Karo- und Streifenstoffe der Schweiz für Afrika, Indonesien und die Türkei
Sigrid Barten ,Katrin Mosimann und Margit Weinberg Staber:
Museum bellerive, Zürich 1998, 118 seiten,
92 Abb., davon 66 farbig
email if you want to buy :email@example.com
Eine Dissertation war Grund, die bis dahin unbekannten Bestände an Karo- und Streifenstoffen des Museums Bellerive in Zürich zu inventarisieren; bald jedoch wurde ein Ausstellungsprojekt daraus. Die hier vorliegende schön gestaltete Publikation von Mustercoupons aus dem Archiv der Firma Fröhlich Brunnschweiler & Co., Enneda, zeigt Stoffe, die ausschließlich für den Export bestimmt waren. Alle diese farbigen Gewebe entstanden zu Beginn des 20. Jahrhunderts. Die Stoffe faszinieren durch ihre ungewöhnlichen Farbkompositionen und den Rhythmus ihrer Linien. »Die Harmonie, die in den feinen Linien und Massen liegt, spiegelt sich im Geist. Die Wiederholung von Mustern beruhigt uns. Die Wunder der Erfindung beflügeln die Phantasie…« (Oscar Wilde).
The words start to blur together again and I push the books away from me, my eyes stinging from over-concentration. I glance at the digital clock set at the corner of my desk, where the numbers flicker into a blue 11:04. It’s been four hours since my last proper break and my legs and knee are stiff and hurt like rusting metal. I brush through my hair as I let it down from the tight ponytail it’s been in since the morning and sigh. It’s a Tuesday night and everyone’s either out clubbing or in their rooms sleeping soundly. I take my phone and turn it on; switching it off so it wouldn’t distract me really did work, a little too well actually.
The screen comes to life and my phone explodes with notifications, text messages from Mum and Dad, pointless Duolingo reminders, and comments on a Facebook picture I’d put up days ago. I’m halfway through typing a reply to my friend Laurie’s question about a class assignment due tomorrow when another banner shows up at the top of my phone, and I absentmindedly click on it. The screen is black as what looks like an Instagram livestream loads, with five white dots chasing one another in the middle for eternity.
Then Alex Iwobi’s face materializes on the screen, and his laugh rings through the speakers as a door slams shut. His eyes blink back to his phone camera and I smile despite myself; his liveshows are actually really enjoyable. But the familiar bright grin he sports whenever he starts one is traded for a perplexed frown. His eyes flicker back and forth between the bottom of the screen and the camera, “This is weird,” he whispers, as though unsure of what he’s doing.
Seconds tick on as I wait for him to do something else. The usual influx of comments is nowhere to be found, no countless “follow me”s and redundant remarks on Arsenal’s - frankly - questionable performance lately. And then, next to the comments bar, where the numbers should exceed 10K is a-
“One person?” Alex smiles uncertainly, “Alright, so… It says here that there’s only one person watching the stream? So ‘one person’ is this for real or is it a glitch?”
I stare dumbfounded at Alex’s virtual image, my brain not comprehending what’s going on, but then I click on the comments bar, where my thumbs hover over the keyboard, uncertain of what to type.
“Well,” he mumbles more to himself than anything, “I guess I’m going to end this.”
‘No, wait!’ My fingers spring to type this before he switches off the livestream. It pops up as a lonely bubble floating away on the dark display, and Alex’s brown eyes widen in jovial surprise. ‘It’s not a glitch.’
“Nice,” Alex nods, laughing, and a burst of nervous giggling escapes myself. I lean back in my chair as he says, “This is really strange! Must be destiny, eh?”
I’m not sure of what to say next so I send three shrug emojis. My nerves are rattled and make my body tremble as though I’m on some extreme sugar rush and I don’t even notice that I’m beaming until my cheekbones begin to pulsate from the pain of smiling too hard. Alex is too, but it’s more of the I-don’t-know-what-is-happening-but-I’m-pleasantly-confused smile. “So, football fan?” he asks, an eyebrow raised.
‘I mean, I used to play and watch a lot when I was younger, but I don’t do that regularly anymore.’
‘I like Arsenal.’ I add as a hesitant afterthought, because even though it’s an understatement, a part of me doesn’t want him to put me in that category of ‘fan’. But why else would I be watching this, or even following him in the first place? “Really? Have you ever been to a live match?”
‘Yeah I have, when I was really young my uncle took me to Highbury, I barely remember anything though?’ Then I ask him if he’d supported Arsenal growing up and Alex launches off into a long explanation of how he grew up idolizing club icons and going to matches with older family members. As he talks I think to myself of how special it must be for him playing for this club which he’d adored since childhood. We fall into a conversation about football and other things, and although I’m overwhelmed by a mixture of elation and anxiety and a thousand other emotions, there’s a strange sense of comfort behind it all.
“Hold on, my arm is cramping up,” Alex cuts himself off midsentence and gets up from the couch. A heavy whooshing sound blares through my phone, disappearing once he sets the phone upright on a table and pulls a chair to sit in front of it. I can see him clearly now, and despite the average quality of the stream, I’m struck by how handsome he looks under the golden hue cast by the dim lighting of the room. ‘I like your shirt.’ I send, and try to distract myself by the white lines curving around his black t-shirt, looking like palm tree leaves.
“Oh, thank you,” he winks at the camera before pulling out what looks like a protein bar, the butterflies in my stomach going insane.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” I whisper to myself and shake my head.
“Anyway, I’ve been talking for wait too long now,” Alex leans into the phone after taking a bite of his food. “What have you been up to before joining me on this fine Tuesday night?”
‘I’d like to say “studying” but it was more of last minute cramming and trying to convince myself that Uni is the best thing I’ve ever and will ever do.’
“Aw, poor you,” he laughs. “Although Uni must still have its perks.”
“Well,” his voice falters as he tries to think of something, “I don’t know; new experiences?”
We both laugh at his failed attempt to make me feel better about my life. I begin to type some snarky reply to his suggestion but the screen collapses, and Alex’s face dwindles away, leaving me with a black background and the five white dots chasing around each other again. My heart falls as disappointment fills me, and I wait, dreading the inevitable. Then, Alex’s image wavers back to life, and an explosion of comments bombards my screen. His face is expressionless and I watch his eyes scan the comments wordlessly. I can’t bear to watch, and I hesitate before typing ‘It was nice talking to you,’ knowing that he probably won’t see it. I leave the app and lock my phone, setting it on my nightstand as I turn off the lights. Darkness swallows me as I hide myself under the covers of my bed, trying to ignore the emptiness I feel in my chest.
Beyond the walls of my bedroom, the world rages on. The memory of Alex trapped in my phone hovers in my mind. That was weird, I think to myself, and I go off into a long mental discussion of whether or not that actually happened and was I actually imagining this?
A small ping slices through the silence of my room and I reach for my phone, finding a message from Laurie. Deciding it could wait till tomorrow, I ignore it and try to go back to sleep. Minutes later, as I drift off, the same sound rings out.
“Fuck off, Laurie,” I whisper drowsily, ignoring my phone. And then, moments later, another one.
I’m already preparing a mental draft of the exaggerated text I’ll be sending her, but when I look at my phone it’s not a text from Laurie but rather a direct message from Instagram. Puzzled, I swipe the notification and it takes me to a white screen, with one message sent at the top of the chat. ‘Found you.’
It must be another Instagram glitch, I think to myself as my heart hammers underneath my bones, because there’s absolutely no way that this is real. I click on the icon at the top right and surely; it takes me to Alex Iwobi’s Instagram account. I go back and do this a thousand times, before sinking back into my bed.
“Holy shit,” I declare finally.
I’ve had this on my computer for ages so I decided to edit it and put it up. I like it, it’s cute. I feel like this needs to be continued? Tell me if you’d like to see a part two! Also, this is kind of funny but I haven’t been getting any new requests for one shots and it’s making me kind of paranoid lmao. But that gives me time to work on the pile I already have so it’s okay I guess. Finally, I’d like to say that I love Alex Iwobi with all of my freaking heart.