Germany Autumn in Wolfen 15 October 2024 I first saw Wolfen in its winter coat earlier this year. As I write this, I'm looking through photos I took right after moving. One of the first shows an empty white room with a closed door and light streaming through the windows on the right. On the morning of January 17th, at nine o'clock, I woke up to find myself lying in bed somewhere in Germany, or at least that's how it felt. I barely knew Wolfen at the time, or even Germany. The bed felt like a small island lost in an unknown sea, and getting up meant accepting my new reality. Back then, I lived on Erich-Weinert-Ring. In another picture, I see the building opposite mine and the field between us. The scene is dark; the camera managed to capture just a few distant lit windows, only nine in total. A blue light glows in the stairwell, switched on by a resident who had just gone in. The windows in these photos remind me of the perforations on a film reel or photographic film. Given Wolfen's history in producing film and cameras at the Agfa factory, the comparison feels fitting. Another photo shows a panel of doorbells with the residents' names: Schmidt, Herrmann, Krämer, and me, Podivilov. Above, there are mailboxes, one of which bears the label "Podivilov Mikhail" next to a bright "Stop" sign with a bold "Keine Werbung!" warning. It was effective at keeping spam out of my mailbox. My name on the doorbell looks almost photoshopped, as the fresh, bright white label stands out against the old, yellowed ones around it. In yet another photo, a traffic light displays different signals. One is red with a left arrow, another is amber, also with an arrow, and in the middle, the little green Ost-Ampelmännchen is lit up, inviting me to cross the road. This photo stirs something emotional in me, perhaps because I associate it with my recent move. The glowing green figure seems so alive, almost as if he's about to jump out from beneath the traffic light and join me on my journey. But no, as soon as I cross, he disappears, and I must continue on, searching for another. Interestingly, all the photos I took back then share the same theme: they are devoid of people, filled with solitude. Whether I did this intentionally or whether it reflected my emotional state at the time, I'm not sure. But there are no people in the dark streets of Wolfen, where a giant field lies to the right and a road with the amusing name Verbindungsstraße (literally "Connecting Street") stretches ahead, linking the northern and southern parts of the town. There are no people in another photo, where I'm standing on the platform at Berlin Hauptbahnhof. And there's no one at Wolfen(Bitterfeld) station either, cold and soaked in rain. One of my favourite activities back then was taking evening walks after sunset, when all the town's residents had returned home and the streets were deserted. I loved strolling along Verbindungsstraße, where there were neither people nor cars, just an endless road illuminated by streetlights. I would stand in the middle of the road, taking atmospheric photos. That's how the picture I'm describing now was taken. I have a few such photos of empty streets in Wolfen, and while writing this, I've counted four. They were taken in different places but all convey the same mood. "Nächste Station auf Gleis 2: Wolfen(Bitterfeld). Ausstieg in Fahrtrichtung rechts." The clock on the display ticks towards midnight, meaning I'll soon see the empty streets of my current town again. Though, of course, that's all in the past now, as I get off at Jeßnitz, closer to Wolfen-Nord, where I now live. But the situation remains the same. The streets in this part of Wolfen seem even emptier, especially on the walk from the station to the town centre. Near my house is a DDR museum, though I've never been inside. It already feels like I'm living in a museum. At least I'm not an exhibit. So, we've walked through winter in Wolfen, let's return to autumn. Coming back from Cyprus, I immediately felt the difference, and the best word to describe it is bittersweet. On the one hand, it's cold, empty, and lonely. On the other, I'm standing in front of a small open kitchen window, looking down. The sky has a soft gradient, turning from blue to white as it nears the horizon. I see pieces of rooftops, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, and just below, a tree with its upper branches bathed in sunlight, while the lower part is enveloped in the shadow of my building. I see a cyclist passing by. Yesterday, while walking to the grocery store, I passed by a long building where only a few of the entrances are occupied, and in one, just a single resident. In moments like these, I imagine living in a post-apocalyptic world, and somehow, it makes things easier. I don't know why I romanticise this feeling. It's not that I particularly like this town, but it fits the autumn melancholy I've come to know in other similar towns. In Russia, it was Ryazan, Stupino, Zaraysk, and my hometown of Ozyory. Maybe I'm just used to it. This ambivalent mix of longing and quiet satisfaction means a great deal to me. If you could play autumn in Wolfen on a piano, it would sound like any other autumn I've experienced in these kinds of towns, except perhaps for Kutaisi, where autumn was entirely different. Here, it would sound like the adagio from Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2. And though I sometimes feel a little too isolated here, it's not so bad. I've grown accustomed to it over the years. Wolfen, like other towns of its kind, is a place where there's nothing to do but create, invent, surprise others, and surprise yourself. And as I finish writing this, the town has already gone to sleep. I suppose it's time for me to do the same. Goodnight, Wolfen. Copyright (c) 2024 contact@renecoignard.com Powered by Weblog v1.18.9