you may call it a shameless self-sale or a worthless piece of art.

it is nothing of the kind.

we are sending out a message, burning clear and bright in the nightlight of our beloved sanctuary, the last known second home of our mother superior: cafe anno

the windows of the hibernating bar mutated for an uncertain period of time into an exhibtion allowing its guesting artists to recapture the long absent limelight.

and yes: the opportunity exists to support the artist with buying their brainchilds.

xxx

Vincent Hadriga & been Orelian

a most important post scriptum:

the  project 'nachtlicht' is entirely financed by donations. if you want support the project, you can put an envelope through the door slot at the entrance of cafe anno or make a donation via paypal.

this little filmlet is made of kwɒrəntiːn

this little filmlet arose from a burst of sense

this little filmlet had too much exuberant

this little filmlet will do you no harm 

and this little filmlet cried 'room service' all the way home

<to reveal this little filmlet click on the picture>

oppressed non-vinyl-collectors,

your cries have reached the sphere of digital music lovers...

'kafka = pop' is available on digital platforms now.

'kafka = pop' is the 5th track on the latest WarHoles album 'friction | ribbon | fiction'.
the song is now available on digital platforms. this is the song's commercial clip.

<click on the picture to reveal the clip>

you cannot run from what you cannot run from anymore

separate common sense from the intoxicating flux

would it not be the answer that you forgot the question

all the last days speeches to the mirror

and I saw myself somewhere in the farther distance

deep in the reflecting inside where the unknown was lingering

the man who could save the world could not save it

he disappeared in turmoil holding his breath before entering

another vanishing demented face becoming memory

forget me

remember me

it is all good

<to reveal the video click on the picture>

I take the underground at night. to read the book in which god hates us all. this is my asylum to escape the pointless snippets of conversation and shun the search for a gap for my empty gaze.

but today I hear the laught of a little crowd among the passengers. in the first moment I do not see it is dedicated to the jacket of the book. aiming at the eyes of two pale spiritualists. I find them embarrassed looking floor. and still I am aiming at their faces with my paper crucifix. this moment belongs to me then my destination arrives.

I go upstairs the book jammed unter my arm and my hand is looking for a cigarette.

I insist.

this is the true wrath of my divinity.

<to reveal the video click on the picture>

the murmur turns into whispering. the whispering streams into a heartbeat coming from a metal box down to his bare feet. an echo resounding like a voice from outer space tempting the preacher to give you a tale from the woman on the moon.

what scent is so innocent? so unharmed? you are longing for letting dementia run. to see her fly. to witness surprises pulsing dimly as you are taking part in the fiction that surrounds us. in the imperative of friction. and the ribbon that connects us.

all the shots taken by boyhood fine art ©2020

1250 days later we decided not to leave the outside world unscathed. especially those that have not yet been infected with the inimitable sound of 'trouble beautiful trouble'. you might think that we are blowing our own trumpet. for the sceptics among you: stream. add a glass or two of red wine while listenting. darken the room or wait for sundown. either way you might get there. for the inveterately and incurably ones the same will suffice. 30,000 hours later it still had been trouble. beautiful trouble.

after all the shameless glorification we know what love we owe to our tireless supporters and the coming future ones.

kafka punk is a survival skill!

xxx
Vincent Hadriga & been Orelian

<for your ecstatic pleasure click on the picture>

gazing through the tambourine, hiding behind veil of hair, rewarding the beholder with a WarHoles'ian mien...

what stories could have been told taking their shape at the b12 in leipzig with our beloved partners in crime from baits.

the forgotten stand for the snare drum down the weeping hole that once was our haven. the severed v-belt and no damsel wearing stockings to save the van was in sight. but still there were the two spanish architects willing to kill the time. and I was hungry shopping for perceptions. I tiptoed along the corridors without missing out on watching the light  disappear behind closed doors.

where are we going you might ask.

shut your eyes little amateur and expose yourself.

it is still odd to write about the departure of our beloved drummer boy and mother superiour Ion Illus. though the request has been expressed months ago. though in all those years together never a bad word has been spoken between the three of us or nothing of the sort.
it is the little side effect called life forcing everyone to make decisions for our own benefits. change your stars and find another tomorrow. given the fact none of us three wants to get in the way of any other the remaining two respect his wish wholehearted.
but this is not the end. it is an open door to another transformation with acquainted sounds and faces and unknowns.
soon we all shall know more.

Vincent Hadriga & been Orelian