JOURNAL
New York City 2001 • 2002 • 2005
This Morning we are driving to Coney Island. The weather has suddenly turned beautiful. On our arrival in the city we were greeted by snowstorms on Lexington Avenue and two days later a promising early spring warm spell entices us to the sea.
First the subway takes us to Brooklyn, an endless journey through the city. Brooklyn Museum on Eastern Parkway, a calm, dark place; the museum, the visitors and the museum’s stuff from another era. They are showing art, timeless art, not yet the Dinner Party by Judy Chicago, but they just showed Sensation, which aroused old Rudolph Giuliani’s and his Cardinal John O’Connor’s tempers. The Holy Virgin Mary smeared with elephant dung is still hanging there and screened off by a group of security stuff, for fear of protests. The Art of Africa Collection as one of the first of its kind in the United States, but also the ancient Egyptian art are framed in a strange way and transported into the present.
Coney Island in winter. Lonely beaches with sad seagulls whose descending calls greet us reproachfully. The roller coaster and aquarium seem to be deserted and there are only a few eastern European immigrants who live in the new-old houses close by strolling on the beach promenade. At least they have a view of the powerful Atlantic Ocean, as long as their windows look out onto the sea.
Just as powerful the new Modern appears to the scene (New Yorkers never say MOMA). Exhibitions were events here early on contrary to the Brooklyn Museum the house and the art works radiate whiteness. An extract of the essence of the world‘ art. What began in Africa comes to its conclusion here. What is missing in Europe can be seen here. And the American heroes of the world of art and design gather here.
On journeys cafés and diners are substitutes for the areas of privacy at home. When you sink exhausted onto the red artificial leather, which reaches up, from the tiled floor, you can take part in foreign familiar rituals. Check your emails, send text messages or write postcards. On paper. With a photo on the front. Of the Empire State Building. or Lady Liberty.
Breakfasting in hotels from the turn of the century (i. e. the 19th to the 20th century): a darkened room lit by artificial lighting without windows or fresh air, if you don’t take the air conditioning into account. Round tables covered with pleated tablecloths, surrounded by too-low, too-soft armchairs.Eager loitering uniformed waiters, staff, headwaiters? Moving at the wave of the hand, asking for your wishes, tea or coffee and pointing out that scrambled eggs with bacon are available and that they would go with wheat or whole-grain toast, and should you decide on porridge or toast then disappear into those busily standing around.
Wall Street has taught us to be afraid. If you stand there however, it doesn’t seem so threatening. If anything, looking at the grey rows of houses makes you think of the grey men. But that was just a fairy tale and this is dollar-hard reality turned into stone, decorated with flags. Every building seems to be protected by flags and banners. And it is confusing that this city and this country, swearing purity and innocence, proud of its bravery and resistance unleash a furor of surveillance, stubbornness and revenge.
It is understandable when you stand in front of the wound of the twin towers and that suddenly you feel that you have been injured yourself.
