Another seven hours of hasty ramblings through three giant exhibition halls.
Names of the artists flow through my mind.
I see detailed documents, lenghty media installations,
I see Harvey Keitel in a black room,
I see clear messages
we go hiding.
During the night I sit on the white coach behind these doors.*
White people wearing white suits drink white wine whilst listening to white incidental music and dreaming about having been Andy Warhol in a black polo shirt.
We drink enormous amounts of wine.
We ask the waitress if it's possible to dance.
No, says the waitress, this is a chill-out club, you are supposed to sit on the sofa and chill out.
So we sit on the sofa.
My colleague pretends to be Spiderwoman who attacks a rabbit hole.
I try to save poor animal with my glittery hooves.
Unfortunately my taiga the hulk-hoof boots and snaps his room key in two pieces.
Next morning my 45 year old colleague explains to the receptionist how he sat on the key accidentally. I try my best not to neigh.
* Yes, one of the flattened figures is mine.
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