Dead reigned and stuffed into home office, I am lying under a constantly thickening layer of dust in the quarter, when suddenly a young male blackbird warns into the coming spring, unimpressed by all the excitement around corona, avian or swine flu. The bird whirls freely from a leafless gray branch, which the first rays of the sun warm up and break its buds. Simply driven by the daylight that lasts longer every day, an unbroken cycle of birth, eating, multiplying, dying and of course singing in the twilight in between. A different song than last year. Modified, playful, new art. Only light rules the life cycle and art, not a manipulative shadow world made up of political intrigues, financial capitalist greed, sophisticated administrative dictatorship and dark overregulation.
And although the blackbird man's singing is meant for his lively lady, out of months of lethargy it lured me to the window to see the spring for myself. Flakes of dust swirl through the sunlight and demand unfiltered entry into my lungs. The sun and blackbird behind my window, which has not seen a cleaner for a long time, lure me into the fresh air, to sniff the spring and to cloud my pupils with pollen instead of dust. The itchy eyes remind me that I'm still alive. A tear for the long-sought freedom, a second for the art.
Dr. Marcus Schütz
biologist & writer