sweetest of songs.

My Kingdom for a Corner of Yours

As I walked, the street became increasingly desolate. A prison-style kindergarten appeared and then fell back to my left. A weedy cemetery scrambled along beside me to my right. The art space, however, did not materialize and it seemed ever more unlikely that it would. Phone numbers here are tricky -- sometimes requiring two extra 0s in the beginning and a 49. Sometimes demanding a 30 and other times rejecting the 1 or 0 that hangs out near the front of the line. I dialed another combination and this time he answered.

“Hey,” I said. “I’m trying to find you guys. It’s not where Google Maps said it would be.”

“Yeah. Google doesn’t know where we are,” he said with a Portuguese accent. “You have to walk towards the tower. We’re right under there.”

“Excellent,” I said. I had passed the water tower a little ways back. An old brick construction complete with merlons and arrow loops despite its domestic purpose. A fitting cairn to signal my studio search was headed in the right direction.

I walked through the iron gate, past a picnic table, hammock and a small orchard of apple trees. I shook my head as I saw the address, a magic-markered 50, tacked crookedly to the wall.

Inside, the space smelled of grilled onions and herbs. Desks, art supplies and bohemian types were strewn across the large room. The eight windows were open wide. In the back, the kitchen was in full swing. It was explained to me that this was a new artist collective, Agora (www.agoracollective.org), that they held movie screenings and exhibitions here and that I would be welcome to rent a workspace.

In order to get a feel for it, I decided to stay for dinner. What better way to get to know someone than to cook with them? So I ventured out for wine and cheese as an offering for their edible alter and then jumped into the culinary fray. A brother and sister duo with Italian roots was directing the operation. They were assisted by a small team of international art folk. The others Googled and doodled at their stations.

I cut and filled handmade ravioli with three types of ricotta, sun dried tomato and mushroom fillings and stirred two sauces – a zucchini and a red. Full plants turned into piles of herbs as big as my head and then made their way into the meatballs. The older sister was bra-less, with hair and skin so close in color they probably alternated which was lighter depending on the season. That evening, her hair was slightly sun-bleached and her skin Italian-tan. “Nudity,” she remarked. I looked up from my dough-forking station. A guy was standing naked in the middle of the room. He laughed and stepped into a different pair of pants. “This reminds me of Baltimore!” I said aloud. But it was only remarkable to me.

During dinner at the picnic table, the brother told me about the music space that he was opening next door. He was darker than his sister in complexion and in a state of constant wonderment. He said that, with most of his ideas, he felt the need to convince people that his cause was worthwhile or to enlist their help. But he was so certain of this undertaking that he wasn’t seeking approval. And support was coming out of the woodwork anyway. “Even the building materials you need are just showing up,” his sister chimed in. Joseph Campbell liked to say that when you are on the right track the world conspires to lend a hand.

The brother’s curiosity was an infectious condition because you saw yourself in his eyes as an object of wonder and then you were one. He’d question everything and some of his questions you could have answered logically but you don’t because what would be the use in tying up his lovely loose threads but most you couldn’t answer anyway so you shake your head and have another glass of wine and look up at the sky through the branches of the apple tree.

Close to six hours after I arrived, I walked up the dark street to the U-Bahn. I noticed I was smiling. The best and most rare first dates go this way. You look up and the whole day has passed.

Another Man's Treasure

At noon I found myself laying out a picnic on the window ledge of a castle tower. Above us the sky had finally stopped storming. Below, the Neckar Valley ran away in rows of grape plants that practically glittered green. Towns were tucked neatly into the hillsides, rust-colored and punctuated with sharp steeples.

“It’s just that they’re everywhere.” My jaded guide lamented as he spread egg salad on rye. “We used to go when we were kids but at a certain point you don’t get excited about them anymore.” He wasn’t exaggerating. That morning I had taken the train down the Rhine from Cologne to Worms and lost count of the towers, fortresses, medieval walls and palaces I’d photographed.

I thought back to my childhood castles -- Cinderella’s at Disney World and this fairytale themed amusement park in Connecticut complete with a two-story “Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe” shoe. Swarmed with kids dripping with gooey treats and swarmed again with yellow jackets. It was a blast. Really. But here were the ancient structures they had modeled themselves on. The walls that had watched whole centuries turn. Here there were no lines or transactions to be made or instructions on how or where to climb. The stone steps were worn to a treacherous slant. Anything left standing was fair game and there were no guardrails between you and the valley far below. Anything that had crumbled was susceptible to nature, which rose to reclaim the massive old stones every chance it got.

Six hours and many castles later, I looked out the car window as the light drained out of the Neckar Valley. We rounded a bend and another one loomed above us on the hillside.

I drew back into my seat involuntarily. “I don’t think I can do it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t think I can do another castle.” I heard myself say. The words felt blasphemous but my feet ached and I just wanted a beer.

My friend launched into a lecture that involved questioning my priorities and stamina, reminding me of the point of my trip and how far I’d come and commenting on how awesome this particular castle looked and plus it wasn’t even dark yet. “One more,” he said. I smiled weakly.

But this last castle proved difficult to reach. Each time we tried to take a road towards it, we were spit out farther away.

We parked on the side of a road but an old man shooed us off what was apparently his property – grumbling that the castle was closed anyway because a play was taking place there that evening. What he didn’t know was that he was speaking to a musician and a former aspiring musical theater actress and so only strengthened our convictions. Eventually, we parked at a pub and hiked up the back way.

The castle grounds were mid-metamorphosis. Fair-style booths were filling up with food and drink, tables and white cloths were unfolding, scaffolding was woven with fake flowers and mesh curtains were hung to mask the orchestra and backstage. We strode purposefully in through what was not quite the ticket booth yet and took seats in the bleacher-like stands.

In the girl’s bathroom, a stagehand was trying, rather unsuccessfully, to fill water balloons in the sink. It was Katherine’s first day on the job and she and the other company members were staying in the castle for the summer season. I offered to help and spent the next hour filling a bucket with the cold, heavy blobs. She mostly ripped holes in the colorful rubber, swore under her breath and filled them until they burst.

We settled into our seats as the grounds filled with ticket-baring citizens laden with cushions and blankets and sweaters and dinner. In tee shirts and shorts, we folded our arms against the quickly dropping temperature. Soon the stage lights went on and the courtyard was filled with sweeping orchestral sounds. ‘Die lustigen Weiber von Windsor’ (The Marry Wives of Windsor) opened with a soprano solo. Without a mic, her voice found every rock crevice and probably drifted far into the valley where the old man was complaining about something or other and the pub was warm and rowdy. The opera unfolded with exaggerated gestures and melody lines so that I got the story without knowing the words. The sky grew darker blue and the castle took on the colors of the theater lights. They warmed it in stage makeup – rouge, gold and emerald. The old building was reanimated. The old story filled with new breath.

During intermission we wandered the food tents. The silhouettes of people huddled against the night were backlit by lanterns. We got a tip on the chili and ate greedily, perched on a rock wall. The town twinkled below. It didn’t feel like 2011 or any specific time at all.

My travel partner didn’t put much stock in my number one rule of camping (set up your tent while it’s still light) so when we finally made our way down the hillside, the ground was black and we had to pick our steps carefully in the cellphone light. Back in the car, we decided to drive to one of those blue patches on his gps, banking on woods around a lake.

We took a trail until we saw yellow light and heard voices up ahead. Laughing and yelling and bottles clanging. I thought of Bilbo coming across that group of trolls around a campfire. At first we hesitated, but one of the teenagers braved his way over, explaining that the girls had sent him to check us out. When both parties were assured that the other was at least mostly harmless, we continued on. The site was picked when we hadn’t stumbled over a stump in a while and we were almost out of earshot from the revelers.