Smells von Berlin
A haphazard review of the first month in Berlin
A list of smells that transport me to spaces in Berlin
The studio I work in is on the fifth floor. Every day, I open the door leading to the lift landing and I am greeted by a smell I can only describe as an oxymoron - a mixture of freshly-cut wood and dust. As far as I can tell, there are no wooden fixtures in this quaint lobby, only a narrow flight of concrete stairs leading up to someone else’s front door. Yet, without fail, the space smells as if someone had just recently split some oak or pine in half, infusing metal and concrete with a raw, earthy scent. At the same time, it smells like dust, and I do not know what dust smells like, but if it should be anything, it would be this. The cramped space smells like neglect, like things left alone for longer than they should have been. I can see fine specks or wisps floating in the air when the sun beams through the window at just the right angle. The combination of these two opposing smells is a smell of wood that is fresh and forgotten at the same time, an oxymoron that I think quite closely characterises nostalgia.
On the balcony of the studio sits a wooden bench and a minimalistic ashtray. The ashtray is a structure of itself - it stands on its own legs beside the bench, almost like a bedside table but taller, fancier, and concave in the centre. Some days, I’d escape the inside of the studio and find myself sitting on this bench. When it had just rained, the whole world smelled damp, like laundry washed but not yet hung out to dry. But when it was sunny, I’d sit by the bench, and it would smell like nothing in particular. Then, a breeze would blow, and I would get a whiff of smoke from the pile of cigarettes long since extinguished and discarded. The ashy ends were grey and lifeless, but once in a while, the wind revived them and they breathed again, at least, to remind me of their scent one last time. I don’t smoke, and I’ve always hated the smell of it, but something about this smell, like a distant memory of cigarettes, felt comforting to me.
A Vollkornbackerei stands along the street which I walk past every day to get to work. By default, the streets of Berlin sting of cigarette smoke, piss and pollen - the irritants stuff up your nose and leave you unable (or unwilling) to breathe. But I’ve somehow been conditioned to take an indulgent inhale every time I walk past this bakery. Tiny and unassuming, the only visible thing which calls attention to it is a deep orange sign and an icon of a loaf of bread and some wheat. It needs no elaborate decor to attract its customers; when the door to the bakery swings open, a wheaty, almost buttery smell is released, and I’m hypnotised. I’m not sure if a smell can be hot, but I’m sure that’s what it is: the smell of freshly-baked bread, so fresh it smells piping hot and intensely rich. The scent cascades onto the street, enveloping the musty air; it is a warm, homely hug encased in a smell.
A photo journal of Berlin
Junk journal, bits and bobs
17. Mai, Samstag — Cafe Connect
Es war so kalt, heute. Aber ich habe so viele freundliche Leute getroffen. Ich bin so glücklich.
It was so cold, today. But I’ve met so many friendly people. I’m so happy.
I’m trying to be a someone who is a something
Yesterday, I was on the floor of Josephine’s living room, whom I’d only just met that day. She’s a friend of Eric, whom I met last week at a writers’ event, who invited me to hang out with his friends that day. We were going around, sharing our artistic works; many of them musicians, so they play on pianos and guitars with stuff they’re currently working on. I was sitting and humming along to the music Eric and Brian were playing on the piano, closing my eyes to Daniel’s song or the strumming of David’s guitar. Sara’s a psychologist, she shows us collages she’d captured various emotions, we crowded round and tried to decipher her art. I felt strangely free then. A feeling so familiar came over me — I miss the moment already, as I’m experiencing it. There’s something achingly fleeting about these things.