On the way to the artist's house, there are no fixed roads and no exact locations where he wants to shovel his work of art out of the pile of hot sand. For the three of us, the trip becomes a lost journey.
At some point we are exhausted from the drive and the heat and our knowledge of navigation is at an end. The three smart ones in the car ask themselves, what are we going to do now?
No tree, no bush, no house to guide us.
Which way do we go? Are we going back?
Then one of us heaves a sigh that ultimately helps all of us: "now we've come this far". We look at each other, wipe the sweat from our foreheads, drink a sip of water, drive on into nowhere and finally arrive at some point.
With everything that buzzes through and around the human brain, whether infinitely far or infinitely near, whether with the quietly breathed question, "is there a God", with the drums, trumpets and cymbals of the Tibetan monks, whether with the brush in front of the canvas or with the baton in front of the lectern, with the cannon thunder in front of the front doors, or with the breath catching of Hölderlin, in everything it is so and so our home, the hand in the grass and the gaze in the blue.
© J. G:
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