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CULTURE

When the lights go out in Wallywood

Wallywoods, a seminal gallery for Berlin’s avant-garde art scene, is locked in a Stalingrad-esque struggle for survival with intractable municipal officials. Ben Knight slips behind the lines to talk with its curator of chaos.

When the lights go out in Wallywood
Photo: Wallywoods

Paul Woods likes chairs. “Some artists do landscapes, some do portraits, I do chairs,” he says, and he has scrawled thousands of little black ones over the walls of his legendary Gallery Wallywoods.

Its current incarnation resides in the Kulturhaus Peter Edel, an old East Berlin cultural centre in the German captial’s Weißensee, named after an Auschwitz survivor turned Communist writer turned Stasi informant.

In the middle of this swarm of insect-sized furniture, Paul, aka Paradox Paul, aka Wally, is building twelve giant chairs – thrones, actually – out of a set of derelict pianos. “Each is also an execution machine,” he adds pointedly.

Wallywoods is more than a studio and a gallery. In the last five years, it has become a teeming venue and working space for Berlin’s avant-garde, a place where live performance, painting, sculpture and extremely loud music constantly gets thrown together by and with Berlin’s most committed punks, drunks and general eccentrics. It’s a place where you are equally likely to see rap, poetry, wall-painting, mock machete fights, or get caught in an impromptu techno party.

Click here for a Wallywoods photo gallery.

Unlike other artistic communes though, there’s no mutual self-satisfaction here – the people who work in Wallywoods seem to derive their creative energy from a relentless quarrelsome restlessness born of frustration. When describing the history of Wallywoods, Paul dismissively alludes to fights and instances of “attempted murder,” then enthusiastically tells the story of a 14-year-old boy who showed up one night, displayed a precocious talent for percussion, spent 45 minutes smashing up a keyboard, and then disappeared.

Paul’s friend, a performance artist known as the Shitty Listener, says Wallywoods represents “the squat scene that isn’t a squat.” The Shitty Listener enjoys listing the luminaries of Berlin’s underground who have graced the Wallywoods stage – Bruno Adams, Nikki Sudden, Alex Tornado – people as little known in the mainstream as they are revered in specialised circles.

Another friend of Paul’s, the Swiss painter Cecile Lutta thrived in the open atmosphere, where strangers could come in, drink beer, and suggest improvements while she was painting. “I worked so well here, you can’t imagine,” Lutta says.

But now Wallywoods is threatened with closure. The district council of Pankow, to which Weißensee belongs, considers Paul’s contract for temporary use of the Kulturhaus terminated, even though he continues to pay the rent, and is waiting for him leave.

But Paul refuses to comply, for several reasons. He want to finish his execution thrones, of course, but he has also developed a deep love for the Kulturhaus Peter Edel itself. Apart from the ground floor rooms occupied by Wallywoods, the facility includes a concert auditorium, a jazz bar, vast gallery space and much attendant technical equipment.

Doomed to be derelict?

Since the council has no immediate plans for the building – the public funds for keeping a cultural centre in Pankow were cut two years ago – Paul believes that his presence is protecting it from dereliction. A private theatre school, Die Möwe, was meant to take over this year, but negotiations have stalled indefinitely.

But the main reason why Paul is staying is a typically Wallywoods-esque combination of indignation and bloody-mindedness in dealing with authority. Last summer he was ready to leave in search of a new space, but a wrangle over when he would leave led him to ask if he could stay. His answer was a bureaucratic brick wall.

“I’ve been saying till I’m blue in the face: ‘Tell us what the costs are on the whole building, or these separate rooms, and we want to pay them!’ But they won’t listen to us,” he says exasperatedly. “They don’t want any of our ideas.”

So Paul decided to fight it out, and his tireless efforts have made him the nemesis of Left party councillor Christine Keil, on whose desk the case has landed.

Both Keil and Matthias Zarbock, Left party culture spokesman for the district of Pankow, claim that the district is looking for private investors with cultural ideas for the building, but they refuse to discuss details or be interviewed. If no investor can be found, the most likely fate for the building will be the open market, where its demolition can no longer be prevented.

Paul has drawn up a series of proposals for the continued use of the space, but Zarbock and Keil are unwilling to discuss them because, they say, he is an “unreasonable partner.” Political deafness has stirred Paul’s determination. “I feel offended that they’ve not listened to our fantastically creative, financially creative ideas – no, they’d rather let it rot, let us rot and eventually make more money.”

One reason why Paul is building execution thrones – apart from to satisfy his chair-mania – is to keep warm. Not only has the water been turned off, the caretaker has taken a hacksaw to the pipes, scuppering the heating for good. Paul’s few portable gas heaters have to be used sparingly, and the big rooms of the Kulturhaus take a lot of warming up. So when he is not fixing guillotines to his sculptures, Paul is often under two duvets, hacking at an old computer, from which he writes letters to politicians and newspapers, or appeals for help on social networking websites.

Until now, and despite universal pessimism amongst his friends, Paul has managed to put off the council one month at a time, using creative excuses to avoid returning the keys. The first was to explain that he needed extra time for storage purposes; then he bought more time by insisting on negotiations for further usage.

Eventually, Paul organised a demonstration to save the Kulturhaus. He and around 40 friends marched ten minutes down the road to Pankow town hall with “Save Culture” banners, an official police escort, and, of course, a giant chair on wheels. Paul claims that since this show of defiance the caretaker has stopped hacking the heating system to pieces.

“Keil’s under a lot of stress now. They didn’t like my demo where we went to the town hall and banged drums outside and I walked up the steps with a bucket on my head, and gave her a public letter,” Paul reminisces gleefully. “Let’s see if I can find another method to hinder their eventual plan – to lock up and destroy the building.”

But Paul knows that his month-to-month luck will run out eventually and he will have to move on. Ever the survivor, he’s already busy working on a new project, called Paradox Berlin, which is set to rise out of the chaotic ashes of Wallywoods.

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CULTURE

German town resurrects 400-year-old biblical play tradition

Walk around the German Alpine village of Oberammergau, and the chances are you'll run into Jesus or one of his 12 disciples.

German town resurrects 400-year-old biblical play tradition

Of the 5,500 people living there, 1,400 — aged from three months to 85 — are participating this year in the once-a-decade staging of an elaborate “Passion Play” depicting the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

Dating back to 1634, the tradition has persisted through four centuries of wars, religious turmoil and pandemics — including the most recent Covid-19 crisis which caused the show to be postponed by two years.

“I think we’re a bit stubborn,” says Frederic Mayet, 42, when asked how the village has managed to hold on to the tradition.

Mayet, who is playing Jesus for the second time this year, says the Passion Play has become a big part of the town’s identity.

Oberammergau Passion Plays

Posters for the 42nd Oberammergau Passion Play – which was originally scheduled to take place in 2020. Photo: picture alliance/dpa | Angelika Warmth

The only prerequisite for taking part in the five-hour show, whether as an actor, chorister or backstage assistant, is that you were born in Oberammergau or have lived here for at least 20 years.

“I remember that we talked about it in kindergarten. I didn’t really know what it was about, but of course I wanted to take part,” says Cengiz Gorur, 22, who is playing Judas.

READ ALSO: REVEALED: The best events and festivals in Germany this July

‘Hidden talent’ 

The tradition, which dates back to the Thirty Years’ War, was born from a belief that staging the play would help keep the town safe from disease.

Legend has it that, after the first performance, the plague disappeared from the town.

In the picturesque Alpine village, Jesus and his disciples are everywhere — from paintings on the the facades of old houses to carved wooden figures in shop windows.

You also can’t help feeling that there is a higher-than-average quota of men with long hair and beards wandering the streets.

Religious figurines Oberammergau

Religious figurines adorn a shop window in Oberammergau. Photo: picture alliance/dpa | Angelika Warmuth

An intricate image of Jesus graces the stage of the open-air Passion Play theatre, where the latest edition of the show is being held from mid-May to October 2nd.

“What has always fascinated me is the quality of the relationship between all the participants, young and old. It’s a beautiful community, a sort of ‘Passion’ family,” says Walter Lang, 83.

He’s just sad that his wife, who died in February, will not be among the participants this year.

“My parents met at a Passion Play, and I also met my future wife at one,” says Andreas Rödl, village mayor and choir member.

Gorur, who has Turkish roots, was spotted in 2016 by Christian Stückl, the head of the Munich People’s Theatre who will direct the play for the fourth time this year.

“I didn’t really know what to do with my life. I probably would have ended up selling cars, the typical story,” he laughs.

Now, he’s due to start studying drama in Munich this autumn.

“I’ve discovered my hidden talent,” he says.

READ ALSO: Nine of the best day trips from Munich with the €9 ticket

Violence, poverty and sickness

Stückl “has done a lot for the reputation of the show, which he has revolutionised” over the past 40 years, according to Barbara Schuster, 35, a human resources manager who is playing Mary Magdalene.

“Going to the Passion Play used to be like going to mass. Now it’s a real theatrical show,” she says.

In the 1980s, Stückl cut all the parts of the text that accused the Jews of being responsible for the crucifixion of Jesus, freeing the play from anti-Semitic connotations.

“Hitler had used the Passion Play for his propaganda,” Schuster points out.

Stückl

Christian Stückl, the director of the Oberammergau Passion Play, holds a press conference announcing the cancellation of the play in 2020. Photo: picture alliance/dpa | Angelika Warmuth

The play’s themes of violence, poverty and sickness are reflected in today’s world through the war in Ukraine and the Covid-19 pandemic, say Mayet, the actor playing Jesus.

“Apparently we have the same problems as 2,000 years ago,” he says.

For 83-year-old Lang, who is playing a peasant this year, the “Hallelujah” after Christ has risen for the final time in October will be a particularly moving moment.

“Because we don’t know if we’ll be there again next time,” he says, his eyes filling with tears.

By Isabelle Le Page

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