Asami Togawa
At the time, I had the impression that the area around Lichtenberg Studios was a dark and lonely place. This was probably due to the extensive construction and road works at the nearby Ostkreuz station. The towering old water tower next to the station was eerie to me and always seemed to be watching me. I felt like an unwelcome stranger in the city. The glow of a supermarket sign amidst the dark and empty construction sites dimly illuminated the dark and empty interior of the supermarket, letting me know that there was no one to be seen in this dark and empty neighborhood. This supermarket has now disappeared.
Are 12 years long enough to change the memory of a city?
Places that were once shady and damp now glow in the colors of the season’s flowers. Landscapes are built up, dismantled, built up, dismantled, over and over again, creating layers. Most of the time you can only see the top layer, the one behind it remains invisible. But sometimes you catch a glimpse of these old layers, memories peeking through the cracks. The weather in April is changeable, cloudy one moment, sunny the next. Suddenly it’s hailing.
Some people may enjoy bumping into old places and reminiscing. But for me, walking through the countryside and recalling memories from 12 years ago was almost unbearable. When I asked people in the area about the dark and empty supermarket, they told me they didn’t know there had ever been one.
I try to build a bridge between the visible and the invisible by slightly changing the things I pick up. I want to set the temperature of memory just right from where I stand today.
