Now, gliding over the manicured farmland of southern Germany, on the way home, I feel like I have been out on a limb, the frayed knee of the stonewashed jeans of Europe, where our shining, smart, smug, designer West starts to unravel. Where the post modern, post everything notion of caring little for an outward show and the trappings of wealth seems more than slightly ridiculous. Where show is important because show is all there is really. Where reconstruction is slow and belts really are tight; where really having no money is really real and not just some semi-imaginary construct of a bunch of posh millionaires.
Now, back in the big, fat belly of the Euro-beast, in Munich, it seems churlish to be disdainful, it feels a little insulting to share the arty shots of concrete blocks and busses that I managed to steal from Sarajevo.
But I guess I will, because that’s what I do and I mean no disrespect. I find these images pleasing for their shapes and colours and textures and structure, like an abstract painting or a piece of electronic music, a tiny fragment of joy in a fucked up world.