my grandpa was happier to have a pencil than a gold coin in his pocket. he would sharpen it and for years he would draw his lines until he would find the right one. he had no more time to waste – he had the desire, but no longer the strength. he said: I might be late for my own funeral, but just be patient, i’ll get there.
my grandpa would often recite mies van der rohe’s maxim: less is more.
when it came to nature, my grandma would state her own maxim: more is morе
my grandpa would rub his eyes and try to sharpen his gaze. he would crush the gathered salty crust with his eyelids. the world he believed in would crush his peace of mind. the faces became blurrier, the words – thornier. he could no longer believe the stories, they were always true…
