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Jeden Monat nähern sich unsere Kolumnisten, die Berliner Filmemacher Dominik und Benjamin Reding, dem jeweiligen Heftthema
auf ihre ganz eigene Art und Weise. Geboren wurden die Zwillinge am 3. Ja nuar 1969 in Dortmund. Während Dominik Architektur
in Aachen und Film in Hamburg studierte, absolvierte Benjamin ein Schauspielstudium in Stuttgart. 1997 begann die Arbeit an ihrem
ersten gemeinsamen Kinofilm „Oi! Warning“. Seitdem arbeiten sie für Fernseh- und Kinofilmprojekte zusammen.

Each month our columnists, Berlin-based filmmakers Dominik and Benjamin Reding, approach the respective issue-specific theme
in their very personal way. The twins were born on January 3, 1969 in Dortmund. Whilst Dominik studied architecture in Aachen
and film in Hamburg, Benjamin graduated in acting studies in 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.

L ast night I dreamt I went to Manderley again. The drive wound away in front of “instant stage”. Stage, radio, studies! Now I know! I came across the building when I
me, twisting and turning as it had always done. But as I advanced, I was aware was studying architecture. In a sample issue of a magazine that was never published.
that nature had come into her own again, and little by little had encroached upon the It was on display in the foyer of the faculty, “to take away”. The photos were glossy,
drive ... with long, tenacious fingers. On and on wound the poor thread that had once but still in black and white. The article called the building the Werstatt der Kulturen
been our drive, and finally there was Manderley, secretive and silent. Moonlight can and gave it generous praise, showing workshops, rehearsal rooms, a café and theatre
play odd tricks upon the fancy, and suddenly it seemed to me that light came from the hall. Cultures and their communities were to meet there, from Africa to Asia, from
windows ...”. Two feelings were the first I recognized: envy and longing. It had been a Arabia to Israel. Making art and music together, dancing, performing theatre, meeting
harmless walk, a late summer stroll after a good, plentiful meal. Streets I usually never each other. And I thought: Wow, a great idea but also: such a luxury, all those precious
walked, close by, but neighbourly terra incognita. There it was, behind tall, old trees, rooms ... There wasn’t even a youth centre in my town, not even a workroom in my
surrounded by walls and fences, overgrown with grasses and ivy. Here and there, school. Of course, the architects were also mentioned, they were young and talented. I
battlements, turrets and cornices protruded above the densely leafy crowns. And I have forgotten their names, but not the feeling that crept up on me as I read: envy and
knew, already at first glance, that I had seen the building before. I walked towards it, longing. Envy of those who were already allowed to build, to “let off steam” and no
the feeling of envy and longing growing. An old building, turn of the century before last, longer, like us, boldly designed for years, for diplomas, but without a (tangible) result.
cream-coloured bricks, arches, parapets, gables, jambs, all neatly layered. Probably an And a longing to build something ourselves in the distant, happy future, to finally be
industrial building, lots of brickwork, few windows and a hint of Schinkel. Next to it is able to touch, delight, challenge and perhaps even annoy people with walls, surfaces,
an extension, a new building, voluminous, apparently from the early 1990s, sensitively lights and spaces. A stage like that, ha, I can do that too! A piece of cake, I thought,
adopting the character of the old building. The exterior and put the booklet back on its pile. The wooden box
walls are clad in similarly light-coloured brick, but the was now closed, the veneer already cracked, the hinges
reveals and parapets are made of finely profiled, cream- rusty, the varnish peeling. Weeds were rampant on the
coloured concrete. The transition between old and new is concrete slabs in front of it. “You have to come back!”
staged as a break, with an angular staircase behind glass As I paid, the man behind the café counter addressed
blocks. What a mixture! The staircase as an ironic quota- me informally. “Of course,” I said and then: “There’s not
tion of Neues Bauen, the new wing with its symmetries, so much going on here anymore, concerts and stuff?”
its brick and the two opulent glass lanterns on the roof, “But yes...” and, after a pause, I was already at the exit
still post-modern in style, and yet already further ahead, door: “No, only rarely... Unfortunately.” That evening, I
foreshadowing the coming era, with its sparse, unplayful searched the internet for the building and its architect
austerity. “Your coffee, with milk, with sugar?” The young and found almost nothing. All I found was a reference to
man behind the bar counter asks politely. I find a café the fact that the Werkstatt der Kulturen was opened in
in the gutted old part of the building, sparsely frequen- 1993 and was later given new management after internal
ted. “With milk, please!” He pushes the cup across the disputes. No names of architects. Nowhere. I wrote. To
counter. “There’s a garden at the back, you’re welcome Foto: Benjamin Reding a trade journal that resembled the layout of the sample
to take your coffee outside.” I look around, marvelling at issue: no reply. To architects who had been present and
the carefully detailed interior design. From the geome- active around 1990: No reply. I searched my library for the
trically patterned artificial stone floor to the three-flight relevant literature: nothing. Finally, I wrote to the building
toilet staircase. “Do you know what this building used to be?” “Yes, a brewery,” “And authorities. They will know! And waited. A few days ago, I returned to the building.
the extension?” “It’s now a kindergarten.” “And who designed it?” I ask at random, I found the café closed and with it the man from Gaza had disappeared, along with
the young man behind the counter shakes his head: “No, I don’t know, I haven’t the golden picture frame and the queer stickers and the photos and everything. Now,
been here long, only a year in Germany.” “And before that?” “Gaza.” He says it like between the swirling autumn leaves and the constant rain, the building seemed even
a groan. Rap is booming in the café, Arabic rap. “Good music!” He smiles, I nod, stir more abandoned, even more forgotten, even more reclaimed by nature. The same
the milk, look at the interior: photographs of modern, self-confident women on the building that had once filled an entire notebook and left me in the faculty foyer with
walls, stickers on the counter: “Go vegan”, “No racism”, “No homophobia” and, next an emotional turmoil. I walked home, past the park where homeless people live in
to the counter, in a gold frame, two drawings: On the left, an androgynous young man their tents, through the residential streets – the smell of burning from last week’s
with a beard and tank top, lasciviously smoking a cigarette in front of the silhouette of demonstrations still lingered between the walls – past melted asphalt and burnt-out
Baghdad; on the right, two bearded young men, both shirtless and with traditional fez construction containers, home to me. An email was waiting for me. From the building
on their heads, touching each other tenderly. Below them is a word in Arabic script. authority: “Unfortunately, we were unable to answer your questions due to holidays.
I ask: “What does that mean?” He looks at the picture: “Love.” He says it clearly, wit- We handed over the structural maintenance of the Werkstatt der Kulturen property a
hout a grin. Outside, the evening sun shimmers through the leaves of the old chestnut few years ago. We regret not being able to help you further.” I switched off the screen,
trees. Two or three guests are sitting at beer tables, in one corner of the garden there stood by the window and watched the rain. A voice came to mind, from an old black-
is a lovingly designed stage. A box like an old radio, angled corners, wooden veneer, and-white film, Rebecca, a soft, tender, wistful voice: “And then a cloud came upon
simple DIY-store hinges. All the surfaces can be opened up to turn the box into a stage the moon, like a dark hand before a face. The illusion went with it. I looked upon a
if required. Almost like a design in an architecture degree programme, with the theme desolate shell... We can never go back to Manderley again.”

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