Weißer Regen ( White Rain),2024
"The Federal Republic of Germany is one thing, the German Democratic Republic is another, a completely different thing. As long as there are hostilities and aggressions from over there, we must keep the enemy image alive."
—Karl-Eduard von Schnitzler, Chief Commentator on East German television, Schwarzer Kanal, 16th October 1989.
My visit to Potsdam’s Russian Colony in the spring of 2023 stirred an unexpected nostalgia. The wooden houses, fruit orchards, and the scent of Russian cuisine evoked childhood memories, yet this sentiment clashed with my deep disillusionment over Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. Walking through Alexandrowka, built in 1826 by King Friedrich Wilhelm III in memory of Tsar Alexander I, I felt an eerie sense of displacement. The Chekhovian atmosphere, set against the blooming orchards, transported me back to the world of Russian literature—Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Chekhov, and Kyrgyz writer Chingiz Aitmatov—whose narratives of human struggle once shaped my understanding of resilience. Soviet literature was more than cultural enrichment; it was a tool of ideological conditioning, reinforcing socialist values and cementing loyalty to the USSR. We were taught to revere our Soviet “class brothers” while the West was cast as an existential enemy. Such binary narratives—friend or foe, right or wrong—were not just ideological guidelines but state doctrine. In a totalitarian system, deviation from these rigid categories meant risking exclusion or punishment. The message was clear: Whoever is not with us is against us.
In response, I began erasing books by Soviet authors I had once cherished. This act of deliberate defacement became the foundation for Weißer Regen (White Rain), a title borrowed from Aitmatov’s collection of short stories, where white rain symbolises renewal but also the erosion of old ways. By covering book pages in white paint, I engage with the concept of historical whitewashing—how uncomfortable truths are concealed or rewritten.
Projected slides of gamma radiation training, once used in civil defence lessons, illuminate the rolled paper, referencing the militarisation of childhood. Images depicting the effects of chemical warfare on the human body serve as stark reminders of the ever-present undercurrent of indoctrination.
Weißer Regen explores the uneasy tension between nostalgia, disillusionment, and the manipulation of memory—revealing how truth is shaped, obscured, and, ultimately, forgotten.
Installation Options:
Option 1: Giclée inkjet print (80 x 60 cm) on INNOVA White Matte 285g, mounted on Dibond with split batten fixings for a floating wall effect.
Option 2: A frame (80 x 60 cm) containing 400 rolled book pages arranged in rows. A single transparent image of gamma radiation is affixed across the surface, unifying the fragmented text into a collective imprint.
—Karl-Eduard von Schnitzler, Chief Commentator on East German television, Schwarzer Kanal, 16th October 1989.
My visit to Potsdam’s Russian Colony in the spring of 2023 stirred an unexpected nostalgia. The wooden houses, fruit orchards, and the scent of Russian cuisine evoked childhood memories, yet this sentiment clashed with my deep disillusionment over Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. Walking through Alexandrowka, built in 1826 by King Friedrich Wilhelm III in memory of Tsar Alexander I, I felt an eerie sense of displacement. The Chekhovian atmosphere, set against the blooming orchards, transported me back to the world of Russian literature—Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Chekhov, and Kyrgyz writer Chingiz Aitmatov—whose narratives of human struggle once shaped my understanding of resilience. Soviet literature was more than cultural enrichment; it was a tool of ideological conditioning, reinforcing socialist values and cementing loyalty to the USSR. We were taught to revere our Soviet “class brothers” while the West was cast as an existential enemy. Such binary narratives—friend or foe, right or wrong—were not just ideological guidelines but state doctrine. In a totalitarian system, deviation from these rigid categories meant risking exclusion or punishment. The message was clear: Whoever is not with us is against us.
In response, I began erasing books by Soviet authors I had once cherished. This act of deliberate defacement became the foundation for Weißer Regen (White Rain), a title borrowed from Aitmatov’s collection of short stories, where white rain symbolises renewal but also the erosion of old ways. By covering book pages in white paint, I engage with the concept of historical whitewashing—how uncomfortable truths are concealed or rewritten.
Projected slides of gamma radiation training, once used in civil defence lessons, illuminate the rolled paper, referencing the militarisation of childhood. Images depicting the effects of chemical warfare on the human body serve as stark reminders of the ever-present undercurrent of indoctrination.
Weißer Regen explores the uneasy tension between nostalgia, disillusionment, and the manipulation of memory—revealing how truth is shaped, obscured, and, ultimately, forgotten.
Installation Options:
Option 1: Giclée inkjet print (80 x 60 cm) on INNOVA White Matte 285g, mounted on Dibond with split batten fixings for a floating wall effect.
Option 2: A frame (80 x 60 cm) containing 400 rolled book pages arranged in rows. A single transparent image of gamma radiation is affixed across the surface, unifying the fragmented text into a collective imprint.
