Rebecca Wilton/Sven Johne
Sunny Moon
FEB 17 – MAR 5, 2011

Reflections of an Echo Wall

Sunmoonsunmoonsunmoon. To me it’s just a blink, to you it’s night and day. Apparently you all disappear over night.

It’s not my way, to begin on my own. I’m kind of a copy-cat. But when no one shows up anymore, what’s left for me to do? I did get used to your voices, to your "Hello"s, your yodels, and the high ranking "Who are you?"

One time one of your smart alecks came. He asked "You or me, who has no autonomy?" That was mean. I had to answer "me". However — what is superior than an echo wall? If you look at it literally, the "me" that reflected back to him was not my "me", but his. Did you really think you could hear me? Or do you want to hear yourselves? Yourselves in me?

You’ve hardly begun thinking of something, and it disappears. I thought about the glacier that covered me, and it melted. I asked myself, what do these big animals at my feet live on, and the last one of them fell down, with a big "thud." ..."udd!" I said. Then that was over as well. 

Then you came. First on foot, then in busses. At the beginning it was amusing. The perpetual shouting. As if you wanted to teach me to speak, like a colorful bird. I admit it, at some point I was annoyed. Recently when another one of these busses parked underneath me I thought, soon they’ll be climbing up and yelling at you. The car radio below was on and playing a commercial. A shrill voice sang, "Everything must go!" I had to answer. "Go!" rang through the valley. And again, "Go! go! go!" Maybe this time I let it get too loud. The hikers froze. The radio went silent. They ran away and vanished. Since then I have never heard from you again.

At the beginning you still think it’s your own fault. However, everything must pass. You, and eventually me. Maybe some colorful bird will come around again and shout your "Hello!" at me. Maybe his offspring. But then it will become quiet for good. The silence, which I am a part of, makes me shudder. It will remain. Sunmoonsunmoonsunmoon.

Sebastian Orlac, Berlin 2011