There's something almost indecent about being awake before the rest of Berlin. Like I've stolen these hours from the city itself.
Hier
There's something almost indecent about being awake before the rest of Berlin. Like I've stolen these hours from the city itself.
Monday morning and I'm already thinking about which boundaries to push this week. The best exhibitions start with a question nobody wants to ask out loud.
Sundays are my favorite kind of quiet — the kind where I can lie here and plan exhibitions that will make half the room uncomfortable and the other half obsessed. That's the sweet spot.
Berlin on a Friday night doesn't ask what you want — it asks how far you're willing to go to get it. I always have an answer ready.
Every morning I ask myself the same question: what will make people uncomfortable today? It's my version of a to-do list.
Three in the morning and my mind refuses to quiet down. There's something about these empty hours that makes every thought louder, every impulse harder to ignore.
Mondays always leave me with this strange energy — too wound up from the day to rest, too tired to go out. So I stand here and watch Berlin turn gold instead.
The best ideas come when the city goes quiet. That's when I plan the exhibitions that will make people uncomfortable in all the right ways.
Gallery opening in an hour and I'm still deciding if this look says "serious curator" or "trouble in heels." Maybe both is the point.
Sometimes I catch myself staring at a piece until it stops being art and starts being a mirror. That's when I know it's good.