We sat in an Izakaya in Tokyo on a Friday night and every time Fabian wanted to order a single thing (beer, shōchū, yakitori) he got two of the same. He said hitotsu (Japanese for one thing), and got futatsu (2) all the time. It was mysterious. And then we sat in one of those micro bars, usually around the stations, where 4 to 5 people can squeeze in and we drank, I don’t know, maybe Chilean white wine. And then we met in front of Kunsthalle Basel where he works. But that was before the micro bar, was it? And in-between we were riding home in a friend’s car and we had to stop, not because of Fabian, because somebody who always has to got to the toilet wanted to take pictures of the floor tiles in a public toilet between Zurich and Basel. It makes absolutely sense to take pictures of toilet walls. A girl once told me in Berlin in the Soho House I should take a picture of the wallpaper in the men’s toilets. What looks like harmless leaves are actually hidden vaginas painted into the leaves (maybe everybody in Berlin knows this, but not everybody is in Berlin). Fabian always wears those impeccable suits and he always takes pictures of the artists who are exhibiting in the Kunsthalle Basel (there are usually no hidden vaginas in the pictures). They have to stand in front of the Tinguely Fountain and they try to smile for whatever reason because I am sure Fabian would not ask them to smile. He takes an attitude of confronting you with whatever he thinks is confronting you.
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