Page 52 - AIT1020_E-Paper

REDINGS ESSAY

FAR-BI-SOL

An Essay by Benjamin Reding

I t was a scandal. A genuine environmental scandal. With rusty toxic drums, barred red that the old patriarch had died and his son, that blockhead, he just wasn’t capable
factory premises, contaminated brooks and villas of factory owners behind box
at all. The factory was vacant, the building decayed, the grounds became overgrown.
hedges, hence everything that constitutes a genuine environmental scandal. And we But whenever one crept close enough between the gardens of the single-family homes,
were right there, we, the young, ambitious amateur editors of the ecology-tinged uni- one could see them: the toxic drums! Rusted! Only the factory owner’s villa, behind the
versity journal. We were appalled, we were angry and also a on the search for such dense boxwood hedges, remained unchanged. The lawn mown, the weeds pulled, the
scandals. On the edges of old federal roads, abandoned regional-railway lines and in hedges trimmed. We imagined the useless entrepreneur youngster inside how he wa-
the municipal areas of the small towns, out there near the sewage farms, that is where sted the money of his ancestors and poisoned the environment. Our university-journal
one still sees them sometimes: The parking spaces long overgrown, the fences rusted, article turned into an angry reckoning, a pamphlet. After a heated night of writing, we
the windows cracked or boarded up. And next to the entrances, dented and dusty, lo- decided to personally confront the son of the factory owners, that good-for-nothing,
vingly made of enamel and iron, small, rectangular signs of various family businesses. with his deeds and formulated the appropriate headlines: “FAR-BI-SOL. The timebomb
At the front an office building “in the style of the time” and, behind it, with a chimney is ticking!”, “Deadly poison in the backyard!” and “Paint factory kills children’s happi-
and a zigzag of shed roofs: the factory which had been producing the shoehorns, the ness!” (This became our favourite).
bathing caps, or potholders. The shed roof was similar almost everywhere; for the A linden avenue led from the factory to the villa. Every Sunday, the entrepreneur’s
workers, neutral northern light was obviously sufficient and unplastered brick walls; widow went to church, the rest of the time she was seldom seen, the son – never. No
but at the front, in the office building, the design zeitgeist frolicked. No doubt the doubt they had their food delivered. Champagne, lobster, caviar and whatever else the
owners – they didn’t want to be considered “old- upper crust enjoys. There was no name next to the
fashioned” in the village – had browsed the then bronze bell button. But FAR-BI-SOL – nobody is cal-
most relevant architectural journals and after- led that, what might the letters stand for? A crack-
wards, depending on the contemporary taste, had ling was heard from the intercom. “Yes?” (A wo-
the respective local architect add a pinch of Beh- man’s voice). “I am from the church”, I said. The en-
rens, later a spot of Eiermann, then, last, in the trance gate moved aside with an electrical whirring,
boom years of the republic of economic miracles, opened the view of a hill and the villa which, with
a little bit of Van der Rohe steel or Le Corbusier its slate roof, white clinkers and “baroque” toilet
concrete to the design. The essential type of those grilles looked exactly as embarrassingly showy as
office building is as recognizable as the Mercedes we had imagined it. A curtain was moved aside, an
saloons that used to park in front of them: three older woman looked at me through the corrugated
storeys, an outrageously prestigious entrance hall glass of the front door: the widow. A hairdo as if of
and, on the third upper level, the “executive floor” concrete, the face hard, closed, grave. I smiled at
with a wood-panelled conference room and a her; she opened the door. “Is your son there?” She
mini bar. And right at the very top on the roof, hesitated. “No.” So then it was down to the widow!
there had to be a neon lettering, at least larger I got started: “We have written an article”. I pulled
than the neighbouring cross on the village church: out the piece of paper, also a bit proud, almost
Eika-Kerzen, Zikal-Leuchten, Ideal-Spaten. pleased. “Your son has ….” She interrupted me.
There was also such a family business where we Foto: Benjamin Reding “You are the new caregiver?” She looked at me ex-
lived – between the affluent single-family houses, pectantly. “Hm … caretaker?” Her tone became
undulating fields of sunflowers and cross-ventila- pleading: “You will now take care of my son?”
ted new school buildings. The factory like in children’s drawings (with a shed roof and “Well, we do take care somehow … in some way.” She turned around, jubilantly called
a chimney), the office building according to the zeitgeist (here: Eiermann) and, on the out: “Arne, look, your caregiver has arrived, finally!” Out of the darkness of the hallway
roof, the company name: FAR-BI-SOL. A paint factory! Built close to the course of our walked, no, swayed, a young man, trembling, decorously dressed, his hair parted. He
village brook. This made sense! Once, after an exhaustive run in the forest, I had – the looked at me: “Juhjawaaa!” I winced. He screamed: “Hawaannjahha!” His mother
water was splattering cool and clear – drunk from it and a little later vomited terribly. briefly nodded at him. “In a moment, Arne, in a moment” and, to me, almost apologi-
The brook was after all just ideal for the factory company sewage. Today, nothing re- zing: “We will have lunch soon. My son is suffering from attacks more and more fre-
mains of all this. The factory has been demolished, the office building with all its gol- quently, the way it is in case of Morbus …” I do not remember which disease it was and
den-shimmering aluminium windows, its somewhat too heavy, too angular turned-out what I answered, perhaps that the caregiver would still come, later. In any case, she
shed roof, its baby-blue mosaic tiles, even the factory-owner’s villa next to it, all of it thanked me and closed the door. I went down the driveway past the factory, then the
pulverized, disposed of in an environmentally flawless way. But this was not because office building. The shutters were closed, moss was growing on the steps. The trees
of us. When the factory had been constructed, people had not yet been embarrassed made the sunlight shimmer on the asphalt, yellow, white, green. There was a smell of
by any polluters. At the time, behind the single-family curtains people said not without linden blossoms and freshly mown lawn. I found a waste bin at the end of the avenue.
pride: “And that over there is our FAR-BI-SOL paint factory!”, almost as if it belonged to The pamphlet article was never published.
them. A young trainee gave us a hint. He told us about pumps and pigments, about agi-
tating mills and sieve aggregates, grinders and quality controls and then, it just simply Each month our columnists, Berlin-based filmmakers Dominik and Benjamin Re-
ding, approach the respective issue-specific theme in their very personal way. The
slipped out, of toxic drums that stood around in the factory grounds without being se-
twins were born on January 3, 1969 in Dortmund. Whilst Dominik studied archi-
cured. And we as young editors listened attentively, smelt the scandal. Then the com- tecture in Aachen and film in Hamburg, Benjamin graduated in acting studies in
pany closed, when all those small family businesses closed, in the middle of the dazz- Stuttgart. They started working on their first joint motion picture “Oi! Warning“ in
1997. Since then they have tightly collaborated for TV and cinema film projects.
ling new economy, the shareholder values and the global markets and people whispe-
052 • AIT 10.2020