Berlin’s Easter(n) Island is dotted with heads, connecting the landscape in quasi-mystical tribute.
Its monuments form invisible patterns, trace mysterious footsteps of a vanished people, bonded by an identity now gone.
It's a silent world: monuments without plaques; parks without names; buildings without architects. Their symbolism, once inferred, is incompletely transferred through these gestures of wordless import.
The footsteps in the sand move in a collective direction, around and around in historical circles,
unable to stop or move on. Their figureheads stand still with resolute certainty,
while passengers jump from the impervious ship, hoping to take on some water.
They race to the mainland in separate crafts, with the tide but against each other.
As the trade routes are choked by their outbound dissolution, only stone heads remain on Eastern Island,
their mouths closed to our inquiries.
This was an attempt to put some of the feelings that I had into words while I was photographing the socialist artwork in my area. I wanted to write a few details about their history and symbolism for this blog but there were no details to find.
If you can offer any clues as to the origins of the works depicted here, please feel free to post them.