Author: Barbara CavengPage 1 of 2
Today is marksmen’s festival (German and Swiss tradition; festivity, featuring a target shooting competition). Another one, probably the last of those all weekend festivities, following the four-quarter-time.
Hila, a Beijing based visual artist, arrived yesterday night after a long trip from China at Künstlerdorf Schöppingen. At our first meeting Hila donates a strand of hair.
Beatrice has short, dark hair. Small, firm curls frame her face. Not one of them moves, even if the wind makes the giant wings of the steel towers on the Schöppinger Berg vibrate. The pictures of her with shoulder-length hair were taken only recently. She had tamed her full hair into a myriad of small dense pigtails. Braiding her hair, strand by strand, had kept her for hours glued on a chair. Two years ago, the weight of all that hair disappeared with the help of scissors. Since then she feels free.
“In this world nothing ever perishes. Bones become grasses or flowers again or I don’t know what – which makes me wonder what happens to our thoughts? They…