Most of what I know about Gerd Rothmann I learned from a long conversation we had while sitting together at a large table in his living room, drinking black tea with candied sugar. His home contains a pleasant, orderly atmosphere that betrays the considered aesthetic of its owner. Filled with light entering from large windows facing the street, the ceilings are high and the living room holds a carefully considered assortment of different, individual chairs. While I decided which chair I wanted to sit on, Gerd told me that he had drilled large holes into the back of one of the chairs to make it feel less anonymous. Finally, I perched on a friendly wooden stool with industrial metal legs. Gerd has lived in this apartment on the Frauenhoferstrasse for forty years, and – much to his chagrin – has seen the neighbourhood considerably gentrify. Now, Gerd told me, there are far too many yuppies and fashion stores.
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