SchWeinWelten.DE

The chair is magenta insomnia,the jacket a small private ocean. A man sits, half-coffee, half-question mark,typing on a glowing slice of midnight. The lamp pours yellow thoughtsstraight onto the table,industrial sunshine on demand. Each keystroke is a tiny earthquake,rearranging the furniture of reality. The screen says: working,the shoulders say: wandering. Outside, time does its grey scribbles,inside, colors negotiate a truce. This is not a workplace,it’s a quiet experiment: how many pixels of lightdoes a human… read more – weiterlesen Nightshift with Electric Muse

The architect whispers:give me the goldener Schnittbut make it heavy enough to hurt my shoes. So the spiral grows a backbone,thick black outline, elbows of cement. Color tiles flicker like irrational numbers,magenta over √5, turquoise over “whatever”. This is Fibonacci on steroids,a snail shell made of balcony slabs. The yellow arc is the sun’s protractor,measuring how much beauty a wall can bearbefore it starts to laugh. Inside the curve, rooms stack themselves:1, 1, 2, 3,… read more – weiterlesen Brutalist Golden Spiral with Concrete Knees

The façade leans in like a gossiping jaw,all magenta cheekbones and turquoise teeth. This is a building that tried to become a faceand stopped halfway for coffee. Beams stick out like stubborn thoughts,cantilevered sentences that refuse a full stop. Yellow remembers sunshine from another city,green remembers plants it never had. A corridor bends into an ear,listening to the elevators dream in primary colors. Brutalism here is not mass but mood:a concrete psyche scribbled with markers…. read more – weiterlesen Brutalist Head Talking to Itself

The wall puts on a helmet of lightand pretends to be human. A single window blinks,half lamp, half lonely eye. In the corner, a chair folds into itself,an origami soul in concrete pajamas. The handrail thinks it is an arm,the arm thinks it is a bridge,the body forgets which way is sitting. Yellow hums like an overworked sun,mint and violet take notes in the margin. This is not a room,it is a pause poured in… read more – weiterlesen Brutalist Siesta

The staircase forgets to go anywhere,it just juts out into the lemon sky and waits. Each step is a frozen trumpet note,blue, then bluer, then almost a question. Brutalism usually says: FUNCTION FIRST,but here the handrail laughs and leaves mid-sentence. You walk up, you walk down,you arrive at the same turquoise doubt. Shadows draw extra steps that don’t exist,emergency exits for overqualified daydreams. The wall is a misprinted blueprint,scribbles arguing with the ruler. Somewhere a… read more – weiterlesen Blue Concrete Staircase Practicing Jazz

The façade is a crossword of cubes,every balcony a question with no vowels. Someone poured concrete through a kaleidoscopeand forgot to wipe off the dreams. Windows stack like error messages,pink, cyan, lilac: SYSTEM FEELS TOO MUCH. The building hangs from the sky by black outlines,dripping vertical stripes of yesterday’s weather. Corridors run in wrong directions on purpose,so your worries get lost between floor 7½ and 9. A yellow beam decides to be a sentence,underlining nothing,… read more – weiterlesen Rainbow Brutalist Housing Project for Lost Thoughts

The city stacks its vowels into a cubeconcrete chewing bubblegum, humming in cyan. I am the building, ich bin der Block,my corridors taste like highlighters and neon dust. Brutalism was supposed to be grey,but I swallowed a rainbow during a power outage. Each wall is a clenched fist painted magenta,each window a slot for unsent apologies. A pink ramp walks itself into my mouth,mumbling: béton brut, bonbon brut, brutal bonbon. Inside, elevators move strictly in… read more – weiterlesen Candy-Colored Brutalist Karaoke

I am starting a guerrilla art project on November 24, 2025. For many years, I have been drawing every morning on my way to and from work. This results in pictures of pigs, people, and things. If you find one of my cards, keep it and donate an amount of your choice to a good cause of your choice. I would be delighted if you followed me on Instagram: @schweinwelten.de How to recognize my art:… read more – weiterlesen New Guerilla Art Project

A hallway stretched by memory,lined with watercolor intentions. People drift through — silhouettes of maybe,each carrying a fraction of tomorrow. Light rehearses geometry:yellow angles meet turquoise sighs.The ceiling blushes in slow motion. Conversation dissolves into footsteps,footsteps dissolve into line. Hypothesis: direction is an illusion.Counter-hypothesis: so is arrival. Somewhere near the vanishing pointDADA hangs a small sign:“You are already elsewhere.”

Ein Wirrwarr aus Lachen,aus Rosa und Senfgedanken,aus Ferkelträumen und Sonntagsschlamm. Der Strich taumelt wie ein Märchen nach Feierabend,die Formen wissen nicht mehr, wer anfängt,wer liegt, wer fliegt, wer denkt. Alles glüht wie warmer Quark im Sommer,das Ohr hört noch das Quieken der Farbe. Hypothese: Ordnung ist ein Witz in Gelb.Antithese: Chaos trägt Lippenstift. Zwischen ihnen – das Schwein,Philosoph des Zufalls,träumt vom Himmel in Butterton. DADA gähnt,streicht übers Papierund nennt es Erkenntnis.