the last time

There is much talk about the first time but never the last times we go through in life.

My first last time experienced intensely was in December 1989; I was sixteen and the political change in East Germany had just caused the end of the course of studies I had enrolled for a few months earlier. I still remember the heavy university door closing behind me. I was so young that I had never gone through the end of something and just knew about things starting. Another closing door is etched in my memory and belonged to my first sincere boyfriend who refused talking to me which then seemed to be an experience not to overcome. A shocking experience was also losing a close friend for the first time. One good aspect of growing older is certainly getting used to things ending and to feel less painful about it; the long row of things lying behind me now rather gives me a feeling of age than regret.

My last photo trip through London started in the spring like garden of Fenton House, led me to Soho and ended in Chinatown where I bumped into a Chinese wedding. On my way to the bus stop I took this image of two girls with ruffled hair which could be rather unspectacular if it hadn’t been the last subject I photographed before I left London.

cinema of memories

I feel quite sentimental about my favourite London cinema, the Curzon Soho.

Several times in my life, whenever I had moved to a new city where I didn’t feel at home yet, I resorted to cinemas as safe places of which I knew how they worked and made me feel less strange. In London however and due to language issues, it took me months before I started watching films. Thus, it was rather a special event when I finally entered the Curzon’s largest room to watch a film in Australian English I hardly understood. Yet, this was the beginning of a cinema love. The Curzon didn’t just show ‘the good films’ but also conveyed the right atmosphere. There was the café in the ground floor offering rich cakes which one could eat while watching people out on Shaftesbury Avenue, and there was the cosy café in the first basement advertising the latest films released. There were film posters opposite the toilets in the second basement, The Class, Mad World, Lola rennt and there was a large poster in the box office of In the Mood for Love which is one of my favourites ever. The months before I left London, my cinema trips to the Curzon – now taking place in wintery afternoons – intensified in frequency but also depth of experience. Strangely, I most remember the film Another Earth, beautifully shot in white and blue colours; by no means a perfect film but it somehow hit my feeling of futility. It was right before Christmas and the air dark and sweet, the Curzon café offered ginger bread men and an advertising prior the film played the overly sugary songs by Lana del Rey. I already knew it would be my last Advent season in London and it felt warm and melancholic and still reluctant that it wouldn’t happen what was going to happen.

The Curzon’s website is still bookmarked in my laptop and every now and then, I return to it and get a longing to escape my current world to its basement and feel at home.

under the tv tower

While experiencing flashbacks of London – me sitting in the C2 bus to Camden, me passing by the Hampstead ponds, me strolling around on Brick Lane on a Sunday – I am trying to discover Berlin. How different it is; strikingly peaceful, relaxed, almost cosy. There is nothing of London’s hostility. When the sun is shining, parts of the city seem to turn into a beach; there is sand and striped beach chairs; everywhere there are street cafes filled with people having breakfast, lunch, smoking. There is normal life here which one recognizes first on the fact that children live in the city, children that play in groups in the streets, children that cycle around on bikes, children that play on playgrounds. Where in London is real poverty, here there is an exhibited bohemianism of doors colourfully scribbled with graffiti and walls with left-wing messages and gaps between buildings filled with rubbish. This deliberately keeping things run down is a statement more than a real lack of resources. Wherever you go, there are less people. Sometimes I miss the density of London and the connected intensity; then the only place I know to go is Alexanderplatz. – I still don’t know where to go in Berlin and thinking that all this here is fine, I wish I could go home now.

time has run out but never say good-bye

There is so much I owe to London. And now time has run out.

But never say good-bye. A while ago, I said good-bye to my favourite London musicians. However, everything comes back – in a new shape. I’ve always loved a particular song by the bearded singer with the cowboy hat whose warm voice sounded through the tunnels of the tube; recently I discovered it was a song by Jackson C. Frank, Carnival. So the song has returned to my world.

And this is how things meet in life. They are torn apart and yet connected through time. So I trust that London will come back in my life, in a different but nevertheless delightful shape.

a suitcase containing London

When I first visited Germany after I had moved to London, I survived the tediousness of Bremen by singing the then recently discovered songs by The Libertines. I proudly went through the streets thinking that I had the London feeling in my head which wouldn’t leave me wherever I went. I cant’t tell how much I am hoping it will ever stay with me like a suitcase I carry with me through the world.

…inside the peach there’s a stone

While he writes, I feel as if he is drawing me; or not drawing me, drawing on me – drawing on my skin – not with the pencil he is using, but with an old-fashioned goose pen, and not with the quill end but with the feather end. As if hundreds of butterflies have settled all over my face, and are softly opening and closing their wings.

But underneath that is another feeling, a feeling of being wide-eyed awake and watchful. It’s like being wakened suddenly in the middle of the night, by a hand over your face, and you sit up with your heart going fast, and no one is there. And underneath that is another feeling still, a feeling like being torn open; not like a body of flesh, it is not painful as such, but like a peach; and not even torn open, but too ripe and splitting open of its own accord.

And inside the peach there’s a stone.

Margaret Atwood: Alias Grace