February 2, 2011 § Leave a comment

is a sweet thing–concerns darkness, being afraid. A leather building?










I have been hibernating in January–just a note to say I haven’t forgotten, but I have been working and revising and reading. I’m about to take off to explore classical culture (as connected to industrialization, neoclassicism, rationality & reason, science & technology) and the ruins thereof–in Greece and Italy. It is the semester break here, and I’ll be back in Dortmund in April. I’ll be in Berlin in March and will possibly write here then–but maybe not. I’ve been struggling with the question of deadlines and borders, lines, cutting off but also circumscribing. Right now I need to be writing and congealing but on my own terms and own pace, not online. I hope that is all right! I will be faithful. I will not forget my blog.



slaughtering zombies

December 7, 2010 § Leave a comment

“A lot of modern life is exactly like slaughtering zombies,” Chuck Klosterman wrote in last Sunday’s New York Times. “This is our collective fear projection: that we will be consumed. Zombies are like the Internet and the media and every conversation we don’t want to have. All of it comes at us endlessly (and thoughtlessly), and — if we surrender — we will be overtaken and absorbed. Yet this war is manageable, if not necessarily winnable. As long we keep deleting whatever’s directly in front of us, we survive. We live to eliminate the zombies of tomorrow. We are able to remain human, at least for the time being. Our enemy is relentless and colossal, but also uncreative and stupid.”

I feel that I have escaped much of this by coming to Germany, by starting anew in a place that is only temporary, that is interesting, in which I am constantly exploring. Which means discovering without faith, without the responsibility to return again, to stay put in place, in space. It is a kind of floating momentum, but over the land, in a train. Straight, with occasional starts and turns and turning back again and beginning and waiting again, horizontal and concrete, for the S-Bahn 1, which goes through the university campus from Essen and Bochum on its way to Dortmund, where it stops and waits for approximately fifteen minutes depending on the time of day and then goes back the other way. This is not exactly the same thing as voyeurism because I am taking in what I see. I am processing, writing, reading. My pictures (my photographs, my images, memories) are leading to something.

And I have less and less fear of being run over by the outward sea, modern communication. Skype is my secret. I am on gmail, but I have recently switched e-mail accounts and any e-mails, forwarded from my old address, are no longer personal, but from various list-serves that have no longer any relation to me. My own e-mail, that in which I place weight and speed and (possibly) angst, is strangely silent. New York Times updates. Occasional reminders and advertisements and yes, some personal e-mails, kind, appreciated, but I am surprisingly behind on my personal correspondence, and something has shifted. Time elides space. A reprieve, momentarily.

I eat soup and drink tea. I have toast occasionally.

I am interested in that place, driven, riveted: to find a kind of shape to the ceiling, to get back to the beginning of the street, to the sea, our modern scenery, a contraption of space. I am looking for Nahrung (other space, something like “nourishment” literally).

And yes, the frequent (occasional?) dislocation, the pain.

There is a purity to abstracted shapes, a pleasure in basic colors and things. Of blankets, of shoes. Of doorways.

I keep going back to the Bauhaus movement, which seems to me to represent so clearly this tension between things, between design as the creative impulse to create but abstracted, unmanifested in life, and the practice of making, hand and craftwork. At first the founder of the school, Walter Gropius, had to hire separate teachers to teach the two sides of the making (design and technical skill), as no one at that time was trained in both; later, former Bauhaus students  were hired as teachers (Josef Albers, for instance). I wonder if this bridge between technology and fine art was an attempt to make space (a respite) within the weight, the immense strength and speed and heat (and unending repetition and relocation and speed) of industrial making. Factories and machinery and trains. A transformed landscape, an onslaught: of steel and concrete. The desire to link these two things (design and the actual building) and make through industry better-made things, designed more carefully: design for functionality. Fine art suddenly reclaimed, along with the technical processes of making things with industry.

So there is a direct line, as separate as abstraction seems from real and grounded life, between this movement of abstract art in the early 20th century and industry. An escape? That takes us back to the scene of the crime? To this vacant place, vacant actually with the wrong things.

Trying to get back to it. Before the metal hits the ceiling, the fan, before we need to pounce and digest, and simply reiterate a gesture: reiteration is useless in this sense. And looking at these remnants of industry now– –this link could not be more pronounced. So beautiful, indeed. Even a granite displayed in the Krupp Villa Hugel in Essen in its symmetrical, smooth shape, seems fulfilled, a thing unto itself, a thing bespeaking of promise and meaning, full. A thing brought fully into its own life–and repetition of line, of curves, of touch, helps to fulfill and to embody: not just to confront or emerge in the dark, or fight, or consume us. We respect, we love things, beings, fully made, apart. They are made from us. (Or else, of course, they become monstrous: think what the crater has done. What we cannot face consumes us? Think of Frankenstein).

And can we let them fly? Left behind. Or is this a process, mine, of hiding out?

Mircea Eliade writes in The Forge and the Crucible: The Origins and Structures of Alchemy that there was a clear link made in the spiritual practices and rituals of many early cultures between metal work and human sacrifice. According to this account, metal working and mining had many complex resonances and meanings: seen to be speeding up, interrupting a natural process of perfecting metal into gold beneath the earth, itself seen as undergoing a process of creation, of birth. There are also many myths relating metal work to abortion and unborn fetuses. I believe increasingly that there is something terrifying indeed that we have made. Paved.

And it feels deeply satisfying to be in these cold places, these cold and often very quiet places, in the middle of nowhere seemingly, that are stuck in the oddest positions, saved from demolition, sometimes on a busy street or beside a train, or across from a warehouse turned into a museum, or inside an old factory, or in piles, in waves, being pulled beneath, weeds, dirt, copper spilling, rusting and decomposing and peeling layers: shapes, geometric, sculptures, turned into art, sitting.


It will not bite. It is harmless. It can wait. I am no longer in a hurry for anything. I could stay here all day. I could stay here every day. There is no end to reconciliation. I have come back to this place. I will be here again. I am thinking of a place in Oberhausen. Or I am thinking of the empty walls, the Stedelijk Museum in Amsterdam, currently in a major process of reconstruction in which a new wing is being created and in the meantime two special exhibits take the place of the permanent collection, both on the question in some sense of building. One focuses especially on the museum space itself.

Many of the rooms are bare. The first part of the exhibit, these blank rooms, repeating, except for their occasional different shapes and doorway positions, is modeled after a previous exhibition (by Willem de Rooij, in 1933, “route along 18 corners”) that took place at an earlier stage of the museum’s history. An accompanying flyer reproduces thumbnail photographs of original corners of these rooms with a map to show where, so we as viewers can compare those to the ones we see here. The wood is different (lighter now) and the geometric patterns of the slats of wood on the earlier floor is no longer here (the wood here is all parallel). No electricity sockets to be seen. Also the floor plan, where the doors are, seems to have changed (but maybe I am reading this incorrectly, even if it is all in English, but it does not matter anyway, it is all purely temporary, temporary).

(I want to last a long time.)

It is only and purely a space anyway. Not bound to anything (to time).

Even the café here is called the “temporary café,” as if that was a new thing, cool, “in.”

And outside: a window to see the snowed-in, quieted, machinery on this Sunday morning: carried, set, viewed as an exhibit yet I know, practically, it is there to make the structure for the new museum wing, concrete, after 20 years of planning and waiting, to be made into shapes, and then filled, built also, unredeemedly, without any tolerance, and without any chance to protest, into a tourist scene, a contraption, a wheel, a chain, a Venus flytrap to catch us and bring us in. They will start again.

Let us start again to see.

“You will just need to come back,” the man at the information desk tells me. Can we?

On reading old art catalogues in a museum library

November 20, 2010 § Leave a comment

The Folkwang Museum, an art museum in Essen focusing on modern and contemporary art, was recently given funding for a new building by the Krupp foundation (Krupp was a major steel works based in Essen whose profits now are donated to different causes by a foundation), and opened in January 2010 for the Cultural Capital year. Regarding the architectural plans and development for the newly constructed building the website states:

“The new building is intended to transform the site into one of the city’s prominent artistic, urban and social attractions.”

This statement echoes goals throughout the Ruhr for rejuvenation and transformation. And the museum, at least as of November 2010, seems to me to be all of those things: in the heart of the downtown business district, a pleasant walk away from the main train station, the museum seems light, airy, and warm, social without being claustrophobic. I love going to museums with friends but I especially love going to museums alone, and the new building allows for the texture of light and space that permits all the expansion and freedom of aloneness without the alienation and uncertainty of loneliness. The square geometries of the layout allow for direction without rigidity (there is no prescribed route or order, and often at least two choices of which door to go through); thus there is a circularity, an open maze-like quality in which you can see everything but in a way that is a bit spontaneous. You end up back at the lobby, an open space with benches and in the center the ticket and information counter. This open format creates interesting connections between spaces and pieces (for instance, a Warhol silkscreened triptych in proximity to a Josef Albers painting from his Quadrat series—a connection? maybe!).

I have been at the museum three days this week (much of each day) as well as one day with friends earlier this year–always a constant stream of people coming through. Two sets of lines: one for the special exhibition (quite quite popular!) on “Images of a Capital: Impressionists in Paris” to pair with the question of creating the Ruhr as a metropolitan region–indeed, interesting. Especially older couples, perhaps, but some young people too. School groups. A constant line to check coats.

I went first to see the special exhibition (back in October) and then to see the regular collection (last weekend). But this week I spent whole days in the library there. I would say it is a forgotten space, but it is not forgotten. I have been eager to  be more intentional and directed in my research–and am increasingly interested in the Bauhaus movement, and especially the work of Josef Albers and László Moholy-Nagy, from seeing their work in museums here and there: odd how connected their use of abstraction and geometry is to industrial structures in the Ruhr (and especially ruins, remains, the abstracted forms left now). The Bauhaus seems an important link to understanding core developments of industrial form: of the train tracks, crossing over (9 tracks wide in places–), ending at bridges over rivers–steel and concrete, brick and mortar, coal. I’ve also become interested in Anselm Kiefer, although I have yet to see any of his paintings here (strange).

But it’s hard to find places to work–and especially places in which to find books and even harder to find books in English. So when I saw that a library existed, open to the public, in which we could request books and sit there peacefully and work I was overjoyed. (There are other libraries but they take a long time to reach by train. And the whole system seems incredibly complex to me–52 cities in this region! at least 5 major libraries that I know of in this state–but sometimes more than 2 hours to travel to each way—3 to 4 different legs). So a library that had the art books I needed and that was only one train ride away (35 minutes, plus ten minutes from my apartment, plus a 15 minute walk from the train) seemed miraculous. So I went (only a short delay of the train–20 minutes). Yet the process of researching was a bit more complex. The librarian is apparently not in very often (the one who can bring books that you request from upstairs–the reading room has catalogues and a few other books but most need to be requested specifically). It was odd: research was possible there, but the space doesn’t seem to be used that way often: things were just not easily available to do research (the slips of paper to request books needed to be specifically requested, as did the help of the librarian, if she happened to be in, there is a lovely database listing art books in the area and what libraries they are in–but without a key to locate the library based on abbreviation (I asked multiple times of different people…unfortunate—luckily many books were available in the Folkwang collection)). I did finally find books, a cart was brought to me, it was lovely. Kind people and very helpful (“but how are Anselm Kiefer and the Bauhaus linked? I still don’t understand” one kind woman asked me–not the librarian or the secretaries, if that’s what they are, or anyone who worked in the library, but she worked in the museum and spoke English and helped guide me and connect me to people who could help me).

Answering that question became my focus, actually. And I think the answer lies somewhere between Mondrian–influential for each in different ways–and materiality and the future. Mark Rosenthal argues the relationship between “art and life,” myth and history, native German roots, is an essential aspect of Kiefer’s work (in Anselm Kiefer, the Art Institute Chicago and the Philadelphia Museum of Art’s 1987 exhibit catalogue). Even if Kiefer could be allied to Conceptualism, and his engagement with history and myth, as a form, Rosenthal argues repeatedly, oddly, of self expression, of reconciliation, an attempt also of transformation and redemption through art (reminiscent, yes, of course, of Wagner and the Ring Cycle, but also of Joseph Beuys–from Düsseldorf–which is in my neighborhood!–and who Kiefer knew and visited and learned from especially in 1971-2) seems utterly antagonistic to the objectivity and abstraction and purity of form many artists strived for in the Bauhaus school, the movement away from expressionism, even though that was the most established, known, and accepted and popular contemporary form at the time (post WWI).

Yet the Bauhaus also was on a redemptive mission, a reconnective and restorative mission of sorts, for art in the modern era.

Walter Gropius wrote in the Bauhaus Manifesto in 1919:

“The complete building is the final aim of the visual arts. Their noblest function was once the decoration of buildings. They were inseparable parts of the great art of building. Today they exist in isolation, from which they can be rescued only through the conscious, cooperative effort of all craftsmen.” He envisions, thus, “a new “building of the future” which will combine sculpture, painting, and architecture “in one unity and which will rise one day towards heaven from the hands of a million workers like the crystal symbol of a new faith.”

I read these quotes in the catalogue for a 1968 exhibition in Stuttgart, entitled, 50 years Bauhaus: German Exhibition. It’s odd, because although the Bauhaus started in Germany because of the war it became hugely important elsewhere (especially in America, of course: Moholy-Nagy began the New Bauhaus School at the University of Chicago, for instance, and Josef Albers and his wife Anni taught at the experimental Black Mountain College, which was just beginning when they arrived in the U.S. in 1933–with a number of crucially important American Poets–which seems a key connection–and then Yale. He educated many later prominent abstract and abstract expressionist American artists…). So much so that the introduction to this book (by Ludwig Grote, who seems to be operating out of his own political context of a divided Germany) states that the movement has tremendous “power of assimilation” despite its persecution for “it has conquered the world and even the dictatorships of the east cannot shut out its influence forever. Man has grown into modernism” (9). The future has come?

Alternatively, Kiefer is an internationally-recognized artist (again, the early exhibition in the U.S. clearly notes this–and at the moment the three current exhibitions of his work that I know of are–unfortunately for me–all taking place outside of Germany). Although Kiefer can be said to emerge out of conceptualism (at least, that seems to be one way of contextualizing his work) he seemed to many from early on to be very separate from reigning contemporary styles. Yet his work is profoundly nationally-oriented, focusing on German and Norse myth, German history, contexts, places, and landscapes. For Rosenthal also, albeit in a different way, Kiefer’s grappling with the role of art (particularly in his paintings involving a painter’s palette) concerns the process of ordering, depicting, interpreting, measuring, transforming–a basic process of controlling and even, it sounds like, of destroying, so that the landscape, to Rosenthal, becomes “annihilated by the palette” which gives him “liberation from the servitude imposed by nature and the past, allowing him to enter mythic time and create history” (60). I don’t quite understand this connection (that in this reading Kiefer’s work seems to both mimic and transform the destructive impulses of German history–their imposing forms) but I’m interested in the use of control in relation to the Bauhaus artists (he also uses geometric figures, lines, ladders, numbers in several paintingswhich seems another link).

These questions lead me back into the oddness of assimilating, presenting, preparing, illuminating, curating art–which itself in some way of course is a process of analysis, of ordering, of making sense of something. (Which leads also into questions of ideas, concepts: how much background do we need to understand a piece? What does understanding even mean? Context? Source?) Reading about art in a library which becomes a computer center with tall white counters and stools and three secretaries who don’t seem to know how the online catalogue works (or how to request books? or maybe this was all a miscommunication on my part) and a video crew at one point filming a woman posed as if to use a computer on a stool (a show of research) and Wednesday a project of taping boxes together and then wrapping paper around the boxes). Lots of phones, and talking, and people walking through–every time the door opened the noise and bustle of the lobby. Yes, occasionally people also sitting and working. But clearly: this is a common place. It is intermedial, it is interactive, it has a different purpose, it is social and not perfectly still.

And it is different also to read about art in this place than to look at the collection itself: I must push through, against time, against the current of voices, to reach a particular object (meaning, understanding, an ordered and ordering system of approach). I can no longer simply float. There is someone else talking, also, through these books and I can barely hear because of the noise. No longer am I alone.

on not understanding

November 5, 2010 § Leave a comment

What if understanding of language were a perpendicular relief, an image of a street.

You begin at one light switch and enter through a scene. You have no context: where does the match leave? Who needs electricity (there was a whole advertising campaign devoted to giving electric light meaning so people would buy in).

Without context I see pipes alone, going along the globe. I see the window, many voices. I see a graveyard, a stereo, I see a motor of a soul, I see nothing but perpendicular holes, between the metal rusted over. It makes big walls, this stereo of noise, this without-being-to-cast-a-load, to wash the coal that it was used for (oh. some material. here we go)

in a straight line. I understood it: it is used for holes. It is used for washing. It is sorted. It moves (this coal).

Language also seems to me a mineral, a slide show.

beyond the purely historical (how to make coal into coke, how many miners were needed below or in the washing of the coal (only 8 I learned) or in the sorting and who worked. Forced labor during World War II) or introductory or even scientific or architectural material that I am shown. I get so frustrated when I cannot see the whole show. Or, worse, when I can see all (hear noises) but it does not make a whole. Photographs of horses to help mine coal? How? (They went blind below the ground.)


(in Essen, on October 4: I traveled there with the S-Bahn and then with the tram; my use of “with” is more German than English, please note: in German I would say “mit”).

Except this (below) is not a street, this is Zeche Zollern (in Dortmund, a different company than Zeche Zollverein in Essen, it was built two decades earlier, at the turn of the twentieth century. Art Nouveau (not clear in the photo below, but trust me: the front is clearly beautiful), intended to show: monumental industry, but conditions were not better than in other collieries).

SO I cannot help but reveal information. I want to get across the scene, the street, the scenery, to deliver the idea, but actually that is not the case, only possible it seems with a larger understanding of shapes, of what the whole idea means.

& not a street at all but a passage of years (a few weeds)

or pure geometry?

A metal, a ceiling, a railway.

How many missed or broken planes? An ideal is something. I think language is the bond that can break, bones where there is no circulation, where we get stuck before we breathe, eternally, it is too hard to see beyond the metal boundaries (the surface, dreams).

in and out of

October 29, 2010 § Leave a comment

space. In a large place, the biggest gas holder in Europe, at 117.5 meters tall and 67.8 meters wide. Built in 1929 across from the Good Hope Ironworks and the Rhine-Herne canal in Oberhausen (where industrial development in the Ruhr region first began. I think this is where the ribbon of coal in the land was most superficial and easy to find. Some forms of mining I read began as early as the mid-18th century here–while most industry truly picked up a century later on a large scale). It was constructed to hold excess gas created by iron and steel production–which at first was simply released. First blast furnace gas and then coking plant gas. To promote efficiency, more space. 24 corners (not a round space).

“In order to pressurize the gas, a ‘floating’ iron disc weighting 600 tons was placed on top. And because this was not sufficient [never enough], a 600 ton concrete weight was placed on top of the disc, which literally floated on the gas. The wall edges were sealed with a thick layer of oil. Depending on how full the gasholder was, the disc moved up and own to a maximum height of 100 metres” (Vollmer and Berke, Bilderbuch Ruhrgebiet: Faszination Industriekultur, Essen: Klartext Verlag 2006, p. 25, [ ] mine).

Instead of demolishing the space, when it was shut down for industrial uses in 1988, it was remade. An exhibition space it currently holds the largest model moon on earth. “Out of this world” but in a tube, no, in a pole, no, a rescue. No, a gasometer, no, for “Gasometers are pressure containers for domestic gas” (Vollmer 25). This was for industrial waste, saved. Now an exhibition of the solar system and the world of space and scientific discovery in laymen’s terms paired with striking images of space but also our world (river systems, the human brain’s blood flow). Natural power, fuel.

The space itself does not hold in heat (very cold). A sign that it is not a protected (human, insulated) space. Alien as a human-made model of the moon (huge). An odd combination of mimesis to be used in a new form (even if mimesis, a photo, a painstakingly accurate model of our moon (and sun, and neptune, and jupiter and all…) it seems so foreign (not for domestic use), also if replaced in a new, large, uncertain, unspecified tube, it also transforms. No, not like any other space I have known. But don’t tell me so. (To describe this show–in posters, in card, in tourist brochures–mutes it somehow).

AND ALL THE WAY TO THE TOP (one can journey up, above the moon, to a top lookout for a panoramic view)

This journey never stops. To go back up. In glass, an elevator on the side of the moon. To see the northwest Ruhrgebiet on the back, on the right, a map of the entire side, of the seven stories up, and so to climb, to climb and to find, to find and to try to be aware of. Grass, a sky. A metal cylinder, a steel rimmed top, staircase and light, and see for a mile along the top, in the light.

Alone this time, biometric. Cylindric, horizontal and symmetric. Vertical back and still to climb, still to understand how to make something so high.

The moon a beach and westward a wind it goes both ways.

The moon inside the day, that is a night sky, dark and quiet in the light, in the large space. A container that is out of the day, that is in the night of the day into twilight a breeze. Are you in the between portion of space? There is no between, only metal, a cylinder, metal like the sea? The two rivers along the highway. A small distance, breath (cold, concrete).

Fragen nach Berlin

October 21, 2010 § Leave a comment

or many different but interlacing questions. Suddenly so many things became clear: I went to Berlin this last weekend (skipped last Thursday’s  blog and my new-now-becoming normal routines here). Berlin is anything but normal. What was most interesting to me was how different it felt. It put so many things into perspective here.

I’ve felt a little claustrophobic under the weight of my ideas. And echoed by the fact that this is a culture of imagined things, a future of streets, of a creative place. (I’ve realized that there is a strange overlap, a consistency, a parallel street: my project. My project on a project that has yet to be made, that is in the process of being made but have things changed?) The Ruhr is also an idea. An idea that is trying to be (by whom, my dear?). But is this a creative place? How to create? How to create a creative place? And empty space does not lead automatically to art (take the empty shops in the west part of Dortmund–run down. But very diverse, densely populated, people there)–what can we make? How do we make something come to life? (“A real live boy…”) Does it feel forced? Or true? How to make ideas work?

–Rationality (urban development and planning: let’s skip the new sports stadium in favor of creativity). The economist Richard Florida describes in The Rise of the Creative Class some tips for cities to become more creative–he believes that the economy is moving and growing most at this post-industrial and post-“organization” age through creative people who seek to live in creative centers (and businesses will/are follow[ing] them). Creativity here is especially practical–in generating revenue, growth, further change and development (especially technological…). He offers suggestions for what cities can do (Technology, Talent, Tolerance).

(but it’s interesting that creativity is a purely practical goal: what is the truth? why do we bother to create in the first place? humanities but for the economy’s sake? that’s inspiration for you…)

–The power of belief. We can force ideas to be simply by willing them into place. Imagination is great for this. Just close your eyes and make a wish. [Note to self: how does this differ from pragmatism?]

No really. Honestly.

Really? The power to be?

Okay, so literature can create place, can order a place and remember a state as it never had been. In the past a name (I made it, I did.) But it was real then.

You have no proof that I said what I said (you put words in my mouth). I remember it like this.

Oh, I have a record of what I did (photography, a film?). But even that a constructed vision (…). (Old news!)

Or Fascism maybe. To create a future place. I think of Albert Speer’s Germania (most of it never made). The idea was to raze what was there to completely remake, fabricate a new place.

To insert a place artificially. It takes tremendous force and labor to will a being into place. Energy. Machines. Superhuman even maybe. Madness? A tremendous scale. So many of the buildings never made.

So art is not always a good thing.

And Frankenstein was sick. He almost dies, suffers, falls ill, through creating. And tragedy strikes! And the creature from different parts pieced together, sewn shut. Over one mouth to the other side of a jaw. An eye juts out. He cannot look. He cannot face what he has done.

Anything is possible. But at what cost?

Berlin could not be more different in its current state, at least from my fleeting perception of it. For example look at this, an artists’ squat called Tacheles Kunsthaus (a former Gustapo headquarters I believe, and an important building at the turn of the twentieth century as well):



by recreating, waiting

October 7, 2010 § Leave a comment

for an opening again. All weekend at the lake (that is becoming a lake) a former steel plant closed and shipped away (exactly, each nail taken, in big trucks driven, to China, perhaps not surprisingly?). Then merely empty space remaining (2001), now made into a lake (called Phoenix-See, after Phoenix the steel company that was here, in Dortmund-Hörde, a southern district of the city–one takes the train). Last Friday marked the beginning of filling it in (which will take months to complete). With drinking water to make a sea. Maybe 30,000 viewers expected to be  there. The paper suggests that even more came (an estimated 50,000 for the concert in the evening). It ran continuously from 3:30 until late. Eating and drinking but standing room only: still in construction. Half-finished terrain. Amy Macdonald and also a comedian (Atze Schröder) although the Germans I was with were not impressed (I couldn’t understand him). And a German band and also classical music at the beginning, which I missed unfortunately. So entertainment! A spectacle indeed. Many families. Such patience to stay! I was amazed.

all through my childhood the Phoenix-See,

a sea. A river mixed with trees.

(There are no trees.)

A river will come clean.

We tried to make it clean enough to drink, no, to bathe. No, to sail and entertain.

The space where it was empty.

It has taken years

to clean. A steel company here (processed something like 500,000 tons a year).

We built these ditches that you see, they will be filled in to become a sea.

But there are no trees

on this side at least


there will be.



A lane a garden, I will

come again in a month’s time to see

what has changed.

Things change so quickly.