This is a little bit weird, and I mean if I would not be a conceptual artist at the side, I would see myself in danger, but what happened is with Joseph Wagenbach, there were several filmmakers who wanted to do a movie about it, and in the end, it didn’t come through, but I kept all the stuff and more than 100 sculptures. So, at that time, my ex-husband was so genius and kind to help me, so basically he said, “You know what, we’ll use our basement and we just reinstall him here as a fictitious tenant.” And now, I still sometimes give tour to international curators who come visiting me to say, “Oh, let’s go to my tenant, you might be interested in what he does,” and I go to the basement and I give a kind of classy tour and then reveal it.1
And yeah, he is really — he is deeply embedded, because his history and the German background have a lot to do with my parents’ generation.2 It’s a generation that — and now I speak about my biography — a generation that was basically not able to narrate their experience that was so full of atrocity and anger and hurt and wounds and guilt, and right so, I mean, and so Joseph Wagenbach was just born late enough to be not be drafted into the war, because his older brothers had been.3 So, basically, he got away to be a perpetrator and — but he didn’t get away to be a victim, because he was a victim, and the language of art, he then developed out of that to try to cope with probably not having saved someone’s life at a moment he could have. He basically grew up just 10 kilometers away from Belsen Bergen. And there are all these hints in his biography, and that has a lot to do with my parents’ history and how I experienced it as a child, then the not-narration, the unbelievable silence that was looming over our house.