The curtain goes up. This is Hanau. Hanau is a Wunderkammer. No, Hanau is a
metal dollhouse. Hanau is deep woods in red light. Hanau is darkness spoken.
Hanau is maternal genealogy. Holding beautiful grandmother in our hands.
Holding beautiful daughter in our hands. Hanau is a river and its greenery.
Hanau is a magic lantern. Hanau is a woman and her belongings. Her suitcase,
her braids, her box of ginger sweets. In Hanau, we are visitors. We hold
white porcelain in our hands. We hold white leather in our hands. We stand
on a height looking down. From here, Hanau is a postcard. Glittering
windows in morning light. Presenting to you the Papiertheater. Presenting
to you the Puppenmuseum. Presenting to you the Monument. We are in Hanau.
We have a camera. We always photograph the same thing: silver sugar bowl on
table with red tablecloth. Silver sugar bowl in kitchen window. Silver
sugar bowl dropped in backyard shrubbery. The sound of someone’s voice in
Hanau. The smell of her hair. We are in Hanau during the celebration. We
hold red apples in our hands. Everything is an uncanny postcard. Troubling
plants and fruits, eatable things, a palm twig in snow. Figs and capers in
our hands. Golden tangerines in our hands. When we close our eyes, we
remember objects we‘ve touched. Red fabric falling through rain. Dark water
in a cream white bathtub. We say: It pains me to record this, I am not a
melodramatic person. We chew gum, we smoke cigarettes, we drink whisky. We
eat bread, we eat pickles, we drink coffee. We remember these words: War is
no longer declared, only continued. The outrageous has become the everyday.
Thunder and crocuses. Brushing a carpet. Brushing hair. Brushing beautiful
daughters‘ hair. We leave Hanau. We travel through a dead landscape. We
smell poison ivy. The winter is cold, like winter in Vienna. We remember
the ice rink, melting, and the hands. Rathausplatz was silent like a tomb,
but glistening with soft lights. We saw children skating in circles,
quietly. We wore black dresses and black gloves. We touched things and said
Ooh! We knew the difference between violence and games. We said: Each and
every full minute bears within it the negation of centuries of lame, broken
history. Silence in audience. Red curtain down.
Text: Johanne Lykke Holm