Around the corner from S-Bahn Humboldthain, down a dead-end alley through an unmarked door, three Koreans were renting out an art project workspace called AM Gallery. With no heating and a pot of Glühwein on the stove, the open pages of a guest book were fluttering blank. It was girly and gangster, arched brick-walls that led underground, ending with a reminiscence of La Bohème TB. Four Korean guys were huddled, one bold and tattooed, one long-haired and long coat and another having the face of a Japanese samurai warrior but dressed like Hipster Barbie. They were brewing, communing around bent heads but only around each other, visitors and girls were left to interpret the photography for themselves. I found myself in the mist of a Korean art scene.
When we walked out of the exhibition, we saw someone. An aspiring Korean tenor and his oversized Dunkin’ Donuts plastic bag outlining the shape of a tilted box of donuts refusing to be held horizontal. He was framed within the alley walls. The light of a neon sign cast its luminance on his swaying body as he paced in front of the entrance, calling his flatmate, unable to find the art space.
We both saw the Dunkin’ Donuts bag first and his flatmate explained, “I knew it was him from the Dunkin’ Donuts bag.”