August 5th, 2009
A building for propaganda.
In 1918, the protestors outside the Prussian House of Representatives were smiling.
An article in the Reichstagesgezetz read, “Those articles of the constitution pertaining to freedom of the press, of movement, of free speech and assembly as well as the privacy of personal mail, phone calls, etc., are to be suspended until further notice.”
I watch the “Die Welt” balloon climb slowly into the sky above and drift down and up again, the iconic right-wing rag hanging over the topographie des terrors. Is it still a site for propaganda? What is it propagating?
I feel a shift in consciousness as I leave the gated path of words and images under Die Welt, a path with direction and chronology, to a garden of bare concrete walls and shadows.
I feel waves. The waves of the ground carry me up and down. The traveling of sound. Uneasy apprehension until the next intersection, then relief for a moment. Loud, then silent. Hot sun, cold stone. Smooth and safe approaches razor sharp, and then nothing. The immaculately ordered rows cast chaotic shadows, and I feel waves.