An air of civilisational wipeout hangs over the Gehrenseestrasse complex, an abandoned housing estate on the north-eastern outskirts of Berlin, where the city still looks shabby without the chic. The insides of the nine prefabricated blocks have long been gutted; six floors of empty window frames stare hollow-eyed over multi-lane carriageways. In the courtyard, paintballers have left behind wooden barricades from when they played at World War III.
Yet in one of the second-floor rooms of Berlin’s largest ruin, artist Sung Tieu is waltzing across the concrete floor and reliving scenes from her childhood. “Here was the single bed I shared with my mother for three years,” she says, pointing into a corner of the small room. “Two metres by 90cm, can you believe it?” There in the corridor is where her neighbours used to make bánh bao dumplings on camping stoves, for lack of private kitchens. “I still remember the smell.” Here was the door through which she used to entertain her best friend when his mother locked him in during working hours. “We played cards through the gaps,” she recalls with glee.
