Friday, 24
someone once said to me:
Oh, are you indeed that good

i don't know if it was a question
or a statement
either way, yes, I am that good
but only as long as
the people around me
let me be good

if they badmouth me
or portray me in a bad light
or are jealous and nag me
i get worse or even bad

if it is short remarks
that are thrown at me
or even gossiped about
behind my back
then i will be bad

if you pass me a cold gaze
without words
you trample on me
or on what i have created
then i'm no longer good

if it is criticism though
that we then talk about
i grow and remain good


Friday, 17
That's how it is with friends. For a while you are close together, then suddenly you distance yourself. You can't really say why. It's not anyone's fault. You grow apart, interest in the other person wanes. It's like life, a coming and going.
My decision to accept the distance happens when I realize that the relationship is no longer mutual. When I notice that I'm the only one getting in touch and the other side is replying with difficulty, withdrawn and briefly. That's the moment when I decide to separate from this person. Not completely, not forever, just let go and go my own way without considering this person any further.


Thursday, 16, early morning
I am not a mother. This fact somehow haunts me throughout my life.
Okay, there was a time it didn't bother me. The time before my first visit to Africa. All in all, I was too busy and somehow I had already given up the idea of ​​having a child. In my late thirties. However, in my early forties my period and the consistency of the blood changed. I started to feel sad about it.
Still, I sometimes had hope of becoming pregnant.
The desire to have a child has been there since my first period, but I never allowed myself to give birth. In my teenage years, education and profession were the priority, and there was no question that I took birth control pills to prevent pregnancy. It was the 1970s when this hormone product became famous. You had to take it, otherwise you wouldn't have been up to date.
In my twenties it was due to lack of money. I couldn't answer the question of how to properly raise my child. In my thirties I had a miscarriage, I think it was partly due to the external circumstances, a year-long studio in Paris and living in a loft with no facilities other than those that were conducive to the arts - studio and atelier, but no hot water nor shower nor kitchen. Further I was studying at university, continued doing arts and music whilst doing some bread job.
In my forties and even fifties, I sometimes dreamed of becoming pregnant. My gynecologist, a very strong woman who had helped give birth to hundreds of children, once said to me and looked seriously into my blue eyes: you would be the grandmother.
Everywhere I read about women, about their many actions in life, it is primarily about their children. It seems that being a woman and not having given life to a new human being means not being a real woman.
Does it make me queer?
I think so. Somehow this puts me in the category of men who are incapable of doing what women do. Merely contributing semen is nothing more than what it is – an ejaculation.
But there are also the fathers who are different from non-fathers. They share the time of pregnancy with their women and are there for the children after birth. But the gap to non-fathers is not that big like the one of moms and non-moms.
I come to the conclusion that I am somethig between a mother and a man.
Anyway, I want to respect myself because that's the only way to survive. I try to love myself even though I don't have children. To be proud of being who I am.
Of course, and especially here in Africa, where having lots of children is a given,I often argue that there must be a reason (besides the reason my mother gave me my life) why I'm here - without children, though I'm not really sure.
In the western world the population is decreasing because there are many creatures like me who have no offspring. This means that the role of having a child becomes more crucial, more central and sprecies preserving.
There are still so many children in Africa, something every African is very proud of. Nobody talks about overpopulation. Talk about this comes from the mouths of white people whose countries are currently suffering the loss of children. What can I say? Maybe I'm just a human illusion. Even if I wrote a novel from a mother's perspective, that wouldn't make me a mother.

Art Space Work of the Month


Maren Schmidt-Löffler, 1958, Untitled oil on paper, 1976, 38 x 36 cm