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DEAR HARRY . . .

I visited the Hamburger Bahnhof in West Berlin on a clear April morning, accompanied by Harald Szeemann and by Jan Vercruysse, who was there to take a look at the space he had been assigned in this ghost of a train station. The building was empty, except one area where some workers were preparing an installation for I don’t know what event. The evening before, Szeemann had gone over the plan of the building with me in great detail, walking me through his vision of the richly varied show; it was a sumptuous story, but at the same time crossed by veins of nostalgia. Nostalgia for what, I wasn’t sure; only I was sure we shared the feeling.

Then, on that softly lit morning, we went out and around to the back of the building, a kind of vague no-man’s-land (walls still bare from past destruction and long abandonment; a young, slender birch in the middle of a clearing just showing its first leaves

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