Weimar
In Weimar, a city where history has been narrated so thoroughly that most places seem to know exactly what they mean, there is an opening in the masonry of the Schlossbrücke that carries no plaque, no inscription, no prescribed meaning. Something mysterious emanates from it, something that draws me back again and again, and the young people who linger there as if momentarily occupying a gap in space and time.
Goethe and the Bauhaus, the first German democracy and Buchenwald: Weimar's official sites carry stories so thoroughly settled they can feel sealed shut. The opening in the bridge is an opening in this sense too: a space where over-determined histories give way to something alive. The photographs are the record of returning over several years to watch how the light shifts, the people change and the space remakes itself.