Es entstand eine Fotoserie und ein zugehöriger lyrischer Text zu Baudenkmälern im Raum Würzburg. Zu den melancholischen Zeilen wurden Fotos in schwarz weiß mit Vintage analogem Charakter angefertigt. Die traurige und nachdenkliche Stimmung spiegelt sich in den Aufnahmen, durch die angewendeten Stilmittel, wider.
„When I am strolling through the narrow streets of my new hometown, looking at the aged little houses I often wonder what stories they would tell if they could speak. Absorbed in bewildering thoughts. There are new houses, big or small, inconspicuous and proud, extroverted or It seems like they would twinkle withe there big bright window eyes and call out for me: We are still here! Surviving generations of people, perfect strangers passing us by. We are curious and excited about the life that surrounds us. What will be inside us, who will walk through our rooms? Will we hear children laugh or people fight?
Yet we can’t know who will bring us to life. We are still a shell, just empty inside. Sometimes I think there are more old houses then new ones. Some are well-kept like little treasures. Sure there are passionate citizen who spend all their money on keeping buildings alive that they love. Perhaps there was a wealthy man who did his duty to protect his house in order to gratify himself and his family. But some houses truly look old. Perhaps money was missing or the owner just vanished. I don’t see old walls and chipped off finery, I see buildings struck down by life. There windows look tired but mysterious. Some got blind through the ages. Sometimes I see hidden secrets , incidents that nobody knows about, babies given birth to behind those walls.
They lived, laughed, loved, cried and died in the end. Few have windows that are always kept open. There is no glass to let through the soul of an occupant who just died. Pets streak through the corridors, dogs growl, cats sit in front of the warm fireplaces. If only one of the houses could tell us its story, that would be miraculous. A house is a constructed thing made by human hand. At first glance it might not be the thing we dreamed of. But as soon as somebody owns it, it gets filled up with wishes, hopes and future dreams. Every time somebody new moves in, it changes a bit. Piece by piece. We bring it to live and determine its future. I can feel after stepping into a house if it cares for me or if it dislikes me. In some I like to pause for a while in others I want to walk out right away. It’s hard to describe but I feel unwelcome. Not by the people who live there but by the building itself. I feel as if it does not trust me. The proud houses who are restored in the minutest detail seem to choke me, I start to feel ill and maybe they don’t want me there and are sinister on purpose. Those houses should be left alone. Is it imagination, coincidence? Or is there an aura that learned his bad being out of previous occasions?“
