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D E A R CLARK

,

Sara-Lena Maierhofer


Christian Karl, etwas gewöhnlich und wenig eindrucksvoll. Er entwarf schönere und klingendere Namen: Christopher Crowe, Clark Rockefeller. Er erschuf seine eigene Wirklichkeit und man glaubte ihm. Mit jedem neuen Namen ließ er sein altes Leben hinter sich, als hätte es das nie gegeben. Beinahe spurlos.


Studie eines Hochstaplers 2011


Das Versprechen


1)


Die L端ge


2)


3)


Die Verwandlung


4)


5)


Die Teilung


6)


Die Reflektion


7)


Die H채utung


Die Spur


8)


1.  Christian Karl Gerhartsreiter,

17-jährig, kurz vor seiner Abreise in die USA 2.

Pseudologia Phantastica

3.  Befund des psychologischen Gutacht-

ens des Gerichts: Narcissistic personality disorder and delusional disorder, grandiose type. 4.  Aus Walter Serner: Letzte Lockerung.

Ein Handbrevier für Hochstapler und solche, die es werden wollen (1927): 312. Wisse die Suggestion der Krawattenfarbe zu schätzen, die des Parfums und vor allem die des Wetters. 323. Übe täglich dein Auge, indem du dich vor den Spiegel stellst. Dein Blick muss lernen, still und schwer auf einem anderen zu liegen, sich rapid zu verschleiern, zu stechen, zu klagen. Oder soviel Erfahrung und Wissen auszustrahlen, dass dein Gegenüber dir erschüttert die Hand reicht. 325. Der Unterschied zwischen virtuoser Verstellung und Echtheit ist unermesslich klein. 332. Gehe nie ins Theater. Du verdirbst dein Spiel. 364. Du darfst keine Familie haben. Alles in Südamerika oder tot.


5.

Octopus Mimicus

6.  The Many Worlds Persons theory is

an interpretation of quantum physics. According to this theory for each possible outcome to an action, the world person splits into a copy of itself, so that each action is taken. This is an instantaneous process scientists call decohesion. 7.  Frühe Kinderzeichnung, Christian

Karl Gerhartsreiter 8.  »He hated to have his picture taken«

erinnert sich Laura White: »In nearly every photograph Rockefeller was striking a pose that disguised him.« 9.

 s graute mir vor dem alten, dumpfen E Leben im Schatten. Ich hatte das Lichte, das Glanzvolle gesehen. Ich wollte nicht mehr ins Dunkel zurück.    Harry Domala, 1927


I am a Matryoshka doll. Carved like a familiar figure, painted by an artist’s hand. A set of personalities of decreasing size, placed one inside the other. My outer layer is a man. A man like any man. With a wife, a house, a daughter, a cat. And a window that looks out onto the world. Open my first two parts. You’ll find the next man nesting inside. A darker one now. Old and shabby on the corner of a street. Open him; you’ll find a one-eyed king. Inside the king, a rock star. Inside the star, the man with glasses you once met in a nightmare. It began the day my mother bathed me and noticed my skin was paper thin. Be careful, she said jokingly, the world will enter you without warning. Creep right through your pores. I felt the bathwater slowly mix with my blood. Soapy material streaming through my veins, my mother’s words nestling in my brain, becoming thoughts, my own personal thoughts. I realised I was permeable. From that day on I started noticing how everything could seep in. Words, people, colours, time, gods and money.


It began with me learning how many cells we’re made of, how constantly we change from shape to chaos, from chaos to shape. Flocks of dust, dancing in the sun. How foolishly we mistake steadiness for truth.

a different name and face and the vague disappointment when in the morning it’s just you. I don’t blame you for mistaking your body for a self. A face for a mask. It’s a nice way of looking at it. Wrong but nice.

Who am I? I told you. I am the lonely man standing at a window. Seemingly trapped in an ordinary day. My wife behind me in the room, me looking out with my fixed perspective on the sun. But look again, look well. I am the man who outsmarts life. Who knows nothing confines you to a single story, except your own narrow mind. The man who looks out on the street and knows he could be anyone walking down there. Anyone he wants. Identity is a matter of persuasion. Convincing the world of who you are.

I am the lizard behind your temples. All the heroes you wanted to be. And the murderers too. I am the threat to truth and trees and family lives, to everything rooted. If you would listen I’d teach you how to lift your feet and vanish. But I know you won’t. You look and point. You try to pull me down to street level, like a child jealous of its kite for being up in the sky. When you have pinned me down, you’ll realize I’ve left you behind with nothing but a lingering ‘what if?’. What if I’m right?

Do I exist? Yes and no. I sprung from the hope that escape is possible. That inside us others nest. Every day we can open and transform. I am not some – but everybody longing for a different colour, a new life, another wife. For unsteadiness. The longing and all the fear that comes with it. I left my window that day and became a man passing, but never there, a reflection in your sunglasses, a vague spot in the corner of your eye. A man floating far above the concrete roads of careers, mortgages, whining children. I could be the brother you never had, the friend you needed, the father you wished for, everything you lack. I am the one standing next to you on the picture you never took. Maybe I should say I’m not the man. I am his secret. I’ve become that one word you’re looking for but never find. Indescribable. Completely normal from afar but when I approach you’ll notice something wrong. Something crippled. Out of balance. You’ll notice the flimsiness of my skin. The paleness of my complexion, disturbing, almost glowing. I am a hole within a hole. Avoiding the first one you’ll step into the next and slide down and never hit the ground. I am a one man wonderland. Interchangeable from head to toe. Destined to be opened. Constantly falling apart. You can’t fix me. I am closer than you think. Although I know you would never admit that, instead of one, you have seven hearts beating and often a stranger is gazing through your eyes. You wouldn’t admit to the constant changing of your mind. And for nothing in the world would you admit how you wake up at night to

Long after I’m gone you’ll pass the houses with my picture. Asking random people whether they know me. I guarantee you they’ll all say yes. Everybody recognizes someone made of clouds. Although they won’t recall specific details. And they’ll recall a thousand different names. You’ll easily track me, but find me? No. The other day when I was staring out of the window, I turned to my wife. Look, I said to her, look how the leaves have started falling. What I meant to say was: I know you know I’m lying, I’m not who I pretend to be. What I also meant to say was that it doesn’t matter. Leaves fall and people lie. You don’t revolt against the changing of the seasons. What I meant to say was: It’s all right. Let’s stay this way. I could be happy. She misunderstood. Took my remark for a sudden interest in nature. She looked at me with loving eyes when she should have looked away. I am the man standing behind his window. Diamond shaped, reflecting all of you. A man, in a man, in a man.

Marjolijn van Heemstra, 2011


Eine ein

Pferd

Ein einen

neuer Mann

Ein Ein Ein

Ereignis

Schere in in wird

Zebra Selbst

ein Name einen zu

einer verliebt bewegt

verwandelt Einhorn verwandelt Hochstapler Erzählung sich sich

Ich danke Prof. Axel Grünewald und Dr. Wiebke Leister, Ursula Brendle und Jutta Vötsch, Thanasis Kanakis, Jana Slavik, Sven Lindhorst-Emme, Greta Garle, Jean-Charles Bélouard, Christian Karl Gerhartsreiter und Clark Rockefeller.


Impressum Copyright by Sara-Lena Maierhofer

Grafik-Design

Sven Lindhorst-Emme Druck

Europrint GmbH Berlin Bindung

reinhart & wasser Bibliotheks- und Verlagsbuchbinderei GmbH Berlin Fonts

ITC Avant Garde Gothic, FF Scala Papiere

Chromolux 700, Circle Matt, Gardapat Kiara Auflage

20 Exemplare Nr.      / 20

Berlin – 2012

»Dear Clark«  

Sara-Lena Maierhofer

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