Unscene Berlin

Time now for my long overdue roundup of Silvester parties! Silvester is the German name for New Year's Eve. The name comes from Saint Sylvester, who passed away on 31 December 335. Since his death has become synonymous with one of the biggest celebrations on the German calendar, I assume that old Sylvester must have been a bit badass. I'm picturing a 4th century dilettante, stumbling around a monastery strewn with empty barrels of sekt , his followers draped over their pews with robes askew, groaning in hungover agony. But, historical speculation aside, here is my preview...

I checked out Stattbad's Wedding's Christmas arts market last Sunday night. The Stattmarkt , as it was called, was housed within the venue's shower rooms. It was like a cross between a Turkish bath and a Turkish bazaar. A long, tiled corridor ran down the centre of the room and the shower cubicles leading off of it were occupied by artists selling their wares. The constant buzz of a tattooist's needle, rising from one of the cubicles, underpinned the strains of music coming from the bar next door, where a guitarist was soloing to introspective, tough techno. As I passed each cubicle, avant-garde artisans leaned out to invite me in or chatted with their neighbours. In other cubicles I saw artists lost in their work, oblivious to the confines of their allotted space as they splattered stencils with paint or sewed crafts. Roars of laughter rose up from groups of people who had gathered inside the other cubicles, unseen. The constant susuruss of their voices w...

At this time of year, when the solar cycle gets to its darkest point, I empathize deeply with the angst that our ancient ancestors felt about the winter solstice. They saw midwinter as a time when the sun almost died. As darkness edged up on both sides of the day, they thought the light might disappear for good and frantically paid homage to their goddesses and gods in the hopes of bringing it back. When the days finally stopped getting shorter, a frenzy of celebration ensued - hence the traditions of Silvester, New Year, Hogmanay, et al. Logically, I may understand that the 'death of the sun' is caused by the Earth tilting on its axis; I may also understand that the solar system is still functioning and the summer will return, but I still feel my ancestors' creeping dread as the days get shorter. Clearly there is some deeper, primal consciousness inside me that can't be reasoned with. This embedded instinct only seems to recognize the fact that the light is missing...