A place called Big Nothing

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The centre emerges out of the favelas, its height determined by its structure. A blue expanse stretches across the floor like a model of a city. The city as a village of huts, downtown frayed at the edges? Scraps of material suggesting urbanity? Their arrangement confirms the idea entrenched in one’s mind: areas of order and confusion in a confines space. The gaps between the tiles represent the traffic ravines, Frankfurt for amoebas: the wish for height plus the curse of the surroundings. It is even more reminiscent of the cities of the future featured in the opening sequences of digital games. Glowing colours before pink horizons, light without sources, enclaves of high-tec barbarism in the post-nuclear sand. As everyone lives in tents, the buildings in the centre are functionless, used at most as ritual places for blasphemous cults. Mad Max, the last moralist, amidst an infrastructure of war-torn scrap. Yet the blue denim, the material of dreams and trappers, doesn’t fit the picture. A field of budding flowers scenery for a Western, Dodge City? The Rocky Mountains in the attire of their conquerors, a battle formation at Little Bighorn, freedom, pack-ice, rock’n’roll? Ort he utopia of a cotton field which picks and spins itself, abolishing part of the alienating work and invalidating the blues? A place called Big Nothing? – Sweet dreams are made of jeans.
André Kubiczek In: Heike Klussmann, Hrg. Klaus Gallwitz, Schloss Balmoral, 1998