The Letters
Every month, letters leave Berlin. They carry things — found, made, or divided. Each one is different. Each one is yours alone.
Some things are found — on flea markets, in estate sales, on the street. A photograph of someone no one remembers. A coin. A handwriting on a napkin.
Some things are made — pressed flowers from a Berlin garden, small prints, a sketch without purpose. Sometimes a short text. A line from a poem, given a new shape. My mark on something that was already alive.
And sometimes something is divided — cut into pieces, numbered,
each piece sent to a different person in a different part of the world.
A photograph of the whole is included. You hold a fragment of something larger — and somewhere, others hold the rest.
Separated — and yet united.
A letter leaves Berlin. It arrives somewhere in the world. It opens something — a memory, a feeling, a story. And then it can travel back.
What do these things remind you of? Write to me. Send me a photograph, a drawing, a recipe, a note. Anything that fits in an envelope. It will rest for a while — and then travel on, into another letter, to another part of the world.
No plan. No algorithm.
The things find their way.