The WILL-HAUS

Forthcoming you can see here a documentation about the making of the installation “The WILL-HOUSE”

The HOUSE-Projects are walk-in buildings, temporarily installed, which deal tangible - based on a story of life - with the traumata of the war generation and the consequences out of that until today in our everyday life.



Mister Will

The childhood in Eilbek was secure and cheerful, school was funny.
There was so much to learn and on the street it was exciting, the backyards in the neighbourhood were adventurous.

The firebomb had hit the sidewall of the living room in the floor ground, slid with a torturing squeal and remained then lying on the floor. If you would squat you could see the ruins of the next-door house that are piled up above the impact hole. But nevertheless a little bit sun was shining through. There was a burnt smell… and soon afterwards pungent sweet. When they climbed the roof the swath of destruction cleared from debris gave them a free view to the town-hall of Hamburg.

Later, after the currency reform, the rests of the stucco were pulled down with joy. The smell of paste, varnish and freshly printed wallpaper perfumed the house. The wallpapers got on top a small end strip which was plastered with a silver stamping. That was something better.

When the guests took something from the cheese plate and danced to the music of the first record player, everything was full of hope. He was proud. He was also talking to women and he was exceedingly charming.

The fine-mechanical workshop in the backyard ran well, even after the death of his parents. He had to travel for the company. Trade shows, a world exposition. He also worked together with the university. He spoke on congresses. People liked him. He wore made-to-measure suits and people found important what he was saying.
When he was tired he sat down at his grand piano. The neighbours loved his play. He liked to smoke, he read significant books sometimes, dwelled on his thoughts and lost track of time.

As his sensitive, beautiful hands slowly became more and more stiff, in other factories his skills were already substituted by machines. At some point he was no longer able to earn his daily bread and the debts stifled his breath.

Nobody should know this. He still left the house every day with his briefcase and a correct salutation to the women in the laundry shop below. Nobody saw him coming home, nobody entered his flat once again.

Many many years later, as the penetrating smell of hand-washed, on the radiator drying nappies made its way out of the joints of the warped front door into the stairwell, the hands of the kitchen clock have stopped already long time ago …

When the time came he packed his suitcase and put him on the bed.
On the way to the door he touched lightly the grand piano, paused, looked at his over the years stiffly bent fingers and had to smile. He felt the warmth of his childhood and forgot his jacket when he left the flat which had grown old together with him so hard.