a photo-shooting in the city
not unharmed wakes up the park on Sunday morning, his bruises exposed by the morning grey light under a clouded sky.
Sunday on a mid July afternoon at the lake, friends, a game of Kubb, laughter, competitiveness, teasing, focusing on the marks, joy, excitement. Winners and losers dining all together at sunset.
in a warm summer afternoon the sky darkens suddenly and a storm rolls very fast over the 1972 Munich Olympic Games Regatta course taking some casual rowers by surprise. The course lays some 15Km north of Munich and it is declared a historical site.
The watching towers stand empty on the sides of the course. People jog or cycle around on rounds of some 4Km. A group of four young men does not take too much notice of the storm and keep jogging under the rain. Others take cover under the overhangs by the stores on the north side.
Two hours later the sun shows up to say good night lighting the poplars alley on the way back to the city.
built between the 1920 and 1930, these rows of Gewofag social housing development in Neuhausen enjoy the protection of the city for its heritage value. Best enjoyed in the late afternoon, when the low sun beams brings the three-dimensionality of the details to the eye.
Not far from the habitation blocks of the Gewofag, the Kunstlerhof adds a new dimension to the neighbourhood. Old chained bicycles likely made to be here, waiting for the artist to come down her atelier with her smeared apron still on and take a ride to the café.
wagons once threaded this plain and filled the night with echos of metallic giggle, where now nature and new settlers walk around still puzzled how to classify what they see in their Saturday’s afternoon walk. Here and there, if you stop long enough to see through the signs, you can see the ghosts of those railroad tracks and ties under thickening vegetation. The sudden idle beds of track ballast stand questioning their purpose now like dry wounds in the meadows.
Hidden in the woods, old tracks, fallen lampposts, gates with nothing to gate, lost ponds. And an old adjoining settlement. Despite the looks, no vignetting is applied to the photographies.
The old bed wagons factory witness yet one other kind of resettlement: partly spooky, partly trashy, and certainly worth walking through.
The park becomes the only reasonable escape from home and the corona lockdown. Empty and cold in the winter mornings of March and April before the warmer hours of the noon bring the sun-seeking denizens. The sun in its lowest angle is barely able to saturate the colours of tree, leave, flower and stone.
People walk or jog under the first warming sun of the coming spring possibly unaware that under the quietness of the little park on the banks of the Isar river on her pass through the center of Munich, the Maxwerk hydraulic power plant, housed in a baroque style building and of late embellished with street-art, generates 0,4MW power, enough to provide for 100 households in Munich.
grab a blanket, push the curtain aside, enter into the darkness of a cave of light and color, lay anywhere, listen, see, think, sleep.
Dust the paraffin off your clothes if you forgot laying on the blanket
In a mood for photographing I leave the exhibition of Toni Schneiders: Retrospective at the Kunstfoyer in the twilight for the tram and on my way home. Not two stations down the line a party of brightly lit shop displays around the Max–Joseph–Platz catch my attention and pull me out of the tram. They blind the squinted eye and the sensor.