The Osteland – a home country I’ve been introduced to by marriage – fascinates me by its heaviness, severity, its turbidity, its black soil fertility. Some days when the sky hangs timelessly, soggy, and wet right on top of the flat meadows, he lolls depressed with his batting skin on the grass bed – only cows, moles and strong, red-nosed minds remain upright. Then again, on clear days, the air is like champagne, quickly meanders the river glistening in the tidal pulse. There is an inexhaustible fund of the momentary, the seemingly static, but which permanently transforms through fine, quiet and delicate changes in the most beautiful gray, blue, black, and pink tones.
