The drowning man clutches at every straw, not knowing that he‘s swimming in slurry

When I arrived at the farm in rural Austrian “Waldviertel” on an autumn day, with the woods hanging in their misty shroud, the hen and the farmer were already expecting me. Both were not uncommon to me, since I grew up on a farm myself. The hen cackled merrily on the dunghill, not knowing that the stockpot was already prepared. The farmer made his circles alone, among the animals that were going to be sent to the block. Being the sole ruler over cattle, pigs, chicken, and the moles on his fields, yet also servant, the farmer had always been his own master. It was no wonder that different realities collided soon after we moved into his kingdom with cheers. Suddenly, a second cock in the henhouse, where only one had been during his lifetime. He was particularly taken with the stage director‘s red jacket; it indicated attack. And the fearful question: Who will the hens follow now? Maybe even a hostile takeover threatens?

Cameras were mounted, mics were installed, the pig‘s head was targeted, the dunghill was gauged. The kitchen was confiscated. The farmer didn‘t know what hit him. His body and his farm, with no blade of grass fitting between them, were subjected to the camera‘s dictate. The nights grew longer and longer, the day grew shorter and shorter. The cow doesn‘t allow touching its udders anymore; everything seems bewitched. The confusion didn‘t seem to come to an end. Nothing but picture; realities were pushed back and forth, were adapted, discarded again, and finally composed anew. The farmer defended his way of looking at things; an ox is an ox; it‘s simply not a bull.

And when, finally, the beloved car of the beloved director slowly but surely rolled downhill and purposefully, like navigated by the farmer‘s hand, hit the stable walls, the mole had swallowed enough earth as well. The struggle went back and forth. There art, here the order of things; there uncertainty, here the law of the market. The pig squeaked, the cat hissed, the hen jubilated, the dunghill vibrated, the ox has run amok.