When I was seven years old I went with my mother to a ceramics class at the very first kulturladen in Germany, KuRo. I thought that I needed military equipment in the form of tanks for playing in the sandbox. The course leader acknowledged this remark with astonishment, but a few weeks later I was able to pick up the armed vehicles and use them to play war games in my family’s garden. Approximately eight years later, when puberty hit my still-childish brain, I stopped using my mother’s folding bike to replay national speedway competitions as Egon Müller with my friends on the street. Instead, I glued different cardboard boxes onto the back of the bike to imitate the body of a heavy motorcycle. During my first semester of university in January 1991, the Gulf War started and students went on strike. After the strike was over I understood university works without going to seminars. Two years into my studies I participated in an “art recall” at my former high school, where I installed fireworks with matches in the school toilet. Meanwhile my art teacher Karl Kellner, along with a group of pupils, painted the asphalt football field green like it would be made of grass. That made the classrooms in the main building glow like aquariums when the sun hit the newly green ground. After watching our peers learn how to perform theater for five-and-a half-years, we decided we’d better do it ourselves in 1998. Only when Pier Luigi Tazzi would visit us in London would we have toilet paper. But then Nicolaus Schafhausen visited the flat I shared with Stefan Kalmár and I got a solo show at Künstlerhaus Stuttgart. Oh, that’s why I did the dishes for a year. When you’re a carpenter and you need to install a shelf at a customer’s house, you need to go there. But if you have a laptop, you don’t need a shelf.