Berlin

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.