Had to come so. The feet ache, the eyes itch. An urgent need for vanilla ice, flanked by a latent need for nourishment. We are standing in front of an absurd bogie on which a plastic glove, a wig and several microphones grinding on the ground rotate. This is the moment when the mood kills. "Och Menno!", I can just resist. I'm going limp. My son is tireless.
We are at the Venice Biennale. Every two years Wigsen, the scene pilgrimages to the Lagunenstadt to learn about the status quo of art. Children are almost never seen here. This year's Biennale motto is "All the World's Futures".

Willy did not want to. Watching two full days of art, just before his sixth birthday, this sounded almost as exciting for our son as an excursion into the butter cans section of Karstadt. If you have an artist as a father and an art critic as a mother, art is nothing that sounds particularly tempting. It is usually the reason for the absence of a parent.
Willy's first reaction to our classy old-town accommodation also turned out to be rather mau. The antique style furniture left him as cold as the tasteful stitches on the walls. "Cool!" He cried, after inspecting the bathroom. "Look Mom, the floor in the shower has ripples!" True. I would not have noticed that. Just as little as the individual shape of the watercocks and the turquoise glossy top nozzle of the hair dryer that Willy demonstrates with the pride of the discoverer.