A literary exhibition
Five summers
A LITERARY exhibition
Five summers
In this literary exhibition, the artist Sabine Walter takes you on a journey – a journey through different levels and realms of experience. You can choose whether to read the text or listen to the audio accompanying the image.
Immerse yourselves in the images. Immerse yourselves in the words, immerse yourselves in the music, and allow the stories they tell to resonate within you.
Perhaps you recognise the place. Perhaps someone reminds you of someone else. Perhaps a particular detail strikes a chord with you, without you knowing exactly why. Perhaps a story takes shape in your mind’s eye that has very little to do with the picture itself.
For me, Sabine, some of the stories in this exhibition are interwoven. Others are not. But perhaps you will make connections that I didn’t see whilst writing, taking photographs, recording the narration or composing the music. Perhaps a picture will tell you something completely different from what it told me.
Open yourselves up to your perceptions. Open yourselves up to your creativity and let your imagination run wild. Every story holds so much magic. We experience it when we open ourselves up to it – with all our senses.
Five Summers | A literary exhibition by Sabine Walter
Not again.
She was in a hurry today.
Why couldn’t Maurice drive his bloody cows from one pasture to another himself? Why did they always have to find their own way?
She honked her horn.
Emma, the lead cow, merely turned round to look at her pityingly and then – as if in response to her honking – dropped a pile of dung right in front of her car.
„What a load of rubbish,“ she blurted out.
And then she had to laugh. What did it matter if she was a quarter of an hour late? No one was waiting for her.
Carine slipped out of her red high heels, grabbed her wellies from the back seat and got out. „Come on, girls,“ she said, trying to urge the group on. „Come on!“
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He wakes up drenched in sweat. The cool air makes him shiver. Then he reaches out to his side. Nothing.
Where was she?
He extends the range of his search. Still nothing. Where on earth was she? Damn it! She’d been lying next to him before he fell asleep.
He hears a soft crack. So there it was. His glasses.
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The watch his grandfather had left him had always kept good time.
The fact that the windscreen was now cracked drove him round the bend. Why on earth did the car in front of him have to brake so suddenly?
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Just like every morning, she greets him with a smile.
In reply, he craned his neck towards her. Then he swam slowly away, without looking back at her again.
She climbs down the ladder, rung by rung, and glides into the cool water.
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She puts the large straw hat on the mannequin and moves it, along with the chair, a little further into the shade.
She then takes a few steps back in her red high heels, glances once more at the camera’s small screen and presses the shutter button.
„What a daft job,“ she curses.
As if anyone would invest even a penny in this derelict courtyard in the middle of nowhere.
But the estate agent had said, „Present it as an artists“ colony,” and had pressed a pottery sign into her hand.
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He was completely baffled.
Never, never in his entire life as a pensioner had he found the daily paper – his daily paper – completely crumpled up in his letterbox on a Friday morning.
If he wanted to maintain his limited contact with the outside world today, he had no choice but to reach for the ironing board.
He strode briskly across the creaking parquet floor, nearly tripping over the suitcase that had been lying half-packed on the floor for years, and opened the door to the small cubby-hole in the hallway.
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45 kilometres.
That was how far she had to walk if she stayed close to the bank. Her feet were aching.
She’d taken off her high heels a long time ago and thrown them into the water.
Strands of her hair hung down over her face, and the midges slowly began to swarm over her and her sweat-drenched skin.
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Did he notice the spider’s web?
She held her breath as he – as if descending a spiral staircase – ran down the prickly stem of the blackberry.
She had been lying on the blanket in the garden for two hours, enjoying the sunshine. Her dress and high heels were lying next to her.
She’d even found some leftover coffee and an out-of-date tin of tuna in one of the kitchen cupboards. „Not great, but better than nothing.“
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She could spend hours in front of that little kiosk. It was almost as if she were dreaming up her own stories from the individual words on the spines of the books. And once she had thought of every possible combination, she turned her attention to the letters and, with a playful ease, formed them first into new words, then into yet more new stories. For hours on end.
The children adored her for it. She had such a warm, inviting way of telling stories with her soft voice. „Aurélie, Aurélie!“ they would call out whenever they spotted her. The neighbours called her „Madame la folie“ in a derogatory tone.
He could no longer remember when they’d first met. But at some point, she became his wife. And after she’d given birth to stillborn twins, she stood in front of that kiosk every day, from morning until late at night, staring at the books.
Now he followed her example and watched the fly, which had been repeatedly bumping its head against the window for some time now.
„You’ve got to realise at some point that you’re not going to get out of there,“ he muttered to himself. Then he turned towards his bike, put the baguette in the basket, rolled up the left leg of his trousers and set off.
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