My poor, neglected blog. I can never do enough to satisfy your desires, your needs, your demands.

I am currently logging in from a university computer lab in Central London. I am visiting my roommate and best friend from Paris. It seems like no time at all has passed between us and I still love talking with her. My first full day here (Friday) I went to the open day at the Courtauld Institute to discuss the masters in curatorial studies program with their faculty. Next Wednesday is the open day at the Royal College of the Arts, which I also look forward to attending. Yesterday's dismal weather didn't pull me away from the university compound until nearly 3:00, when Cat, her friend Daisy, and I went out for Thai and carrot cake.

I don't like London nearly as much as I did the first time. Especially compared to Berlin, it seems very... superficial. It is incredibly expensive, crowded, and stylish. It doesn't feel European (I can't find a decent cafe or bakery). It is a city of lights and waste, a city of excess, yet the pubs close at 11 pm and the clubs often charge 10£ for cover. It really isn't the environment for me unless I want to shop all day and spend, spend, spend. Which I don't.

So, back to Berlin. I really do love the city and hope to stay. I'm presently looking for a job and a flat... even just for December. I have met quite a few incredible people already. The galleries are friendly and very helpful. Each one took my CV and recommended other places to try. However, everyone agrees it will be very tough to live and work in the city without knowing German for practical reasons.

I spent three or four days working at the re:place conference for art, media, and science histories. I spent another full day walking around the Mitte gallery district and another day seeking out the newer galleries, which are scattered around the city. I haven't spent any more time in Kreuzberg. I did go out one night to windowshop at Kastanianalle, where I found a pair of boots. I fear the cow-girls aren't going to make it much longer, even though I just had the soles replaced.

One night I went to a CS-er's flat. We all helped with dinner (beer-battered zuccini, potatoes, and more). Another night and another CS-er introduced me to Scotch and Sofa, my all-time favorite bar for reasons that should be quite obvious.

I'm really pumped about the whole situation. Most of my anxiety has fallen away since I've developed alternative plans. I actually have quite a few goals, all perfectly reasonable, some short-term and others looking years ahead. I am ready to fend for myself, but with the nurturing Berliner environment, I don't think I will be alone.

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Although it won’t read any differently to you, this entry will take an especially long time to type. That is because my hands (and eyes) are busy devouring a plateful of Thai sweet and sour chicken. Apparently the city’s best Thai restaurant is only one block away, but that will have to be saved for another night. For now, I’m settling for mediocre takeout. To the deprived palate, it couldn’t be any tastier. The only other thing I’ve eaten today was a carefully rationed king-size Hershey chocolate bar, a last-minute purchase from DTW.

The flight from Detroit to Frankfurt went just fine. There weren’t any personal movie screens built into the seats like on Northwest, but the plane was nearly empty and each of us had a row on which to stretch out. After snoozing another hour in the Frankfurt airport and then another on the connecting flight, I arrived in Berlin. Let me tell you, what this city does not lack is housing. No wonder it’s so cheap. Like most European cities, Berlin is low and sprawls for miles. However, from a view above, the apartment buildings stack like a Monopoly hotel orgy.

When the machine that distributes bus tickets was only in German (and wouldn’t accept my credit card), I began to regret the whole trip here. What was I thinking? Whatever it was, it was in English, French and even a little bit of Spanish – everything but German. Then two women came to my rescue. One actually looked like an old GSI and the other a girl I once met in New York. They spoke English and argued with the bus driver when he demanded exact change. The “GSI” ended up paying for my ticket.

I feel that I look like every other twenty-something girl in this city. They all have distinctive vintage boots, wool peacoats, and short haircuts. Of course, most of them are blonde and have a couple inches on my 172 cm frame. It also seems to me that nobody has perfected the bedhead hairstyle better than the male Berliner.

After maneuvering the bus route and U-Bahn, I met Sergio, who owns the apartment I’m staying in. He is Peruvian and multilingual (German, English, Spanish, and French). He is an artist and writer, and participates in an art collective that runs their own gallery. My room has a strong Internet connection, a stack of art magazines, Sergio’s photographs and a little balcony strewn with weathered Tibetan prayer flags. The other room will be let out to a friend of his who will act as an artist-in-residence. In two weeks the apartment will be opened to the public to exhibit the installation she creates.

I took a couple of minutes to settle and then Sergio and I left to attend a discussion at an independent art institution, NGBK (Oranienstr. 2). The lecture and discussion series is following a workshop that was hosted this past week in Berlin. Sergio's friend, the one who will be moving into the room next to mine, was one of the participating artists. Representatives from art academies all over Europe and Latin America came together to discuss Derrida’s theory of a condition-less university. Each day, they would simultaneously participate in a discussion and create their work collaboratively as a response. The curator and director of the project, Bettina Steinbrügge, led the discussions. She curates with this idea of a subjective academy and values the individual mind most when it’s matched up against another. In short, by posing the right questions, she too became an artist, because the line separating curatorial direction and artistic production blurred to the extent that it became impossible to determine what exactly was the product (the art object? The knowledge exchanged or, even better, created from the discussion?). So tonight Bettina presented on this, specifically “subjective academy-forms of knowledge production in artistic and curatorial practice.” Afterward, our discussion went from critiquing the institution of critiquing institutions (what it means to do this, what generation of critique we are presently in, how to define an institution, and what Derrida means by destruction versus creation) to the Adornoian difference between creation and production as it applies to secondary education. Because the crowd was made up of dozens of nationalities, the discussion was held in English.

Someone brought up the excellent point that, these days, almost all knowledge is being created in non-academic scientific institutions (think private technical programs). Somewhat unrelated, Bettina said she read a study that determined Germany would peak economically if only 10% of its population were among the very educated (that is, acquired a masters or doctoral degree). It was so inspirational to see a group of intellectuals and artists together to discuss theory in a way that directly applies to the real and practical side of artistic production and presentation and that a good portion of the crowd was actively participating and debating. Nobody acted stubborn or ran out in a huff. People took the time to reflect on what was said and to respond thoughtfully. I have never been so excited to go to grad school. I honestly can’t remember the last time I was this intellectually tickled.

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A young man is on his way to a rendezvous with a young woman, to whom he intends to say that he finds it useless, harmful, wasteful and monotonous that they continue to see each other. In reality, he has never loved this young woman, but felt for her a sequence of feelings of gallantry, devotion, admiration, hope, perplexity, detachment, disappointment, irritation. Irritation is now quietly slipping over into a form of bland and demeaning pique, since he supposes that the woman is in some way unwilling to forget him, and he fears that within her life he as assumed a dignity which he finds alarming. Reviewing the series of feelings he has felt for the young woman, he recognizes that at times he behaved with excessive fragility, and had hoped... had hoped what? He had hoped that both of them were different, and that they had possessed a space in which to invent a relationship; he admits that a part of his dilemma doesn't depend on her, but on his own behavior, laughably fantastic and irresponsible.

At the very same moment, the young woman is making her way to the rendezvous, firmly intending to make everything clear. She is a woman with a love for simplicity and clarity, and she feels that the imprecisions and ambiguities of a non-existent relationship have gone on too long. She never loved that man, but must admit to having been weak; to a lack of caution in the way she had asked for his aid; to having tolerated the growth of a tacit misunderstanding in which now she feels herself unfairly trapped. The woman is irritated, but prudence advises that she only be decided and calm. She knows that this man is a creature of emotion, a fantasizer, capable of seeing things that are not there, and of trusting in such things with a faith no less constant than empty and unfounded; she also knows this man to have a high opinion of himself, and to be inclined to lie simply to prevent it from suffering humiliation. So, she will be prudent, benevolent, clear-headed.

Punctually, the young man and woman approach their appointed meeting place. Now they have seen each other, have greeted one another, with a gesture in which habit has replaced cordiality. Having reached a distance of only a couple of yards from one another, each halts to survey the other, attentively, in silence; and both are suddenly overwhelmed by a fury of joy, as both understand, and know, that neither of them has ever loved the other.

Giorgio Manganelli, "Centuria"

Who else but an Italian?

The Pit of Babel

Es muß ein Fortschritt geschehen...
Wir graben den Schacht von Babel.

Some progress must be made...
We are digging the pit of Babel.
(Franz Kafka)

I am Katie Sharrow-Reabe and I am interested in structural and social architecture. Linguistic and cultural translation. Progress through retrospection. Subliminal and subterranean connections. And I would like you to help me put these fragments into a hole.

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