To Düsseldorf. It is an emergency I think as my Ryanair flight from Stansted bumps down. I burp and a small remnant of the tasty hot bacon baguette that I had sampled in the airport’s Est Presso restaurant dislodges itself from my teeth. It reminds me that I am still hungry and after negotiating the airport I instruct my taxi driver to go to the Schwan Restaurant as I have heard the new Frühstücksbuffet is marvellous, although even I have to admit there is a limit to the number of kleine pancakes a curator can have.
Satisfied I order the taxi to the Kunstsammlung Nordrhein-Westfalen Museum where I march in past to the front desk. I am here for the Christoph Büchel crisis meeting, I announce. “Wer bist du?” replies the heavy but still attractive junge dame behind the desk. I shall not answer! Brexit means Brexit! What is your wifi? Quick! And with that I march straight past her grabbing the small piece of paper she gives me with the wifi passcode. She looks sad but I don’t have time to comfort her. After poking around a few rooms I burst in on what must be a meeting about Büchel’s wildly ambitious project that included the museum hosting a supermarket and sleeping quarters for visitors. On one side of the table are well-dressed, bored-looking people checking their iPhones regularly. I take them to be gallery representatives. I immediately sit with them and address the weary-looking museum staff opposite me. Is it all over? They tell me it is over. And please, talk in English, Brexit means Brexit!, I say.
even I have to admit there is a limit to the number of kleine pancakes a curator can have
One of the museum staff begins. “I’m afraid it isn’t looking good…sorry, I didn’t catch your name?” Ivan, I reply. The well-dressed gallery staff sit up straighter and smile deferentially at me, although I sense a note of confusion. “Right. Ivan. Yes, I’m afraid that as we confirmed just this morning to Die Welt, Büchel’s ideas have become more complicated and complex. I’m sorry, I know as his representative you must be sad especially to fly all this way….”. No, no, you misunderstand me, I inject. I look at them all. Has Hans Ulrich been here yet? There’s a general shaking of heads in a negative fashion. Wunderbar! I yell. “I thought you said Brexit meant Brexit?” says the museum curator.
“You’re not actually ‘that’ Ivan are you…” says one of the gallery staff. Oh forget all that! I reply in my moment of triumph, reaching for my pocket and starting to take as many photos as I can of the startled gathering on my HTC One M9. I then scramble around, retrieve the wifi code and punch it in. This will teach Hans Ulrich to refuse to fly budget airlines. He’ll only get here later in the afternoon! Ha! That means this one is my unrealized project!. Wait until I get this on Instagram! Say something about the cancellation! I point the phone at the curator and she mutters something about being sad and how she perhaps should have seen the warning signs at Büchel’s Venice Biennale mosque. I post this short but moving interview immediately. This unrealised project is mine! Hashtag unrealizedproject. Hashtag Mine Mine Mine! I sit back in the chair triumphant and look around the hungry looking gathering and have a splendid idea. Anyone up for currywurst?
For previous columns by I. Kurator see here
Online exclusive published 6 September 2016
