We
should
talk
more
often
about
the
things
we
cannot
explain When
my
Dad
came
to
pick
me
up
from
Rotterdam,
we
spent
our
time
being
practical.
I
wanted
to
show
him
all
the
important
places.
We
carried
boxes
and
loaded
the
car.
I
worked
at
double
speed
so
he
wouldn’t
have
to
climb
the
stairs
repeatedly.
We
were
fast
the
whole
weekend. My
parents
are
of
a
generation,
or
maybe
an
upbringing,
where
it
is
a
big
deal
to
travel,
to
eat
out
and
to
not
make
plans
for
the
day. I
was
practical
and
fast
and
tried
to
make
it
as
irritation
free
as
possible.
When
we
got
to
the
studio,
no
one
was
really
there.
We
argued
about
taking
my
bike,
“Doc”,
home.
It
was,
and
is,
the
best
bike
I
have
ever
owned.
He
told
me
not
to
be
silly,
it
had
no
gears.
I
cried. My
Dad
has
always
hated
seeing
me
cry.
He
tried
to
fold
it
as
it
was
meant
to.
It
broke. It
was
all
I
had
left,
and
you
helped
me
leave
it
behind.
=> info | Construct a last
Exhibition: The Last Performance [dot org] @ Haus Der Kulturen Der Welt