... in a hotel room in which I was not supposed to be in, in a strange city in which I had no business being in, at a time when I probably would have been better off anywhere else; feeling paralysed from an indistinct pain in my guts, sharing my bed with a mutilated Proust and a rotting Bukowski – both of whom were failing to give my mind any consolation. The crying evidently came from a recording, as the skin of my face was dry and pale. It was a composition of ill-fitted arrangements I had let slip into my life, which now had led to a symphony of lonely discomfort.
It was the 7th of January 2017 when fate had dropped me in London like a dud shell."
on-site installation & audio
2017
Charlie Stein 1986, Germany. Lives and works in Steinenberg, Germany.
