Arbeit und Struktur

Wolfgang Herrndorf was an successful illustrator and author. In February 2010 he was diagnosed a deadly brain tumor, in the summer of 2013 he committed suicide.Beginning on the 8th of march 2010 until his death the 26th of August 2013 Wolfang Herrndorf wrote a diary that he published on his website. His lines turned into


By loading the video, you agree to Vimeo’s privacy policy.Learn more Load video Always unblock Vimeo 2003 I was invited to spend a month in a small German town. I was expected to produce during that time a work of art that would be presented in a “white cube” on one of the streets of

To fade away.

These people have lived about 70 years ago, around 1945. Sometimes the year when the photograph has been taken is scratched into the image, otherwise we couldn´t guess. If we don´t know anything about life in Romania at that time, we won´t know a lot more after having seen these images. We see burials, we

Nikolay Bakharev/ Innocent.

photograph byNikolay Bakharev Nikolay Bakharev´s images look like a bunch of amateur photographs found in an attic. Intimate bedroom moments, cute erotic photographs from a time before Internet was around, before pornographic images of all sorts were flooding the monitors of lonesome men in the need of some boring excitement. In between we see images

The Visitor.

It belongs to my duties to visit Mrs Hunter. Two or three times a week I knock on her door and after a few steps in, through a short corridor, I usually detect her on her bed, lying on her stomach, her back turned towards me. Looks awkward, the way she lies there, her head

And what about God?

Regularly confronted with grief and death, pain and suffering, regularly confronted with ultimate loneliness, I still haven´t learned to believe, but I realize,that God is a necessity, even if he doesn´t exist. That´s why we had to invent him. God has been taken as an excuse for all kinds of abuse,for he is our creation.

Nothing has happened.

I was  having a cigarette in the entrance are of the nursing home. Three seniors, all of them suffering from  of dementia, were sitting there along me. Nobody talked. We were just sitting there. Spring was in the air. Then the automatic door of the home opened. A lady came out, then a man in black,

August Sander.

I was asked by Bild-Kunst to delete all images by August Sander due to copyright laws, or to pay a fee for using his images on my blog.No money here, and no more images by August Sander on my blog. August Sander book was one of the first ones I bought, back in 1980.I didn´t

Michael Schmidt has died.

Michael Schmidt was not a personal friend of mine.And still, I carried him around with me,and now, that he has died,the sadness that accompanies me these days has grown a bit. He had turned grey over the years.As if he had adopted the silvery grayness of his photographs. Michael Schmidts name was already around when

An incident.

Around six weeks ago, Elisabeth Osterhof was hospitalized.She had to leave her husband Franz Osterhof behind.The two of them had shared a flat located on the fifth floor of a senior home. Elisabeth´s husband Franz is a big, friendly guy, never passing anybody without a joke.Franz was a carpenter. He hands are really huge. One


Some memories and one regret. No school, no homework, no need to do anything. Hot summer days, playing cowboy and Indians, hide and seek between the bushes. Reading all day long, eating all I could get. My grandma baked every day a new cake, apple pies or plum cakes, dinner with wine, juicy ripe tomatoes


Austellungsdoku, “Longing to belong” 2017 Valparaiso, Chile     Ich bin weder Ungar, noch bin ich Deutscher. Ich bin zwischendrin. Die ersten Jahre meiner Kindheit bin ich in einer Siedlung für Flüchtlinge aufgewachsen. Das waren ordentliche Mietwohnungen bewohnt von Flüchtlingen aus Ostdeutschland, oder auch aus den ehemaligen deutschen Ostgebieten. Das weiß ich nicht, weil ich


In my childhood I survived an alcoholic depressive mother who committed suicide when I was a youth. I survived because there were moments of normality; I survived because I was living in a cultivated middle class family with my own room to hide and the possibility to forget about my surroundings burying myself into books.