Bedtime Story No.6 1993
The Strike – But Life Goes On ...
Translated from German by Shaun Whiteside. Originally published in: Thomas Schütte, James Lingwood, Julian Heynen and Angela Vettese, Thomas Schütte, Phaidon, London, 1998. (Pp. 136-140).
The morning before the big exhibition was scheduled to open, the invigilators and cleaners went on an indefinite strike. The reasons for the strike were unclear even to their own spokespeople, but they all agreed that the invigilators would not watch over the exhibition, and that the Kunsthalle would be closed that day. The private view was cancelled. And the strike continued; even on the following days, visitors were turned away; “CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE”, read the sign on the door.
There was a terrific response from the press over the next few days, and a debate raged for weeks, the pros and cons weighed up at length. Speculation centred chiefly on whether art was too soul-destroying, too difficult or too boring. Art was excessively demanding on the public – or on the invigilators (which exactly was unclear). In any case, no one was willing to go on cleaning it. Almost no one, apart from the artists and curators, had seen the exhibition. Only two local news reporters had turned up for the usual press conference the previous day, but after the first coffee and without so much as a glance at the press packets and the catalogue (delivered at the last minute) they rushed to other important appointments.
No one was in a position to convey anything about the purpose of the exhibition, let alone the cause of its premature closure. The fact was that the general public had stayed away for some other, unknown reason. The few who did turn up headed straight for the cafeteria. Time and again exhibits had been damaged, and never properly repaired. Often it was impossible to tell what was authentic, what was a copy, and what work was by which artist. Anything meaningful could only be gleaned from strenuous research, and then only to initiates.
So it was hardly surprising that the very people affected by the strike, the artists themselves, joined in solidarity with the invigilators. No, the fact was that the artists had lost all pleasure in exhibiting, and so refused to exhibit their works and accept any future invitations. They simply did without them. The Kunsthalle remained closed for the next planned exhibition, and for the one after that. But life went on...
News documentaries covering the strike were soon broadcast; there were violent arguments and debates, as experts and others took the stand and blamed one another for this dreadful state of affairs. Art, they all agreed, was still important and fundamentally indispensable. When it was suggested that ticket checks and eye tests should be carried out on museum visitors, there was one brief outbreak of merriment.
From close quarters however, it was a depressing affair; none of the disputants had credible improvements to put forward. The buck was passed between the director and his striking subordinates but no one wanted to accept responsibility.
After a few fruitless months of discussion, nothing remained for any of them to do but to pack up the few works left in storage, and worry about something else. The invigilators remained stubborn, the artists unenthusiastic, and there were no strike-breakers to be found – no one was willing to face this desolate situation. The Kunsthalle remained closed... but life went on...
The few visitors who sometimes turned up in front of the building were quickly satisfied with the signs pinned up at the entrance, and continued on their way. A general lethargy grew and the situation became acceptable; nobody missed art once the original excitement had died down. However, the strike assumed forms that the invigilators had never dreamed of: they hadn’t really wanted the neighbouring museums and the Kunstverein and almost all the galleries in the area slowly to go to sleep and close down – like the newspapers, which were still bought out of habit but no longer read, and which ended up in the recycling bin. Broken televisions piled up on the streets for the refuse collectors; there was no money anywhere, and interest had died away long ago.
The idea of buying something new no longer occurred to anyone. Suddenly no one had any patience for books any more, not even illustrated books marked down on special offer. The shops closed down, one after another.
But life went on...
For some time the pubs were even more crowded and loud, the restaurants were full and the nightlife was more exciting than it had been for decades.
The cinemas had a dazzling year, they played to packed audiences round the clock, every day, every night. And no wonder: people wanted to experience something.
Musicians of all kinds did very well, and they performed concert after concert. There was a great demand to see and hear living people – just to feel something. Barely a year later, however, almost overnight, enthusiasm suddenly abated and no-one went out anymore, always staying at home. It was all a mystery, inexplicable at first...
A fairy tale-like sleep fell upon the people of the city; conversations fell silent, the streets were hushed and grew very quiet, although occasionally one heard a burst of music coming loudly from behind closed windows. Rubbish gathered in the streets, particularly in those neighbourhoods where shops and pedestrian areas were being abandoned forever. The laments of the entertainment industry were drowned in the general wailing. The laughter of the past few months was choked, replaced by tears of misery; weeping was heard everywhere. Language itself, once so varied, soon degenerated into a penetrating whimper; sharp, loud groans replaced actual words as language and meaning became animal-like. The world was an image of sorrow; some thought the world was soon coming to an end, and loud howling filled the air... But life went on... despite sounds of lamentation everywhere, children’s crying mixed with muffled arguing. In every house, new children were born. Mothers and fathers had trouble telling whether it was their babies crying or their neighbours’ newborns. A refined sense of hearing soon developed and parents could distinguish the new little voices one from the other. Soon they could also tell real from feigned distress in the omnipresent crying of children. The sounds of strangers were no longer heard, people were concerned only with themselves and their offspring, newly arrived in the world. A highly pleasurable year resulted from this curious strike, and life didn’t only go on in cinemas; every night, whispering, laughter and cries of joy filled the stairwells until the break of day. In spring and summer the parks, too, were scattered with couples in love. People made love as never before, and thousands and thousands of children were conceived and brought into the world. They were the focus of every household; everyone had plenty of time to devote to their children. The children had it good – and there were more and more of them. This state of affairs persisted for some time, and the desire to multiply multiplied. Life went on... and twenty years later...
The Kunsthalles still closed, the cinemas rotting, the last sound systems falling into permanent disrepair, the remaining books tattered and worn ... the artists from back then old and lonely, still uninterested in exhibiting, the first children grown into early adulthood ... Then, a quiet sound floated through the air, a curious noise coming closer, like an unfamiliar music, swelling into a symphony ... Human voices mingled with music, and gradually a loud, rhythmic knocking prevailed over all the other sounds. My confusion assumed forms of anxiety. Quite loudly, a voice grew audible, and ever more distinctly I heard in my ears: PPPP PP PP PPPP PP PPPPPOOO OOO OO OOOO OOOOOOOO OO OOOOO OO SSSS SSSSTTTT TTTTTTTTT TTT TTTTTT PPP PPPP PP PPP PPPP PPPPP PPPPPPPPPP OOOOOOOOOO OOOO OOO OOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO SSSSSSS SSSSSS TTTTTTTTTTT TTTTTTT.
Out of pure terror I had forgotten to put on my glasses when I leapt out of bed and, half-blind, tore open my apartment door. It was the postman, delivering my mail. Relieved, I sat down in the kitchen with the letter and took a closer look at the envelope. Recorded delivery from Dresden... very interesting...
I don’t actually know anyone there...
Exhausted, I realized: it was a dream a dream that soon fled.
The water was boiling for tea, and the radio was humming along. Yes, and life went on...