August is a sedated month. In August politicians, journalists, anybody retreat for a couple of weeks. The cities empty out and the galleries usually hang the light hearted, colourful leftovers from the storage up on their walls. Nobody would notice anyway, it‘s August. There is a sense of refusal in August, although not even intentional, rather a shared feeling of dizziness that accidentally adds up to a collective denial. 31 days of grasshopper sounds and thick and stubborn imbecility and when the catastrophes set in, this sedated month has already passed.
But here is the good thing: August is not about naturalism. Most likely somebody would walk along the beach and stumble across one of the books that people had buried in the sand and return with a joke. It would occur to him, that it is better to tell a bad joke in August than telling it in May and that it was better to lie, than to remain silent in August. Later, one wouldn‘t bother burying the book on the beach, but dump it in the sea.
Niklas Lichti, 2012