We travelled as four into Morroco. Our van broke down in Saragosa, Spain, we fixed it in Tangier. My main memory is the little bumb we did when arriving at the port in Tarifa in south of spain. One night in a hostel right at the Strait of Gibraltar that disconnects Europe from Africa by only 13 km.
We leave early in the morning, barely a jog from the hostel. We step onto the ferry, leave the van in the belly and enjoy the ride. There is an old american memory anchored in this part of the world. Jimmy Hendrix, the beat generation all had reported on the oriental promise it holds.
After some relaxing days in the high atlas, with hikes and camping, I travelled off towards Marrakesh, buzzling City of سوق . Find a sweet stop at Essouria and travel back to the inner Atlas.
Cities like Fes and Meknes
It takes long busride to get here, one of them peaking at 12 hours. The latter one a city with little tourist ambition remains still as daily life sweeps through it lightfilled corners.
As I made my days through the city and tried to capture something that felt more life like than the globalized frontlines of Hallo, Guten Tag! Möchten Sie … etwas kaufen? to kind hearted, warm, people, genuine exhaustion and a secret place for pride.
Photographing people in their work environment resembles an intrusion in privat space. The instruments are laid out, the cat is watching, the hissing from a motor and the fire burning, here is hardly place for a bystander. The Heat from the sun and half a working day has the dark room burning. Colours are beeing created from the depth of a reverse circular pyramid bowl. The wool later strung up on a coat rack to be swung in again.
I have walked deep into the bazar. The tourists are gone, it’s wuzzing with activity but only the occasional scream prices wares to be processed and resold at the front. Here is the heart of the bazars own production.
In an attempt for fresh air i leave the labyrinth of hallways toward the back exit. A friendly bookstore owner allows me to take his photo. Outside is for breaks. Inside is for work. Throughout the alley workshops burn, hammer, saw. Someone asks me for money. The stark reality behind the bazar is a slight mix of poverty, opportunity and people easing with calm towards the unknown.
The photo marks an especially composite time in my life where i was not anymore and had not yet become. As Covid-Sars 2 had hit society with no remedy and little outlook for what would happen next, i do not want to determine what the future is gonna look like.
Days in quarantine pass as if walking through spilled honey. Time pressures my mind and yet days go by without change. The temporarilty of theatre had made it difficult to chronicle the moments of past sucess as little more than a picture or video.
With only traces available, i want to favour what is documented best. In this way, this blog does not cover the enteirety of what i work or do as a hobby. But only what i liked the most in either one of them.
With a vibrating groove i followed Padrema through Kreuzberg in Berlin. With their own tracks and covers from Khruangbin, we stopped ever so often to set up camp for a few live recordings. Initially the last stop would have been our first but the police crossed this idea before we could begin. With a new plan and a compelling combination of companions and onlookers an evening well spent.