blue skin and green sky (2020)

I planted a seed and waited. After a while grass is growing on my shoulders. I have a small blue watering can and pour it every day. Careful I stroke it with my fingers, and it feels soft and strong. Unbelievable how such power can arise from small grains. Some stalks now tickle my ears. It feels funny and reminds me of summer picnics in my childhood. The stalks are unstoppable. Climbing up my ears reaching my eyes. They lie on my eyelids. I don’t see anything anymore. It feels good, I’m sleeping. My dreams are about picnics and hot sun, watermelons and cold water. When I wake up, my head is pounding. The grass wraps around my neck like a rope. I gasp. I fumble around blindly, stagger into the kitchen. I reach into the drawer for something sharp. I cut close to my neck, cut through the green. I can breathe and a cut later see. Viscous green stains my hands, runs down on me to the tiles. The green is everywhere, just not soft and strong anymore.  I feel guilty.


“blue skin and green sky” is a portarit of my personal climate change. It is about changing my view and still sticking to my habits. I am understanding and closing my eyes at the same time, taking a step back to go forward and looking left and right before crossing a street. It is about sunset in the morning and contradictions for breakfast. How can I live, how can I travel, how can I be and still be aware of my responsibly?