Postbahnhof on a Saturday

The walls at Postbahnhof were the thing. You could watch them get painted—someone with a spray can actually taking their time, making something instead of just tagging and moving on. Young artists getting wall space. Some of it was sharp, some obvious, most of it exactly what you’d expect from people who actually know how to do this.

I went with David and Anna, and we worked through the booths. A photographer had made something about selfie culture that was technically right but circular—documenting narcissism through the mechanism that created it. Illustration, three-dimensional works, the usual spread. Someone had smuggled beer. The sushi tasted strange in a way I still can’t place.

You notice something at art fairs like this: everyone’s competent now. The bar for young artist used to mean something different. Now it just means you showed up and you can actually make things. Berlin gives you the wall and the permission, so you see what people do when they’re not fighting for attention. Some of it’s good. Some of it’s just fine. That’s generous, actually.

We left when the light got weird. Didn’t see everything. Didn’t need to.