Stefan Koutzev

Navid wants to enlighten the misogynistic men in Hönow, but his assistant knows better.

Within the haunting cycle of mass production, human labor contrasts with the endless stock of coffins in a Berlin factory. In light of computer-aided manufacturing and the excessive overexploitation of natural resources, this film longs for a moment of rest from the assembly line, while mankind continually buries itself in the remnants of a material world.

Within the haunting cycle of mass production, human labor contrasts with the endless stock of coffins in a Berlin factory. In light of computer-aided manufacturing and the excessive overexploitation of natural resources, this film longs for a moment of rest from the assembly line, while mankind continually buries itself in the remnants of a material world.

Sori dropped out after his studies and lives aimlessly in Cologne as a gallery assistant. He hides his true self from his family in Seoul. As he drifts through the city's late summer, finds solace in drawing, and memories of his military service resurface, it all comes together in a silent question about where we belong and the place we call home.

Sori dropped out after his studies and lives aimlessly in Cologne as a gallery assistant. He hides his true self from his family in Seoul. As he drifts through the city's late summer, finds solace in drawing, and memories of his military service resurface, it all comes together in a silent question about where we belong and the place we call home.

Sori dropped out after his studies and lives aimlessly in Cologne as a gallery assistant. He hides his true self from his family in Seoul. As he drifts through the city's late summer, finds solace in drawing, and memories of his military service resurface, it all comes together in a silent question about where we belong and the place we call home.

There are large paintings showing views of houses wherever you look. Each house is meticulously outlined; at first glance, they all look the same. Sometimes they keep their distance from each other, sometimes they seem to float in the void. Combined in ever new arrangements, these houses seem strangely unlocalised. With stencil and brush, Johannes Kloosterhuis is already working on the next painting. Each house has its own story, but perhaps the idea of privately owned homes is an outdated ideal, he muses aloud.

The wind is hissing, the laundry hanging, the water boiling and the potatoes are peeled. Then he guts and cleans the fish. A wordless visit – home is where it hurts.