Wien, about four years long.

In the Haus of Michael Heineke.

Long before I knew who he was and even longer before I watched “le Temps du Loup” in 2003, I was collecting my own material from his town; of morbidity  and  cold that prevailed in what became his “71 Fragmente einer Chronologie des Zufalls” of 1994.

I purposefully did not remove the blue B-filter on the day-light film.
My mind was feeling comfortable reproducing a color that filled with its phasmatic temperature everything.

Was it because of an individual share of guiltiness after the war and the present of neutrality from the victors?
Was their silence the prerequisite to not be included in the new history books for their atrocities?

Their politeness was not kindness. Arial supremacy dripped from every word and movement. Was their bitterness the result of an irreversible humiliation? Was it a silent resistance, the old ladies perpetuated by feeding the ravens continuously in the winter fog?
Among the people I met was the one who boasted had put ablaze our house in the village during their retreat and a man, I used to see every afternoon, had the same age with the officer who was visiting  my mother in her nightmares, from a time she was still playing with dolls.
Those were my impressions from the most secure city all over Europe according to H. Kissinger, in 1987.


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