... AND WHEN MAN IS DONE? Hopefully never !..."
(from a letter to the family of May 27, 1900 )
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| Bernhard Hoetger: Tomb of Paula Modersohn-Becker Worpswede |
"For I am anything else. How big or how small, I can not even say, but it is somewhat self-contained. This incessant showers for the goal, that's the best thing in life. Which is otherwise the same. That roar, I for myself, always, constantly, sometimes just resting, nachzubrausen to return to the objectives, to consider, I pray thee, if I sometimes appear liebearm. There is a focus of my strength to the One. "
(from a letter to the mother January 1906)
A morning in Worpswede. kitsch and art. Above all, the blur of Complacency. In between little apt. Coffee and cake. Odds and ends and art postcards. The culture seekers on futile treasure hunt. As deep as No spade. The hump of the farmers writhed all over the furrow free art. Blood on the sheets in childbirth nasty stank to high heaven. With festering, purulent wounds zerhäkselten body lying on the stretcher since 1914. (. We purposely overlooked) Since breaking a ray of sunshine from the past track: Children age happiness and wisdom. Garden chairs by pseudo-columns. Sadness and anger. The global village as a museum. Clips without miracles. Sarah Kirsch writes better poetry than to pat watercolors. Sorry. I'm in high spirits and completely ungracious. Chocolate Marzipan hits the big shots of humor. Rarely so smiled. I'm ready. Not at all.
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