Project 9 — Photo Series

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House I, 2019, Inkjet print

House II, 2019, Inkjet print

Sharon I, 2019, Inkjet print

Someone Dug a Hole, 2019, Inkjet print

Sharon III, 2019, Inkjet print

Sharon II, 2019, Inkjet print

7.2
I arrived in Klein Warnow, a small village in Karlstädt, nestled in a beech forest. The village, roughly equidistant from Berlin and Hambourg, was a popular stop back when the railroad opened in 1840s.

The three-story grange stood by the train stop, now defunct. My home for the next month. Sharon and Cheb, who run the residency, had dinner waiting—a hefty bowl of quinoa with bright purple beets and goat cheese.

Sharon offered to show me around. I’d flown over 6,000 miles, from San Diego to Berlin. But I was feeling wide awake and didn’t want to wait till next day. We jumped on rusty steel bikes that wouldn’t stop squealing as we pedaled into the woods.

“Look—holes.”

Whoever it was, I could see it moving. A snake, a squirrel, a marmot? Trip after trip, out and back, they gouged out a place to rest.

The hole keeps you warm at night.

7.7
Something caught my eye when I was washing my hands in the bathroom: a cluster of dots, inches above the soap box.

Up close, they turned out to be a family of ants. Dark reddish. They weren’t so fast, or not moving at all, actually. Like climbers catching breath, dangling off a steep overhang.

Mor said, “I’m not allowing you to kill them in this house.”

7.8
We joined the large wooden table in the middle of the kitchen. Klaus and his friends had already finished eating but still chatting over a drink. Big birthday breakfast. Seventy-something. Klaus would give us rides to the next town, the closest Aldi in the area. He was our neighbor.

The room, pastel blue, made me think of a nursery. I wondered if Klaus had ever held a baby, or if he’d ever been a baby himself.

“You’re from America, but you don’t look American because your family is from Asia, no?” Klaus said, smiling.
“Yes,” I said. Also smiling.

7.10
At Grabow, I met Gerhard, 70s, thick white beard, bald, but clinging to a few long strands combed across the head.

His green overalls, which he said were his old uniform, fit tight around the belly. I didn’t ask why he was still wearing them. Gerhard was a little too affable, which didn’t sit well with Mor.

We stood in front of an abandoned fabrik. The imposing brick building was the first thing I saw as we drove into town. The plaque said it had been a corn mill factory in the 14th century. (My german’s getting better.) Sections of pipes, sliced, gaped from the facade. I thought of crawling in. Would Gerhard follow me?

7.13
Walking on the damp forest bed feels like stepping on someone.

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