Monday so far has been very very small. Small morning, small mind, small public urinal behind the train station. I think it has to do with the shortening of the Rhine. Tragic, really. The Rhine.
But Saturday was huge. At an exhibition in Bonn, I fell in love with Erwin Wurm. I did everything he asked. I lay down in a public place and thought of nothing. Balanced a bottle of toilet bowl cleaner on my head and thought about digestion. Climbed into a box.
Wurm is the discoverer of one-minute sculptures. You make them with your body, and then relinquish them. It doesn’t have anything to do with Buddhism. That's one in the photo at right. Oranges.
I stopped to write something down in my notebook. (“The house climbed up to the roof and contemplated jumping off.”)
Museum guard: Writing with a pen is not allowed.
Me: What, in the museum?
Me: Why not?
Him: Because if ink gets on the artwork, it won’t come off. There are pencils available downstairs at the desk.
Me: And if pencil gets on the artwork, it’s just as bad if you try to erase it.
I know all about the duty to fight stupidity, but I didn’t pursue it. The exhibition, after all, also concerned absurdity. And he wasn’t being a jerk or anything. Still, you’re not allowed that close to the artwork that you could write on it. If I wanted to damage the artwork, I’d bring my gun, which works from far away.
Anyway, Erwin Wurm. Excellent guy.