黑料不打烊

Around the white surface are various chair models that we talk about,

while some of them squeak, crack, crunch. They are held together with adhesive tape, constantly mended; fixed.

Every time again: a decision.

Every chair is a style, a stereotypical identity. It doubles when someone sits on it, when someone puts something down, when the cat jumps on it. Some are terribly uncomfortable, make our backs ache or make our legs fall asleep up to the tips of our toes. Some are so unpopular that they are broken up with a hammer. On the others, you sit down, reposition yourself, cross your legs, stretch them out.

A plan is spread out on the white surface of the table: Micro-adjustments for attention to the bull's eye, the labyrinth, the bleached A3.

A two-dimensional space, a three-dimensional speculation.

A space separated by a curved corridor with adjoining rooms without doors: a taboo for claustrophobics. To find your way through this labyrinth, you have to know how to look left and right at the same time.

Exoprotism.

Tape and a hammer won't be enough. You need different tools to defuse the traps, to find shortcuts, you need the collective, different qualities to free yourself from this concrete intestine.

The chairs in the class come and go. They never stay in one place for long and somehow seem to have a life of their own anyway.

So far, however, everyone has always found a seat and if they weren't feeling well they were repaired.