When seventeen days are counted, a man will wake up in the morning of the eighteenth day and his hair, long or short, grey or blond, curly or smooth, will line his head on the pillow. If ever he lifts his head, they won’t follow the movement. Wind might blow them away, as they have no roots. Where once was the human head, there will be an empty space on the pillow. Read More
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. Read More
“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 shouldn’t be wasted either.
Judith Kerr, 24.6.1923 – 22.5.2019, author of youth & children’s books, graphic artist. Emigrated as a child with her family from Nazi Germany
Larissa Hermanns, artist and former projectmanager of KUNSTASYL