For 3 weekends, an old cinema complex dreams up a new, intense art experience.
The memory of an old cinema often doesn’t begin with scenes from films. Instead, it starts with smells and that very specific gut feeling when pushing open heavy doors as a child.
On the worn cinema facade, a few letters glow, one of which sometimes flickers out. Inside – the air warm and a little dusty. A mix of popcorn, old carpet, and that indefinable scent of projector heat. It smelled of stories, even if you wouldn’t have called it that back then – that’s just how cinemas smell.
The carpet was dark and had patterns that looked like they came from another era. When you walked on it, it swallowed your footsteps. And then those magnificent seats: upholstery that was a little too soft, velvety, already a bit rough, and not too elegant. You sat there, knees perhaps a little too close to the seat in front, and waited.
This waiting was a feeling all its own…
Not abruptly, but like the whole room taking a collective breath.
…and then the lights slowly dimmed.
Suddenly, everything was quiet enough to hear the projector rattling.
A room full of people, simultaneously falling silent.
You sat there, feeling both small and incredibly alert.
This memory isn’t just any memory.
It’s physical. Everyone knows it.
Yet, hardly anyone has ever seen much of this cinema building.
A building full of secret passages
There’s another world behind the cinema screens.
Behind it, a kind of second architecture begins to emerge.
Hidden transport passages. A labyrinth of tunnels and dark chambers. An entire system of corridors connecting the halls.
The exhibition guides you through this underground system.
You walk through doors that were once locked. You pass through tunnels that previously only transported film reels. Through corridors that remained invisible for decades.
Through rooms where projectors once rattled.
A network of dark veins, never intended for visitors.
