Mik Hartmann

Born at 11:03 in the State Women's Clinic in Karlsruhe.
My mother said.
She also said: "There's war again" - tonelessly, with the dull glint of panic in her eyes.
No, don't panic! It was more a look of resignation and betrayal of life.
The world was hanging by a thread again.
But it didn't break.
Not this time.
It was about the Cuban missile crisis.
Little 4-year-old Michael didn't understand.
What is that?
War?

"I had thalidomide in my medicine cabinet." Again those words from my mother that made my blood run cold.
The sleeping pill of horror.
"But I never took it."
The Sandman was busy.
The silk thread fluttered hard in the wind again.

Life - a series of many silk threads. And they do something to your thoughts, to your soul, and make you pause.
Every time.
I am convinced that my pictures have something to do with it.
I often ask myself what other people's souls look like.
Why do we hate so deeply when no one is watching?
Why do we love ecstatically when there is nothing to love.
Does that even exist?
A soul.
And if so, how would it show itself?
What would it be like if our soul were visible, chiseled into everyone's face, so to speak.
Burned onto the body.
Visible!
That's where my photographs start and it was clear that they w...

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