City Museum, Münster 2001
A dark room. Within it, colorfully lit objects of daily use, obviously worn and out of fashion. Some seem to float, some are strangely altered - the portrait of a soldier on a breakfast board, the black single instead of the knife in the bread slicer. Several monologues can be heard at the same time, the objects speak with my voice.
The texts of the armchair, lamp, coat, suitcase, etc. slowly merge into the image of an old woman, who has obviously left the objects behind. They are - like the fictional owner herself - marginal existences, threatened with disappearance.
Subtle passages suggest that the old woman lived through the Second World War. In her personal history, her habits and nightmares, an imprint of contemporary history is revealed. Now the witnesses of her memories are gathering dust in the attic, but at the same time they are themselves repositories of memories. They relive and retell all the actions that were performed with them, on them, in them...
The monologues form a chorus, which again and again gives rise to new contexts of meaning. Depending on which texts are audible at the same time, the objects seem to answer each other ...
Things do not move voluntarily.
That is the difference.
She pushes me into the sun. A different warmth.
My fibers soak it up. Glow. Show their true color.
I savor her scent. Her weight.
I feel ashamed. Scuffed. Soggy.
I'm sure that's why she rarely puts on the light.
When she's alone, she pulls her feet up when she sits.
Sometimes she's very light. As if she wants to get up again at any moment. I hardly feel her weight.
Sometimes she is heavy. As heavy as the woman before her.
Her seat bones dig into me, her fingers dig into the fabric of my armrests. My springs groan.
I don't know anymore where she is beginning. Where I am ending.
Her skin is my cover, my fabric her shell.
She no longer moves voluntarily.
She will not get up anymore.