I kind of forgot this blog exists. It’s weird. I remember how clever I felt when I came up with the name. I was living in Leipzig and sat on our porch with my roommate. He didn’t really get it but he was nice enough to complement my idea anyways. Tumblr was still a huge deal so I put the whole thing there and only much later was able to afford a URL.
Thinking about how long ago that was and how much has changed over the years, the nostalgia hits really hard. There was a time, when we felt so safe in the internet that we put every thought on to our blogs and tumblrs and lifejournals and MySpace pages. It was therapy. We made new friends. We did put so much trust in these platforms to keep us safe. Then the money came and fucked everything up.
Many were smart enough to recognise the fact that the only space you can control and own, is the one you pay for or at least host „yourself“. I open my blogs today and I am so greatful that everything is still there. My memories are still alive. The brand that owns them is a person. It’s me. The more I think about this, the more I feel like this is much more real than any picture I posted on Instagram or Tweet I ever sent.
Whats next for this website is very uncertain.
When I read some of Katrin’s Posts on Steady, it reminded me of a much better time for the web. We wrote about our feelings and thoughts in more than just a few words and gave our posts a bit more time. When we put real effort into telling people about our grand ideas. Even the really shitty ones. I’m not going to promise any continuity or value. As I accept that I love to hear myself talk and I overestimate the value of my thoughts, I find this safe space in the little corner of a web that we hold so close to our hearts. I know that every thought we put out has value and we should be proud of that.
Especially on our own spaces where we are in control.
Reminiscent of ye olde hipster guides to stuff surrounding film photography by André Duhme and me, I will now tell you and your line drawn tattoos about pizza. The amazing, filling, glutenous, beautiful, Italian (New Yorkian) dish that will not only feed you but will make you think that you should stop shooting film and invest all your money into an artisan pizza place. If you’re unsure if you actually want Pizza, watch a few episodes of „The Pizza Show„. You’re hungry now? Great. This recipe will give you two beautiful pizzas.
I hate sports. Its exhausting, dumb, bro-tastic. It’s annoying to watch and stupid to do. Earlier in 2017 I decided to do something stupid: „I want to ride from Berlin to Dresden in a day.“ Why would I do that: because I hate sports, but I absolutely adore cycling.
I always rode a bike. As a kid I rode to school until I was 18. Then there was some downtime driving cars. When I moved to Leipzig (and lost my drivers licence – don’t ask) I continued riding bikes. I bought some beat-down crossmachine off eBay for way to much money. A few months later I found my first vintage road bike. It was some 1990s ugly Raleigh that was rotting away in some backyard. I fixed it up and took my first test spin around the block and… oh my god, was I in love. I’ve never been so fast, it was so light (pff) and nimble. The thin tires made me feel like I was flying. The first time shifting on the downtube felt suicidal. It was so much fun. Eventually that bike got stolen.
I bought another vintage road bike and ever since then, riding a bike was not only a necessity to get around town, but also gave me a decent amount of exercise. Strava became a fun motivation. Exploring Hamburg and Berlin on two wheels felt perfect.
This year, things changed. I dont know why or what it was that pushed me. I wanted more, than just riding around to and from work. I wanted to ride farther and faster. I rode 40 km, 60 km suddenly, a hundred kilometres. It felt great even though I put almost no effort into it. I rode harder and faster and in some delusional state I decided that I should just go and visit my mother on her birthday. So I bought another waterbottle, a new jersey and rode 177 km from Berlin to Dresden. It crushed me. I never felt so down on energy and strength after I didn’t finish the whole way through. I absolutely overestimated what I could do to my body and didn’t take proper nutritional care of myself. After my father picked me up, 15 km before the finish line, I almost threw up. The next day I never felt better.
I didnt make it, but I fucking rode one hundred and seventy seven kilometres in a day. For fucks sake. I felt dead but the motivational push after that was amazing.
I rode more. I rode harder. I made new friends, even when it was cold as fuck. I got new and more gear. Cycling is the first thing that really, really makes me want to save some money and finally get a proper bike. I want to gain power, endurance and win all the KOMs. Next year I will do the trip to Dresden again – and return. I want to race the cyclassics in Hamburg and the Velothon in Berlin.
I want to do all that because I hate sports,
but I love cycling.
Ich wollte nie ein Sammler sein. Für mich sollte praktisch alles was ich besitze eine sich selbst innewohnende Funktion erfüllen. Eine Kamera muss fotografieren, eine Schallplatte muss klingen, eine Schreibmaschine muss schreiben. Die Annahme, dass ein Gegenstand eine pure dekorative Funktion erfüllt, oder sein Dasein durch das bloße Besitzen rechtfertigt, finde ich persönlich absurd.
Für Sammler ist das oft anders. Selbstverständlich trägt man durch seine Leidenschaft auch der Erhaltung der Objekte nach denen man trachtet bei. So kann der Sammler einen fast museologischen Beitrag leisten. Doch oft ist das Gesammelte einerseits nicht der Öffentlichkeit zugänglich und des weiteren trachtet es viele Kollektoren eben doch nur nach dem Aspekt des Besitzens. Wie sollte es einem normalen Menschen auch möglich sein, seine 400 Kameras oder 150 Schreibmaschinen so oft und ausgiebig zu nutzen, dass der Besitz der jeweiligen Objekte, einem Menschen wie mir, angebracht erscheint.
I always wanted to do some Severin Koller style blogposts. That means, an unthemed, unsorted but half-chronological collection of pictures I took between now and then. Here’s the first batch from god knows when. Lets just start with (very) early 2015 and go from there. Enjoy!
On the Ferry to Denmark. Loved the Frank Ocean vibe.
This is my Ricoh GR. There are many like it, but this one is mine.
Selfie Time at a Café in Kopenhagen (Kodak Gold? Can’t remember)
After more than a year of love, hate, regret, despair and utter admiration, I feel like I am finally able to describe my relationship with my Ricoh GR1s. After being an absolute fanboy of the digital Ricoh GR series AND being a sucker for the constant documentation of my life – Severin Koller-style – I, or say my wallet finally snapped, and I started the serious hunt for a Ricoh GR1. Back at the end of 2014 I didn’t really care which Ricoh I would get. The choice to go for the GR1’s came out of a mix of the (partially regretful) demand to not rob my bank account entirely and pure luck of actually finding a camera IN Germany for a reasonable price. In hindsight a GR1v would have been much more to my liking (due to the incredibly useful feature to override the ISO), but even now the jump in price is just too hard to justify. I also could have gone for the nearly indestructible Contax T series. And I should have. But those delicious 28mm were too good to pass. Trust me when I say: I’m so, so happy with my choice.
Nach ein paar Tagen und wenigen tausend Anschlägen auf meiner neuen, uralten Brother Deluxe 220, fühle ich mich bereits dazu berufen ein paar Zeilen zu dieser wirklich sehr, sehr anderen Erfahrung zu schreiben. Ich rechnete durchaus damit, dass das Getippe auf einer Jahrzehnte alten Schreibmaschine etwas besonderes sein würde. Wie viel anders es aber tatsächlich ist merkt man erst, wenn man die ersten 20 bis 30 Zeilen geschrieben hat.
Here is my pretty good outcome of black and white film-pictures from my time in Paris. Surprisingly I had a very good hit ratio. Shortly after those pictures were taken, Paris was attacked by crazy assholes. I was scared for the lifes of my collegues and friends in this crazy city. These pictures are a small but honest representation of what I like to remember Paris to be like: Fragile, beautiful, yet indestructable, big and generally life loving. The french stay strong. L’amour court les rues.
I hated backpacks. I mean: they’re ugly, right? There is nothing sexy or classy about a person wearing a two-strap-hinged bag on her back. Exceptions might be: a violin, a sniper rifle or, if you like fedoras, a hard-shell pack. Scratch that, those are actually the worst.