The sun shines until late afternoon in the flat on the 14th floor. The view over the city. A panoramic view. Looking through the window in the evening, you can watch the sunsets, the city and the city’s northern outskirts with the motorway. The windows are dirty.
Sounds of the city: cars, the underlying noise of the motorway and aeroplanes that cut through the sky. Atmospheres: cool air, sunlight and the monotonous sound of the city, dusty streaks on the window panes that blend with the red of the evening sky.
Someone turns around. Picks up the camera. Perhaps from the desk drawer that is built into the wall cabinet. The colour film is inserted. On it there are already several sunsets and sky views with clouds. Then a photo of the armchair that stands by the window. From here, the view of the sky.
The city can only be guessed at when lying down. Aeroplane vapour trails show how near the city is. The view into the empty sky behind thick glass, soundproofed.
The light is sketched onto the surface of the armchair. Square shapes. Soft velour leather. A designer piece of furniture for looking into the distance. And still this loneliness. In the things that seem to speak of us, because we own them and need them. They reveal something, something of our existence.
Melancholy of the everyday kind. Unfulfilled desires for a different life. For foreignness in one’s own existence. A reclining armchair with a view into the empty distance on the 14th floor of a high-rise. Countless sunsets as the backdrop panorama of a life.