First there is nothing. A fine mist that dissipates slowly. The dark grey, the shiny grey, the bright grey of a bridge. A bridge, which was cut out from its surrounding is the setting of a recurring act.
Three coats are hanging in the middle of the balustrade. The minimal disorder emphasizes the geometric accuracy of the slick environment. The white surface of the sky is as impenetrable as the clear geometry of the grey concrete. A scenery, where every noise bounces off: the shrill screeching of the seagulls, the firm trapping of feet. It’s a rite of restlessness, a rite of escape. Nobody knows what drives them. Four people, who do not speak. They know each other for a long time. They run, every day. Until one of them leaves. They are prepared for this farewell. Like an athlete who finally enters the field. Three people, who do not speak. They know each other for a long time. They are waiting. It’s quiet. Wind is blowing. It’s almost impossible to hear their steps on the grey concrete.
Three pairs of gloves on the concrete shore. They belong to the three, who are sitting there, staring at the water. Perhaps their restlessness has gone. Perhaps they are just pausing for a short while. Three sites, three pairs of gloves, three coats and the grey bridge. Then nothing.