Berlin
It’s a great word, visually. It feels composed.
With a proud B followed by a subtle curve, formed by the peak of the l,
sloping into in.
Austere and romantic, assertive and
seductive – Berlin.
Berlin is great art.
It’s not effusive like Paris or rarefied
like Vienna, but elegant and tragic; its absurdist logic imbues the steely exterior
with an intoxicating poignancy. It’s turgid with potential energy – the echoes
of horror; restrained tears; austere concrete veined with graffiti arabesques
(matte neon, dulled vibrancy); serious fun.
Muffled kick drums, silver noise, beautiful bludgeon, concrete flowers, murdered gypsies in as-far-as-the-eye-can-see park, white sun, a flash of gold at the edges.
The tears are brought on by beauty,
by spectacle, by death, by love, by endless possibility.
Hedonism is no vacuous escape here –
it’s meaningful immersion.
That sunset orange stays long.
