a cold sunday at the buchenwald memorial: an earlier visitor must have dropped an origami bird into a cell of buchenwald’s ‘bunker’, this site of eccentric and vulgar violence. in an interview in the exhibition space about the concentration camp and the suffering it caused, an artist who was imprisoned here tells about the obscene and crazy colourfulness of the ‘bunker’ inmates’ clothing, discarded pieces: yellow pants, hats, red shirts; like a burlesque performance, a theatre of cruelty. in striking contradiction to this, two silently beautiful comments stand out in the musealized ‘bunker’ of this stormy day in august: the small origami bird sitting on the pallet of a former cell, as if watching over the ghosts of suffering and the memory of those who died under horrible conditions, and the pale, dried flowers in front of cell number 26.


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