Whoever, parallel to art, roams through the nature of things at Hombroich will be struck by its eye-catching buildings: these are frequently gran­di­lo­quent, boastful too, sort of oval or, one might say, tax-haven-shaped, so that, with each of them going green on the other, or yellow, or red, they outdo one another in swagger, their archi­tec­ture waywardly erratic, even odious. Thus the variform ensemble that is “Hombroich” is seen, unders­tood and used as a family of buildings and well-curated interests. The entire area, its be-all and end-all, is the more regulated version of the promise contained in an idea that allows little percep­tion or sense of what it actually betokens or eschews in something ever more rarely evidenced. Like an echo, which, through its repe­ti­tion of cons­traint, makes the most of reality, and yet encoun­ters less and less reality in doing so. On the one hand, what emerges, simul­ta­neously, is that which arguably precedes one, that which follows all of this, what whooshes in between, what is in the process of vanishing. But then, in a heartbeat, the unspoken kicks in, and is often more real than whatever merely floats about or oscil­lates in one’s mind’s eye.

Within this, however, and against it, poetic activity has at its disposal more resonant and far-ranging zones of possi­bi­lity, necessity, condi­tio­na­lity: areal areas. Like the idea of a legend of the Eternal One wandering through a more covert history of ideas without end or mutation: once upon a time he came upon a green meadow, on a second occasion he found a flou­ris­hing town briming over with pride, albeit one he will have left long ago. And when, some day, he comes to that place for a third time, a meadow may green again, and few stones would reveal traces of archi­tec­tural forms, sett­le­ments or people. But edifi­ca­tion is not neces­s­a­rily concerned with edifices and rarely with concord or compound interest on value appre­cia­tion and exten­sions. And it is often inac­ces­sible to those who have no access: ground without a guide or banister. Someone who discovers nothing is presu­mably in search of an absolute something, yet ever­y­where finds nothing but things. “But what remains”, as we know, “is founded by poets”. And this other principle of hope for something more open, the monument built more durably than bronze (and therefore set to remain) through poetic activity alone, word for word, would have more potential being, between Horace and Hölderlin, and in brighter colours, “like flowers”: only if they are roses, will they bloom.

The poet Oswald Egger, who has worked at Hombroich for over 20 years, is director of the non-profit company Das böhmische Dorf (The Bohemian Village) and respon­sible for contem­po­rary writing programmes.