Frederic Klein
19 - 06 - 1986


2007 - 11 BA Rietveld Academy, Amsterdam
2012 - 14 Working, Berlin
2014 - Start MFA Goldsmiths, London

Future plans:
Paintings in delay, undercover in a landscape & making a hiphop video ( and learning how to rap )

My head was bleeding, drunk and confused.
I can't recall around what time I climbed out of the bunker. Frozen to the bone. All the joggers in the morning looked at me with the most suspicious look. I completely agreed my semblance of some sort of non existing rave. I was wearing the dunes and the endless night.
This calm sadness and the realisation of what I feared: In order to write to my Doppelgänger, I need fear.

Instead, everything, now so obviously, happened.

Already on my way through the night, I was aware of this failure. Shrouded in this appearance my intensions felt weak minded. As a magnet I got pulled towards the prospect of my memory. Vague shadows in silver gelatine of muffled depths. Due to the lack of sight every broken twig somewhere in the distance sounded like something or someone approaching. Dark pine trees were moving in a seascape choreography. On moments I stood still, listening to his shadow. Gazing through this frame of absence, aiming towards recursion. My ongoing mumbling on how to start this letter, gave the dunes its pensive character as how I left them behind.
I was in need of this ambience. The dunes were suppose to give me access to what I postponed.

Three bottles of red wine, two notebooks, two pens, an Ikea blanket, an extra lighter, cigarettes, gloves. Extra cigarettes.

On moments distortion invaded, an intruder of the mind. I sat there. Hours. Too long. Too cold. The intruder of the body. A sudden trembling made my head turn. In such a way as if my movement was rewinded and forwarded at the same time. When you are on a train and the train next to you starts driving towards disillusions. My surrounding reflects dimmed ideas.
I thought I saw him, or imagined to see him. Far away in the same icy wind on a dune. Somewhat hidden, in the shadows of what I could not distinguish. We were looking at each other

Damn, now that I am writing this my memory exaggerates.

This 'brilliant' plan.
All my thoughts were ominously filled, flooded with fear. Nothing frightens me as much as he does. Or myself. Because I did not want to, I had to.
A state of insanity.
I remembered the dunes as if it was my own handwriting. This sentence from William Wilson repeated itself: 'I could now find room to doubt the evidence of my senses.'
The abnegation of this isolation made me realise I am in need of fear.

Explosions like palpitations on the horizon showed, it most probably was midnight. The landscape seemed mute to the air that carried the echo of some sort of fake exuberance. Endless winds from the sea.
Introducing from which perspective.
I drank wine and silently spoke to myself: Happy new year. Icy wind from the sea. The cold and my view were like venom, I had to move 'inside.' My view in stroboscope light. Edits as how I want to paint them. Such a privilege to see the dunes in delay. My hands were frozen, more wine.

Flashbacks of explosions, the impossibility to write. In my dreams I was awake.

Deceived with my own ideas.