I am walking slower than I usually would. It feels both good and ungewohnt. I am struggling to accept that it takes me longer to get somewhere. The temperature probably slightly below zero, very little wind. Sunny, blue sky, not a single cloud in sight. So cold that I start to walk faster again. Now, walking faster is uncomfortable. More than tolerating the cold. I return to my slower pace. It is quiet in the streets of Kreuzberg on this early Wednesday afternoon. Ungewohnt as well.

I enter the small frame shop right off Kottbusser Brücke. I’ve been here before. The last time, I didn’t know how to frame the small painting that I have with me. I received it several months ago. Its title is You’ll feel it when it’s not right. After hibernating in the drawer of my desk, I have noticed over the past days how it wanted to come out, be framed and hung on my wall.

A woman, maybe 40, with curly dark hair, greets me warmly from the corner of the shop. I tell her I have an appointment at 2 PM. She moves over to a large counter on the other side of the room. I take the painting out of its envelope and place it on the counter.
She asks me if I already have something in mind. I would like to have a very simple rather dark wooden frame. Passe-partout or no passe-partout? Yes, with a passe-partout.
She lays out a small selection of passe-partouts in different shades of white, and a handful of different simple, brown wooden frame samples between us.

Two men enter. The woman looks at them. They say they would like to pick up framed artworks.
The woman apologizes, says she needs to help them real quick, and tells me I can already play around with the frames and the passe-partouts to see what I like. I intuitively choose a soft off-white passe-partout, place it above the painting and hold the different frame samples on top. One of them feels right.

The woman returns to the counter and says she will go back and forth between me and the two men. I tell her that I am not in a rush and that she can help them first. I have another look at the painting and the frame samples. I am even more certain now about the frame and passe-partout.
I turn around and let my gaze wander through the room, across the various framed artworks, over to the smaller, lower counter to my right. A bug crawling slowly across it attracts my attention. I wonder if it has a destination or if it is exploring aimlessly. It calmly ascends the open book on the counter and moves over the pages.

After six, or maybe seven minutes, the men pay and leave. The woman returns, thanks for my patience. I tell her I already know which frame and passe-partout I would like. She smiles, and brings two more samples in different colors than the one that I chose, in different widths and depths. The color I chose is available in these sizes — just not as samples.
I try all of them. I am uncertain for a moment because they are not in the color I chose.
The one that has the smallest depth and width suits best. The woman agrees. I enter my personal information in her laptop. She tells me I can pick up and pay in about four weeks. I thank her. She thanks me. We wish each other a nice remainder of the day. I leave.

Ohrenbetäubender thunder. A single light bulb hanging from the at least ten meter high ceiling in the middle of the former boiler house. Approximately 20 speakers hanging from the ceiling, surrounding the light bulb. The sound of rain, and noises that resemble distant screams of monkeys. A strobe light flashes once, twice, intensely. I wander around, pause under the lightbulb. Go to one corner, soak in the sounds. Walk across the room again, in constant slow motion.

Two men enter. They wander around the room, just as I did. I sit down on the only bench in the room, against the wall next to the entrance. The thunderstorm becomes more quiet, more distant. The men exchange a few words, standing still, not too far away from the lightbulb in the center. The sounds stop entirely. The men leave.

The sounds start again after a while of silence. The stroboscope flashes again. I recognize some sounds. I have experienced the entire sequence once. A woman enters. I leave.

I head back to the main building of the KINDL and enter the staircase, down to the basement, to drop off my jackets in a locker. Soft instrumental music playing in the locker room. I return to the staircase and walk up the stairs. When I arrive on the first floor, a couple in their early 20s approaches, passes by and disappears into the elevator. I look around. There is no one else except for one staff member sitting on a chair in a corner, immersed in a book.
The exhibited sculptures don’t appeal to me. I don’t dislike them either. The way they are presented does appeal to me. Every piece has room to breathe. Walking between and around the sculptures comforts me; as if I walked through a zen garden.

I leave the first floor through the staircase and ascend to the second floor. As I enter, I am surprised and mildly overwhelmed. Videos, noises, paintings, projectors, colors. I pause and take in the atmosphere which, despite the sensory overload, is welcoming. Moments later, a staff member appears and sits on a chair that had been previously just occupied by a book.
I stand in front of a screen that is hanging on a wall close to the entrance. I put on the headphones that hang below it and watch the video that is playing. A minute after the video has arrived again where I started watching it, I put back the headphones and slowly walk across the exhibition space. TVs on the floor, projections on walls, sounds from different videos intertwining, blending into each other, barely any free space on the walls. Everything has its own place. I don’t know what to focus on.
I examine a few of the artworks. Some attract me as they show motives of large cities. Potentially New York or Tokyo, with a lot of people. I am curious to explore more. However, I notice that it is impossible to take in more. I look at a showcase with lots of different handwritten notes, tickets, leaflets. One of them says don’t be afraid to go back to the basement. I head for the elevator, press -1, and ride down.
I go back to the locker room, get my jackets and leave.

On my way out, I remember a piece of the conversation between the woman and the two men at the frame shop. When the woman showed them their framed artworks, she said something like ‘Don’t they look good in these? These frames make them look even better.’ The men agreed.
The woman proceeded: ‘That’s what we really try to show people — how much of a difference a good frame makes.’

I am walking slower than I usually would. It feels both good and ungewohnt. I am struggling to accept that it takes me longer to get somewhere. The temperature probably slightly below zero, very little wind. Sunny, blue sky, not a single cloud in sight. So cold that I start to walk faster again. Now, walking faster is uncomfortable. More than tolerating the cold. I return to my slower pace. It is quiet in the streets of Kreuzberg on this early Wednesday afternoon. Ungewohnt as well.

I enter the small frame shop right off Kottbusser Brücke. I’ve been here before. The last time, I didn’t know how to frame the small painting that I have with me. I received it several months ago. Its title is You’ll feel it when it’s not right. After hibernating in the drawer of my desk, I have noticed over the past days how it wanted to come out, be framed and hung on my wall.

A woman, maybe 40, with curly dark hair, greets me warmly from the corner of the shop. I tell her I have an appointment at 2 PM. She moves over to a large counter on the other side of the room. I take the painting out of its envelope and place it on the counter.
She asks me if I already have something in mind. I would like to have a very simple rather dark wooden frame. Passe-partout or no passe-partout? Yes, with a passe-partout.
She lays out a small selection of passe-partouts in different shades of white, and a handful of different simple, brown wooden frame samples between us.

Two men enter. The woman looks at them. They say they would like to pick up framed artworks.
The woman apologizes, says she needs to help them real quick, and tells me I can already play around with the frames and the passe-partouts to see what I like. I intuitively choose a soft off-white passe-partout, place it above the painting and hold the different frame samples on top. One of them feels right.

The woman returns to the counter and says she will go back and forth between me and the two men. I tell her that I am not in a rush and that she can help them first. I have another look at the painting and the frame samples. I am even more certain now about the frame and passe-partout.
I turn around and let my gaze wander through the room, across the various framed artworks, over to the smaller, lower counter to my right. A bug crawling slowly across it attracts my attention. I wonder if it has a destination or if it is exploring aimlessly. It calmly ascends the open book on the counter and moves over the pages.

After six, or maybe seven minutes, the men pay and leave. The woman returns, thanks for my patience. I tell her I already know which frame and passe-partout I would like. She smiles, and brings two more samples in different colors than the one that I chose, in different widths and depths. The color I chose is available in these sizes — just not as samples.
I try all of them. I am uncertain for a moment because they are not in the color I chose.
The one that has the smallest depth and width suits best. The woman agrees. I enter my personal information in her laptop. She tells me I can pick up and pay in about four weeks. I thank her. She thanks me. We wish each other a nice remainder of the day. I leave.

Ohrenbetäubender thunder. A single light bulb hanging from the at least ten meter high ceiling in the middle of the former boiler house. Approximately 20 speakers hanging from the ceiling, surrounding the light bulb. The sound of rain, and noises that resemble distant screams of monkeys. A strobe light flashes once, twice, intensely. I wander around, pause under the lightbulb. Go to one corner, soak in the sounds. Walk across the room again, in constant slow motion.

Two men enter. They wander around the room, just as I did. I sit down on the only bench in the room, against the wall next to the entrance. The thunderstorm becomes more quiet, more distant. The men exchange a few words, standing still, not too far away from the lightbulb in the center. The sounds stop entirely. The men leave.

The sounds start again after a while of silence. The stroboscope flashes again. I recognize some sounds. I have experienced the entire sequence once. A woman enters. I leave.

I head back to the main building of the KINDL and enter the staircase, down to the basement, to drop off my jackets in a locker. Soft instrumental music playing in the locker room. I return to the staircase and walk up the stairs. When I arrive on the first floor, a couple in their early 20s approaches, passes by and disappears into the elevator. I look around. There is no one else except for one staff member sitting on a chair in a corner, immersed in a book.
The exhibited sculptures don’t appeal to me. I don’t dislike them either. The way they are presented does appeal to me. Every piece has room to breathe. Walking between and around the sculptures comforts me; as if I walked through a zen garden.

I leave the first floor through the staircase and ascend to the second floor. As I enter, I am surprised and mildly overwhelmed. Videos, noises, paintings, projectors, colors. I pause and take in the atmosphere which, despite the sensory overload, is welcoming. Moments later, a staff member appears and sits on a chair that had been previously just occupied by a book.
I stand in front of a screen that is hanging on a wall close to the entrance. I put on the headphones that hang below it and watch the video that is playing. A minute after the video has arrived again where I started watching it, I put back the headphones and slowly walk across the exhibition space. TVs on the floor, projections on walls, sounds from different videos intertwining, blending into each other, barely any free space on the walls. Everything has its own place. I don’t know what to focus on.
I examine a few of the artworks. Some attract me as they show motives of large cities. Potentially New York or Tokyo, with a lot of people. I am curious to explore more. However, I notice that it is impossible to take in more. I look at a showcase with lots of different handwritten notes, tickets, leaflets. One of them says don’t be afraid to go back to the basement. I head for the elevator, press -1, and ride down.
I go back to the locker room, get my jackets and leave.

On my way out, I remember a piece of the conversation between the woman and the two men at the frame shop. When the woman showed them their framed artworks, she said something like ‘Don’t they look good in these? These frames make them look even better.’ The men agreed.
The woman proceeded: ‘That’s what we really try to show people — how much of a difference a good frame makes.’