January 20th, 2014

untitled (is) by nico

January 20th, 2014

untitled (is) by nico
January 1st, 2014

untitled by nico








December 16th, 2013

untitled by nico








August 19th, 2013

untitled (27.07.13-18.08.13) by nico






February 24th, 2013

untitled (K.Day) by nico





February 18th, 2013

untitled (When The Voices Come) by nico





January 22nd, 2013

untitled (M – H) by nico





January 1st, 2013

untitled by nico




December 18th, 2012




‘Suddenly, no, at last, long last, I couldn’t any more, I couldn’t go on. Someone said, You can’t stay here. I couldn’t stay there and I couldn’t go on. I’ll describe the place, that’s unimportant. The top, very flat, of a mountain, no, a hill, but so wild, so wild, enough. Quag, heath up to the knees, faint sheep-tracks, troughs scooped deep by the rains. It was far down in one of these I was lying, out of the wind.’

Samuel Beckett, ‘Texts for Nothing: 1’
It seems like a long time ago now, but I was once a boy scout. It’s not that long when I think about it in perspective, but it feels like a long time. A very long time.
Whenever I tell people that I was in the scouts, I hear the same old assumptions; and, to be honest, I can’t disagree with any of them. It strikes people as strange for a child to look for order and discipline in their free time, after spending the day behind a desk in school. But for me, joining the scouts was an opportunity to meet new friends and seek out adventure. That was its appeal.
It was in the scouts that I met one of my best friends. We bonded almost immediately through a shared sense of humour, and could appreciate the absurdity of the uniform and the badges. There would be activities every Friday evening, where we would learn new skills and share wisecracks, all the while preparing for the away-from-home activities planned in our calendars. Together we looked forward to the adventure weekends and camping trips that were to come.
One such event was a night hike scheduled in the autumn time. The whole troop met at a specific point, dropped off by our parents, and wearing our backpacks we head out into the valley in the dark. I walked with my friend, and we shared a sense of excitement while climbing a steeple and seeing the stars reflected in an anonymous lake.

‘How long have I been here, what a question, I’ve often wondered. And often I could answer, An hour, a month, a year, a century, depending on what I meant by here, and me, and being, and there I never went looking for extravagant meanings, there I never much varied, only the here would sometimes seem to vary.’

Texts for Nothing 1

I often think of that night, even now. We passed the lake and entered a forest, no longer seeing the clear night sky above our heads, no longer seeing the moonlight. I can feel the cold on my skin, and remember buttoning my cuffs to avoid the draught. There was mud under foot, everyone following the two compass leaders with their minds on the camp so far ahead.

In some ways I think it was one of the longest nights I ever spent. But my friend made it feel short, as we passed the time together. We talked about the walk itself, and then moved onto impersonations of troop members, characters from films and television shows we liked. We talked about school, our brothers and sisters, and chocolate (both carrying ample supplies). And we planned what we would do with the next morning, heating beans over a camp stove.

‘And in the way of sensation? My God, I can’t complain, it’s himself all right, only muffled, like buried in snow, less the warmth, less the drowse, I can follow them well, all the voices, all the parts, fairly well, the cold is eating me, the wet too, at least I presume so, I’m far.’

‘Texts for Nothing 1’
When I think of the time before he died, one memory remains particularly strong. I think back to the night hike we shared, and the hill we faced halfway along our journey. My legs ached, and fatigue had set in. Knee-deep in grass, I complained to the sky and whoever would listen. I remember him smiling and rolling his eyes at me: ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘we’re almost there.’
Reading Samuel Beckett’s first of the Texts for Nothing, I feel an almost overwhelming personal reaction. It’s a story written when Beckett’s father had long-since passed away, and seems to be located out in the country hills they shared together.

‘[…] we walked together, hand in hand, silent, sunk in our worlds, each in his worlds, the hands forgotten in each other. That’s how I’ve held out till now. And this evening again it seems to be working, I’m in my arms, I’m holding myself in my arms, without much tenderness, but faithfully, faithfully. Sleep now, as under that ancient lamp, all twined together, tired out with so much talking, so much listening, so much toil and play.’

‘Texts for Nothing 1’

I still think of him often, now five years since he passed away, and wish he was still around.

I miss my friend.
source  ‘like buried in snow’


November 10th, 2012

tree planting, 09.11.2012



November 9th, 2012












April 30th, 2012

untitled by nico, 30.04.2012



April 29th, 2012

untitled by F, 29.04.2012

untitled by nico, 29.04.2012




April 23rd, 2012

untitled by nico, 22.04.2012


Liebe ist kälter als der Tod  08.01.2011



March 23rd, 2012

untitled by nico

untitled by nico





February 17th, 2012

enogsin by nico

enogsin by nico


I add one further word to you, a question rather.
Does water flow in your country too? (I don’t remember whether you’ve told me so) and it gives chills too, if it is the real thing.
Do I love it? I don’t know. One feels so alone when it is cold. But quite otherwise when it is warm. Well then? How can I decide? How do you others decide, tell me, when you speak of it without disguise, with open heart?

I am writing to you from the end of the world. You must realize this. The trees often tremble. We collect the leaves. They have a ridiculous number of veins. But what for? There’s nothing between them and the tree any more, and we go off troubled.
Could not life continue on earth without wind? Or must everything tremble, always, always?
There are subterranean disturbances, too, in the house as well, like angers which might come to face you, like stern beings who would like to wrest confessions.
We see nothing, except what is so unimportant to see.
Nothing, and yet we tremble. Why?


I Am Writing To You From A Far Off Country (je vous écris d’un pays lointain plume précédé de lointain intérieur) by Henri Michaux , 1938



February 9th, 2012

untitled by nico

untitled by nico

Wish You Were Here




January 1st, 2012

untitled by nico



December 29th, 2011

untitled by nico



December 29th, 2011

untitled by nico



” Wir wissen wenig voneinander. Wir sind Dickhäuter, wir strecken die Hände nacheinander aus, aber es ist vergebliche Mühe, wir reiben nur das grobe Leder aneinander ab… “





November 21st, 2011

untitled by nico

untitled by nico

untitled by nico



October 28th, 2011

untitled by nico, 27.10.2011


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