Last night, I went through my photographs from the past years, and I realised I don’t care about most pictures without people any more. They might have been important to take for me because they caught my view on this in that moment. Or it was just to keep myself occupied with doing something. I felt less alone with my camera.

But now, what matters most to me are portraits I took, or movements. This is what brings life to spaces.

And yet, I’m still fascinated by empty scenes and spaces. However, they only really matter to me if I know parts of what has been there, or what could be there. Like the empty room of my grandparents’ home.

I remember when I stepped into your room, when we came to visit. I remember the smell of schaut’s, wos i bocha hob. I remember the surprise when we stepped in without telling you that we would come, so you wouldn’t bake all week. I remember the Pope on TV on Christmas Day. I remember the day you thought I was someone else. I remember the empty eyes of him when she died. I remember when I once slept at your place, on a tiny couch in front of your bed. I remember when you suggested to go to the garden and pick some ananas. I remember when I brought in some ribisln to you, when you couldn’t get up any more, when you tasted them and made a face because they were terribly sour. I remember you eating the möhspeis we brought, because it was soft enough for you to chew. I remember the day you didn’t recognize me. I remember your 90th birthday, where we were all there and sang for you, and gave you flowers. I remember him sitting on his chair next to the oven, guarding her, the fly swatter resting in his hand. I remember your tiny, tired body, and the soft skin of your hands that didn’t want to let go of a crumpled, old socktiachl. I remember the prayers, and segna and wet kisses before we went back home. I remember you telling me how happy you are to have me, a diandl after so many boys in the family. I remember your shining, grateful eyes. I remember many things.

I remember when I stepped into your room, and you were not there any more. I remember how I couldn’t handle the thick air. I remember when I didn’t want to go through your things. I remember how I avoided your room. I don’t remember how many apples and nuts fell off their branches, I don't remember how many cherries I didn’t pick, I don't remember when the strawberries stopped to grow. I don’t remember many things.

I remember the day I started appreciating your floral towels and fabrics again. I remember when we got back into your room. I remember trying on your knitted sweaters and oversized coats. I remember arguing who looks better in your golden pajamas (we shared, he got the shirt, I got the pants). I remember us taking your bed apart. I remember finding torches in every corner of every cupboard. I remember pulling out old socktiachln from deep pockets, or from the small drawers in one of your sewing machines.

I remember when I stepped into your room, and it didn’t weigh down on me. Because, even though there are no socha inside any more, it’s not empty, it’s full of things.

I remember,
your herzbengal, your diandl

This text was published in Soft Eis Magazine #2 Identity, Berlin (2021).

Last night, I went through my photographs from the past years, and I realised I don’t care about most pictures without people any more. They might have been important to take for me because they caught my view on this in that moment. Or it was just to keep myself occupied with doing something. I felt less alone with my camera.

But now, what matters most to me are portraits I took, or movements. This is what brings life to spaces.

And yet, I’m still fascinated by empty scenes and spaces. However, they only really matter to me if I know parts of what has been there, or what could be there. Like the empty room of my grandparents’ home.

I remember when I stepped into your room, when we came to visit. I remember the smell of schaut’s, wos i bocha hob. I remember the surprise when we stepped in without telling you that we would come, so you wouldn’t bake all week. I remember the Pope on TV on Christmas Day. I remember the day you thought I was someone else. I remember the empty eyes of him when she died. I remember when I once slept at your place, on a tiny couch in front of your bed. I remember when you suggested to go to the garden and pick some ananas. I remember when I brought in some ribisln to you, when you couldn’t get up any more, when you tasted them and made a face because they were terribly sour. I remember you eating the möhspeis we brought, because it was soft enough for you to chew. I remember the day you didn’t recognize me. I remember your 90th birthday, where we were all there and sang for you, and gave you flowers. I remember him sitting on his chair next to the oven, guarding her, the fly swatter resting in his hand. I remember your tiny, tired body, and the soft skin of your hands that didn’t want to let go of a crumpled, old socktiachl. I remember the prayers, and segna and wet kisses before we went back home. I remember you telling me how happy you are to have me, a diandl after so many boys in the family. I remember your shining, grateful eyes. I remember many things.

I remember when I stepped into your room, and you were not there any more. I remember how I couldn’t handle the thick air. I remember when I didn’t want to go through your things. I remember how I avoided your room. I don’t remember how many apples and nuts fell off their branches, I don't remember how many cherries I didn’t pick, I don't remember when the strawberries stopped to grow. I don’t remember many things.

I remember the day I started appreciating your floral towels and fabrics again. I remember when we got back into your room. I remember trying on your knitted sweaters and oversized coats. I remember arguing who looks better in your golden pajamas (we shared, he got the shirt, I got the pants). I remember us taking your bed apart. I remember finding torches in every corner of every cupboard. I remember pulling out old socktiachln from deep pockets, or from the small drawers in one of your sewing machines.

I remember when I stepped into your room, and it didn’t weigh down on me. Because, even though there are no socha inside any more, it’s not empty, it’s full of things.

I remember,
your herzbengal, your diandl

This text was published in Soft Eis Magazine #2 Identity, Berlin (2021).