Tag: Memory

Day 12, Hadron Super Collider Theorem
Sometimes, we just end up watching too much Big Bang Theory.

Portia: When we go to Switzerland, can we go and see the Hadron Super Collider?

Ian: Why not? Though I don’t know what I’m going to do with it.

P: I said see it not play with it.

Pause.

P: Can I put you inside the Hadron Super Collider?

I: You want to vaporize me?

P: …

I: I will move in the speed of light and I will get vaporised.

P: Superman moves faster than the speed of light.

I: I’m not a super hero. I’m human.

P: I thought you were a Green Lantern.

I: I’m still human. I will still get vaporised.

Another pause.

P: So theoretically, we can go back in time. We’ve found a way to move in the speed of light, we just need to move a bit faster than that, then we can go back in time.

I: Only if you can find a material that won’t get vaporised while moving in the speed of light. And create a container out of that material that can maintain the air pressure while moving at that speed. Trains can go faster than they do but they limit the speed to the capacity of humans.

P: We can get materials from the planet Superman is from, his clothes don’t get vaporised…

I: What planet is that?

P: Hmm… KRYPTON! Planet krypton! What if we can make a container out of metal from planet krypton that humans can ride faster than the speed of light to go back in time?

I: Is there a guarantee that moving faster than the speed of light will actually bring you back in time? We don’t even know it yet. Whose theory is that again? Einstein?

P: Is it part of the Theory of Relativity? I’ll have to look it up.

Long pause. Preparing to go out.

P: What are they trying to do with the Hadron Super Collider anyway?

I: They’re trying to find the god particle.

P: How?

I: They’re colliding two atoms at the speed of light to find the god particle.

P: Are they relying on the law of big numbers to find the god particle?

I: I suppose so. There are billions of possibilities. So they keep on colliding two atoms at the speed of light to eventually find the god particle.

Pause.

P: Let’s go check out Cat Café?

I: Why not?

====================

Our whole universe was in a hot dense state,

Then nearly fourteen billion years ago expansion started. Wait…

The Earth began to cool,

The autotrophs began to drool,

Neanderthals developed tools,

We built a wall (we built the pyramids),

Math, science, history, unraveling the mystery,

That all started with the big bang (Bang)!

====================

I can’t remember a conversation that I’ve heard recently, as I keep on having the conversation with people around me. Maybe I’m the one people are actually overhearing. I’m not exactly sure. But when the prompt said “conversation”, this is the conversation that immediately popped inside my head. I wish I can tell you that this conversation was fiction, but it’s really not. This happens when you watch too much Big Bang Theory.

I’m more of an art and humanities person rather than a science person but I do love talking science from time to time. And as I’ve recently introduced my partner to the nerdy, geeky, and dorky world of Big Bang Theory, we’re having more of this type of conversation than usual. It is very enjoyable.

I decided to present this as a dialogue because that was how it happened. And its different from what I usually do. Now imagine this occurring in an apartment while eating Chinese food. That’s how I wished it happened at least.

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April 21, 2015

Art Conversations, Big Bang Theory, Memory, Writing, Writing101
Day 11, Home
I wake up with the sun in my eyes. My window with pink lace curtains greet me good morning. I stretched, taking in my cotton candy pink room in. It’s a sunny day.

I hug my beautiful tiger stuffed toy to start the day. I say hello to the ladies of the court, a.k.a., my lovely dolls. I step on the furry red carpet, squiggling my toes. I sit on my red cushioned stool and brush my hair in front of the looking-glass of the bureau.

I open my room and step out. I walk past the wooden display cabinets that accumulate toys and photographs. I peek at my Mom’s room to see if she’s still reading inside or if she’s already downstairs. Her windows are open, letting the light inside her light green room. Her book is left open but she’s no longer there. She must be downstairs having breakfast.

I walk down the stairs, letting my hand brush the varnished banisters. I stop for a while at the entertainment area to look out the window. The sun is really out and I see the cats sleeping atop the green net covering the flower garden. They really like that spot. I call out to them but they ignore me. I glance at the big tv, thinking if there is a morning cartoon I want to watch. Maybe the Big Blue House? Maybe not.

I continue downs to the second flight of stairs, longer than the last. The wood still cool to the touch. I stepped on the cold tiled floor and looked for my furry slippers before heading to the dining area.

I see my Mom having coffee and bread for breakfast. She greets me good morning and gets me a mug of warm milk and some more of the fresh warm bread. The dining table is of warm wood, covered with a thick glass. I see some mangoes at the end of the table and I pick one out. Mom sliced it up at the kitchen before serving it in a plate printed with pretty flowers.

My Mom start to prepare to go out and I sit at the living area, wondering what to do. Do I play with my dollies? Do I watch TV? Or do I get started on Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea? My Mom and I found a copy of it at the booksale. I look for it in the library.

I sit on the chair by the window and prop myself up with pillows. The sitting area is right by the window near the front of the house. It has good lighting, appropriate for reading. Mom start her day out and I am left alone to absorb the adventures of Captain Nemo.

I get hungry, but Mom isn’t home yet. I leave my book on the chair and make my way to the kitchen. I open the refrigerator and see some chocolates. I get some and I take it to the second sitting area near the garden. The garden blooms with different coloured orchids, appropriate for summer. In the rainy weather, the flowers hide but the leaves turn verdant green. For now, I watch the flowers bloom, butterflies flying around, cats sleeping.

I think to myself, should I continue Captain Nemo’s adventure? Or relax in play in the sun? After all, the sun is out.

====================

For Day 11, I re-imagined my 12 year-old self wandering our family home. I just thought of this idea to describe where I lived when I was 12, as the prompt asked for. Admittedly, I wasn’t that particular about the length of the sentences, but I think there’s enough variation in there.

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April 20, 2015

Childhood, home, Memory, stories, Writing, Writing101
Day 10, Ice Cream
“I want ice cream,” I said, on a warm summer day.

“I won’t stop you,” said Ian.

I cream is happiness in a cup. It’s a simple as that.

As a child, I would get excited when the ice cream trolley would pass by. They have a distinctive bell followed by, “Ice cream! Ice cream!” You know that the neighbourhood kids, myself included, would run down and impatiently wait in front of their homes, until its their turn with the ice cream trolley.

It is simple ice cream, commonly called “dirty ice cream,” available in three flavours—cheese, chocolate, and avocado. You can choose just one, but back then and even today, you must have all three. This is one consistency in Philippine culture. It never changes, except the price. But even now, it is still on the cheap side. We still all wait for the bells of the sorbetero.

This is the one thing that never changes. When I visit home, we still often buy ice cream from the trolley. Though some trolleys sell commercial ice cream, the “dirty ice cream” is still as alive as ever.

My Mom bought ice cream for me after we visit the dentist.

My Mom bought ice cream for me after a doctor’s appointment (injections).

My Mom bought ice cream for me when I’m sad.

My Mom bought ice cream for me when I’m happy.

My Mom bought ice cream simply because.

Growing up, we sometimes visit the city. We live in a small town and the city is about 40 minutes away. I remember that we would always go to the Magnolia House. It is the popular specialty ice cream shop back then. They would close for a long time, opening recently in the metro. But their bestseller was, and still is—the banana split.

A visit to the city meant that I will get a banana split. Three scoops of ice cream—vanilla, chocolate, and strawberries, flanked by split bananas. This would be smothered by chocolate syrup, peanuts, and marshmallow. Thinking about it makes my mouth water.

That’s the magic of life.

Ice cream also reminds me of my Grandfather who recently passed away. When he was still strong enough, he would always bring us two tubs of ice cream—one chocolatey, for the kids; and one fruity, for the adults. He did this every time the family would get together until the time that he completely weakened. He was always the Grandfather who brought ice cream.

After his funeral, we were having a family meal, as traditionally done. My younger cousins, nephews and nieces, were asking me for ice cream. I bought two large tubs for them. Ironically, they chose two flavours—one chocolatey and one fruity, just like how our Grandfather used to bring them. I don’t know if they remember, as they were too young. But it was a good way to celebrate his life.

Ice cream is still a part of me. It is a celebration of the everyday.

I’m lucky I have a partner who shares this magic.

“Remember when we first went out?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Remember we got ice cream?”

“Yes, you were a kiddo. Messy.”

“Remember what you said?”

“It made me happy. Ice cream should make you happy.”

My ice cream desires would grow and expand. I still love the classic “dirty ice cream.” I discovered gelato and it was love at first bite. There are all sorts of ice cream from all over and I am determined to try as much as I can. I even gained weight backpacking through Europe as I think I practically ate ice cream once or twice a day! And that desire never abated.

Now, it’s a warm summer day. And I want ice cream.

“Can you take me to get ice cream?” I asked.

“Where?” said Ian.

And he did take me.

====================

Today’s prompt was fun. My food is ice cream and I’m imagining us, lounging around in my apartment, talking about ice cream, like we usually do. Day 10! I can hardly believe it!

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April 17, 2015

food, ice cream, Memory, Writing, Writing101
Day 5, A brief love letter
Wer liebe sucht,

findet sie nicht.

Sie überfällt uns

wenn wir es am

wenigsten Erwarten.

Alles Liebe

zu unserem

Ersten Jahrestag

(Georg Sand)

I took a photo and I wondered what Georg Sand is trying to say to me. I knew it was in German, but I had no idea what it’s trying to say. Or why it’s there. It’s in a beautiful, tiny green bridge right by the Hua Lamphong Main Train Station in Bangkok. There were a few locks similar to it, but nothing like the hordes that you’ll find in Paris.

We crossed a bridge and found ourselves in Chinatown. I let it go then, as Ian and I explored the different sights, sounds, and smells of that side of Bangkok.

Yet, I remember that bright pink lock, and that note. I wondered.

Who looks for love, does not find it.

She surprises us when we least expect it.

Much love to our First Anniversary.

(Georg Sand)

I wonder who Georg Sand is. What is his life like? How did he meet his love?

Did they meet in the train station as they catch a train to Chiang Mai?

Did they travel as partners or lovers and explored Bangkok as my partner and I did?

So many possible stories, yet I can’t seem to find one and explore.

Did they simply get off at Hua Lamphong from the airport and crossed the bridge to go to Chinatown and head to their hostel?

But why leave that lock at that bridge? It is engraved, as if they prepared for it.

====================

Georg first noticed Maria at the airport. They crawled their way through immigration at the Suvarnabhumi airport, amongst the chaos of tourists and travellers like them.

Eventually, they made their way to Basement B, to get on the airport link, on their way to the city.

The people didn’t thin, instead, locals and foreigners alike grew thicker, often jostled together, as the train made its was to the city centre.

They got out at Phaya Thai station and figured out their way to Siam Station, where all the city lines meet. It was struggle to go from the sky train down to the MRT underground, asking for directions with words they cannot pronounce.

Tired and stressed, they caught each other’s eye. And laughed.

They started talking.

They were both on their way to Chinatown, where their hostel was located. It was a long train ride, but they eventually found the Hua Lamphong Railway Station.

It was a beautiful Art Deco structure first established in 1910, renovated in 1998.

They walked past the taxis and tuk-tuks, determined to find their hostel by foot. It is a beginning of an adventure after all.

They found a tiny bridge that would take them to Chinatown, about to go their separate ways.

Georg asked Maria to lunch, he was hungry.

They crossed the bridge together and found a hawker that sells some crab fried rice and lemongrass juice.

====================

I’m not a fiction writer, but I imagine two people meeting this way. Their travels creating an encounter, eventually making them take a decision. Do they continue on together, or do they go on their separate ways? George and Maria had lunch, then what? I for one don’t know. But a year later, there was a pink lock on the green bridge.

This exercise is tricky. I’m not sure if this is exactly short. But I remember that lock that I found when the prompt asked me to imagine a letter. And now, here we are.

Also, if anyone out there speaks German and English, can you help me out with the translation? I used Google translate and it is inaccurate at best.

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April 10, 2015

Bangkok, Fiction, Love Letter, Love Lock, Love Story, Memory, Thailand, Travel, Writing, Writing101
Day 4, Loss at the Cemetry Gates
Loss. Where do we begin when we talk of loss? It’s so easy to talk of loss as an ending. But given time, you realise that the loss is just a beginning. It will be more sorrowful in the days, weeks, months, or even years to come. Yet, it will prepare us to who we will become.

Death. Breakups. Failures. We will all go through that, in a similar vein that metal needs to go through fire and hammer to take form.

I lost my Dad when I was 6. He was a military officer. I am an only child, and my Mom was left alone to take care of me. But we were never truly alone as we belong to a huge provincial family. They never left and for that I am grateful.

But things changed after my Dad’s death, as things do when there is loss. I was spoiled and everybody went out of their way to spoil me even more. I was cushioned and protected from all the other possible pains in the world.

I didn’t learn how to bike, I might skin my knees.

I had service to go through and from school, I might get hurt on the way.

I was never left alone, I might get too lonely.

It was suffocating. Given some distance, I do appreciate the love and effort that everybody extended my way. But as I grew up, I learned to fight my way to independence.

I fought. I rebelled. I exploded.

I moved to college when I was sixteen. I was scared. But it was the beginning of fire that lit up inside of me. Time and again, I felt that fire grow dim, but it never died.

I finally have my independence. I studied hard. I made new friends. I worked hard. There would be times that I would go back home to live, when life gets too tough and I have no money to survive. But the independence never went away.

I am myself. In a constant process of being and becoming.

Yet, the pain of loss never really goes away. It is always there.

There are times that I would remember. I would have a quiet moment. I would cry.

I remember when my Dad would take me to the amusement park. He is a great shot and he can win candies and toys shooting at the fair. He would carry me when I am tired. He would play with me often. Or as often as he can, given that he is away for most days.

I still have that tiny 3-wheeled red bike that he got me when I was very young. He did let me ride a bike, but he had to go away before I really learned how to.

They say you need to learn balance when you learn how to ride a bike. For a long time, there is no balance in my life.

But maybe later on.

=====================

Maybe someday, I’ll see my Dad at the cemetry gates.

We’ll talk.

I remember not crying during his wake. I only cried in the church, as I was holding the incense. I remember thinking that we would never play again and I wish I had more time to play with him. It was the only time I cried when I was 6.

I will cry many times over growing up, until now. Today. At this moment.

I want to ask my Dad if he ever read John Keats. Or does he prefer Oscar Wilde?

I want to tell him I visited the house that Keats died in. He was overlooking the Spanish Steps by the Piazza di Spagna in Rome. Keats loved Rome most and I saw why.

Or would he prefer to talk about Oscar Wilde and his take on the human condition of the 19th century?

I discovered Cemetry Gates by The Smiths when I read Love is a Mixtape. I’ve always remembered him whenever I play this song. I want to ask my Dad if he ever listened to The Smiths, did he have the time?

What music did he listen to? What books did he read?

I know he loved Blowing in the Wind and that he read The Art of War. Copies are still at home.

But what did he think of them?

What did he love? Hate? What were his passions? What made him laugh? Are we the same? Different?

I can romanticise as Keats and Yeats. But reality is, Oscar Wilde is on my side.

My Dad, will always be remembered, not only as he was lost, but as he lived.

He lived. He loved. He died.

=====================

Note: Day 4 is really challenging. Loss is hard to talk about. My key loss is the loss of my Dad at a very young age. I had to grow up and learn how to deal with such a loss, while most of my peers are running about in the playground. And the twist is that there are two more articles to follow-up the first one. Like so many others, I’ve had loss in my life but whether or not I would want to share it is another story. I used The Smiths as an anchor. Music makes it easier somehow, yet more deeply felt.

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April 9, 2015

Cemetry Gates, Loss, Memory, music, The Smiths, Writing, Writing101
Day 3, Commitment and Music
I still feel the cold, dry air that freezes my lungs. The bright, white snow that blinds my eyes. The bare trees… A sense of wonder.

This is my memory of Tiergarten in Berlin. I’ve written about this place several times before. I will admit that I am not over it. And I will never get over it.

I was walking this public park, akin to a forest in my book, while listening to James Morrison’s album “Songs For you, Truths for Me.” I played it on loop, for a reason or another.

“If this is where we ended up, then I refuse to be so hard on myself this time…” Over and over.

Whenever I play this album, I am transported to the snowy Tiergarten. Getting lost in the slippery paths. Looking at the frozen lakes. I am in my black winter coat again, hugging myself in the cold, tears falling. I cry, not in sorrow, or not just in it, but also in wonder and disbelief.

Everything felt so beautiful. And magical. Every nook, crany, discovery.

I crossed small bridges across the frozen waters. It’s as if I’m a snow princess, discovering her kingdom, escaping the bounds of the world.

I saw statues and monuments, one of a couple dancing. I stood and wondered, if I would ever dance that way, in great abandon.

I saw a locked garden and I wondered about it. I imagined sparkling fairy parties inside, that humans are not allowed to interfere.

I saw a musician’s monument. I listened to Mozart and Beethoven’s compositions in my mind. The power of their music resonate across the white landscape.

Before I bid adieu, I saluted a man on horseback. I wonder who he is and what he’s done to be memorialized in stone. He bade me a goodbye too, as I walked out of the strange land of snow, back into Berlin’s concrete.

====================

“Sing me to sleep, sing me to sleep, I don’t want to wake up on my own anymore. Don’t feel bad for me. I want you to know, deep in the cell of my heart, I really want to go.”

Everyone looked up The Smith’s Asleep when the movie “Perks of Being a Wallflower” came out. I am no exception. I read the book when I learned of its existence through the movie. I bought it as a birthday gift for myself.

I listened to Asleep and it was on loop for days on end.

I am transported to Charlie’s world. To my world.

Sorrow. Release.

Pain demands to be felt, as another book would say. And we all have pains. Sometimes, you just need to own that pain. Feel it. Relish in it. Recognise it. Honour it.

It is only upon fully feeling such pain that you would be released from it.

I’ve been described as a wallflower. I’ve been called that to my face. And I have learned to own it. After all, there is a lot to be learned by being a wallflower.

I may not be as tragic as Charlie, but we all have our tragedies. Life would simply be incomplete without it.

Sorrow. Release.

And yes, I am not a tragic story anymore. Life is wonderful.

=====================

“You were to me that night, everything I always dreamt of in life.”

It was always a dream for me to go to Europe. I will go on and on and on about it until you are sick of me perhaps. But when a far-off dream becomes a reality for a girl from a small town by the mountainside… There is forgetting. Only remembering. And dreaming.

I recently watched Before Sunrise and Before Sunset again. And I dreamt again.

I played Julie Delpy’s A Waltz for a Night on loop for a solid afternoon. And its on loop again now.

It’s as if I’m walking the cobbled stones of Paris. Shakespeare and Company is no longer in its original location but I see myself having a conversation with Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Gertrude Stein. I wonder what I would talk about with the American expats in Paris. Wine, coffee, beer? Travels? Philosophy, literature, paintings?

I remember the small, crowded bookshops that I discovered in Paris. Often, you have to go to an underground basement where most of the books are. It was so full of books from floor to ceiling without an apparent organisation. But when you talk to the owner, he can guide you to the books you are interested in seeing. It may not make sense to you but once you’re in the right section, all the books relate to one another. It was personal. I didn’t really get to buy anything, but the proprietor doesn’t seem to mind, as he’s happy to talk to me about where I’m from, what I’m doing there, and what kind of books I’m interested it.

Spring was breaking and though there are no flowers yet at the Tuileries, it was a charming place to hang out in. You can grab a sit and bask in the sun and cold air. There were hordes of people passing through, tourists going from the Louvre to L’Orangerie, or even to Place de Concorde to walk the Avenue Champs Élysées, I imagine. But what’s more enjoyable are the locals—sitting, relaxing, having a sandwich and some wine. If I knew, I would’ve brought some and had my own picnic by the fountain that is still off.

They say Les Deux Magots is now a touristy spot. But I’ve observed a lot of locals there still. Sipping wine or coffee, reading newspapers or books. Early spring is still cold. With nowhere to go until my late-night flight, I asked them to stow away my bag so I can hang out at this historical café. It was one of the best afternoon that I won’t regret. I sat there, had a glass of rosé and an enormous macaron from Pierre Hermé. I wrote in my journal and observed the people. I ponder how it would be like to converse with Pablo Picasso or Simone de Beauvoir while sipping coffee.

I envision myself, walking the streets of Paris, talking and finding love. And no, I did not find love or romance, I did not find a Jesse then. But I walked along the river Seine and yearned for it.

And for now, Julie Delpy is still on loop. With a different love story.

====================

This assignment is a challenge. Instead of fifteen minutes, it was two hours. It wasn’t necessarily free writing as well. I needed to look certain things up. And yes, I do want to develop a writing habit. And I’m slowly forming it again. I find that the best way to write is in the morning, right after breakfast. I love music and its challenging to find the three most important ones. I don’t think these three are the most important songs in my life. But they are the ones that I remembered and they transported me to a different world. A world that I hope to share here. Sometimes its a disjointed world, a sad one, and a happy one. Memories, dreams, and wishes.

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April 8, 2015

Berlin, Memory, music, Paris, Perks of Being a Wallflower, Songs, Travel, Writing, Writing101
Dancing in a Dream
Finding the Clärchens Ballhaus is one of the most unbelievable experiences in Berlin. I never would have been able to if I didn’t join the walk in the city with Nina Fischer and Maroan el Sani. I learned a lot from that walk. But for now, its about finding the Clärchens Ballhaus at Augustraße 24.

You never would have expected it here. This looks like an ordinary suburb, but its not. This area is filled with galleries and food places. I’d rediscover this area when I go back to Berlin more than a month later. Its actually a couple of blocks away from the KW Contemporary. It didn’t click at the time. I was simply overwhelmed.

There’s my group right ahead. All through the city walk, I’ve been lagging behind. Its a combination of the slippery snow and the joy of photography that has been holding me back. But its worth it. We would all get to talk later anyway, out of the cold. I even discovered later that it was the coldest day of that week, if I remember correctly, a negative eight degrees. Imagine a girl from the tropics walking around all morning until afternoon in that? 😀

This lady on the wall caught my eye. Berlin is full of graffiti, and for those who can recognize it, its street art. The detail that they give to random murals on the street is quite breathtaking. It’s hard to take it all in. I’ve gotten used to skirting away places that may seem dark or dank, but Berlin did not have that feel. The street graffiti makes you want to stay and explore, as if asking you to discover their stories and secrets.

We headed up first. There are just details like these everywhere. Its beautiful, but rough around the edges, and certainly full of character. Its not a polished elegance, rather, its the old-world charm and grandeur, worn and torn a bit by time.

It was dark and gloomy, but the details are fantastic. An unexpected magical place. This transforms into a performance space on certain nights. For that morning though, we were the ones transported through age, time and imagination. If you want to see samples of performances, you can check the Clärchens Ballhaus website here. The next time I’m in Berlin, I really have to see this space in full-swing.

I just can’t help but marvel at the charm of the Clärchens Ballhaus. I can even imagine the underground parties they used to have, pre-1989. Repression never really stopped resistance, especially in the arts. They told us of stories of dances and music that they weren’t allowed to have, but they resisted with it anyway. For my part, I can just imagine.

The ground level of the building is actually a ballroom/restaurant. This is where we talked and hung out. I’ve mentioned this before, Former West is really about the great conversations that the participants shared. I had a good talk with Nina Fischer about the Shanghai Biennale that she participated in and on my part the issues that we have in Philippine contemporary art. I also had a great talk with Diana here, and we hatched a plan for me to visit her in Barcelona. Through her, I met more participants from Barcelona and I would actually visit them in a few weeks after this. The Clärchens Ballhaus is a witness to numerous conversations such as what we had. On certain evenings though, this space is not just for dining, but also for dancing, musical, and theatrical performances.

If I will ever be given a chance for an extended stay in Berlin, I can imagine myself having meals here, perhaps with others with similar interest as me. It was one unforgettable lunch where a group of people from all over the world working with different aspects of art came together and had lunch of pizzas, salads, and coffee–away from the intensity and pressure of HKW and the Former West Congress. We shared ideas, perspectives, and stories. I have a feeling that these walls and that disco ball were witness to a lot of that.

On my way to the ladies’ room, this particular image caught my eyes. I just found it as a funny way of showing and expressing affection. It also sort of reminds me of sports guys who slap each other’s butts during a game. I find it amusing, as I also don’t really get it.

I can’t help but take one more shot before leaving. We headed to Alexanderplatz after this to go to Christopher Kulendran and Tom Trevatt’s exhibition, in relation to their talk on Art After Spectatorship? I leave in wonder and imagination–of dance, music, and performance–then and now. Of repression and resistance, of freedom. Also with the hope that maybe someday soon, I would dance as well.

**Clärchens Ballhaus is at Augustraße 24 in the Mitte area of Berlin. Find their website here. This area is also full of galleries and food places for exploration.

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July 2, 2013

art, Art Spaces, Berlin, city walk, clärchens ballhaus, contemporary art, Former West, Germany, Memory, Street Art