Claus Richter | Method Acting

6 April 2019 – 18 May 2019


There was once a small wooden house that lived in the middle of a busy city street. Cars used to pass it by on their way to work, and spiders used to lurk on its once wondrous courtyard. Strategically build on top of an old pagan temple, dedicated to bestial appetites and the charming malice of the human race, that curious little structure was occupied by a skillful flute player that was both handsome for the ladies and a bunny charmer at the same time. One day a gang of glossy red demons broke free from their jail on the seventh and fanciest pit of hell, just around the corner of where boring accountants, dull internet memes and Barbara live, and went after the poor flute players’ prime real estate. They puffed and they puffed, they spat and grinned until the walls came crumbling down and the windows melted into nothing but thin air that tasted like sweet cotton candy. It was theirs now; a place to call home, a new lair to have pajama parties and prank call their dad, the old geezer Dr. Satan. Unimpressed and quite unbothered the skillful flute player found refuge on the top of the roof without even missing a beat. He kept playing his tunes and whispering his tales about that time he got lost on the desert sky, looking for green fish and ham. The scene doesn’t seem to have much of an impression on the mighty gods above that simply continued with their everyday rituals of coffee drinking, army marching, general hanging and day dreaming by the town fountain. For, according to the legends, dreaming is always free.


“I’d rather dance with you than talk with you. So why don’t we just move into the other room”, said the tall dark stranger and the party took off. He and his date for the evening, a pink eyed beauty of the finest PVC, made their way to the dance-floor. They swirled, they twirled, they boogied, they shoogied and they had the time of their lives. Since they are so young they might even die and that would simply read as impolite in such an event. After a while, they got bored and decided to hop into another bar. “This is Ladies Night and no Boys Allowed Hun” said the blue walrus working the door. The tall dark stranger was forced to exit the premises and the pink eyed beauty went right through the old German corridor and entered the back club. Swinging from one chandelier to the other, burlesque-looking gay soldiers fought the worst battle of all, doing the hokey pokey, popping and locking, twerking and ass clapping.


At the end of her acid-trip she finds herself on the back-back room. It’s dark, the windows hold their breath and bite their tongue. Three pink lanterns are having a smoke break. An itchy bitchy spider keeps them company, while a group of wondering old retired stripper witches fix their wands, brooms and bra straps.


Making it through the wonderlands of this hellish paradise, a tiny dancer breaks away from the German ground floor, climbs on top of the stairs and rides a conveniently located roller coaster. Just as he reaches the peak of the ride and he’s about to dive into the abyss, he takes a deep breath and gazes down upon a jungle of a lost Amazon tribe. Instead of trees a group of fragile moon worshippers on stilts fill the space as far as the eye can see. All of them are slightly angry, nervous public speakers. Cutting through the wooden stilts, ignoring the screams, smirking at the face of danger, the tiny dancer makes his way through the chaos of day-dreamers and manages to break free. Suddenly he wakes up. With his eyes wide open, he stares at the midnight sun. A pair of gentle legs is hidden under his belly and a polka dot patterned smile hangs on for dear life on top of his mouth. His daytime nightmares are tethered with stardust, arsenic, childhood memories, meditations from the cyber-era and escapism from the future. Hitchhiking through the amusement parks of his Hyperreality, Claus Richter hides in the corner. Shhhh. Don’t wake him.


Haris Giannouras