Meyer in Köln— RHEINLAND
There’s a house inside the house: it’s my bed.
I designed it years ago, slightly raised and closed by a sliding screen in perforated wood, like the screens of medieval Japan. It is a bed but also a boudoir, or a closet, it depends how you look at it. I built it in 1995, when the woman I was living with went on her way. I’ve lived here for 40 years: the apartment from my student days, in what was once a Jugendstil glassworks, has become something else; and now every book, every painting, reminds me of what I have lived and loved. Especially the paintings. Also because my job is to make museum installations for the exhibitions of artists. When I hung the first large painting I had purchased, a female figure, it was like suddenly having a roommate, a presence in the house. Actually I live alone, I seldom invite people over, just a few friends. Yet the zone of the house I like the best is the kitchen. Because as someone has said – I can’t recall their name – at a party the most interesting things happen in the kitchen.
Two books, three continents, thirteen cities, twenty-five homes.
