A central theme in my artistic research on walking is models. By this, I mean the constructs, the mental frameworks I hold about myself and the world outside of me. Examining these models, refining them, comparing them to reality, and expanding them is a fundamental part of my walking practice.  

The term "model" is important to me. From what I’ve observed, my perceptions of the world, other people, and even myself are abstract and incomplete representations. They should not be confused with what actually happens or exists. At best, they are based on information I’ve gathered from reality—but upon honest reflection, the quality and quantity of this information vary greatly. There are things I know a lot about, but there is also much I know little or nothing about. My models have a tendency to provide answers even when the informational foundation is thin. In fact, I’ve noticed something even more extreme: often, the model already exists, and reality is then forced to fit it. Much of what relates to religion, for example, seems to function this way, in my opinion.  

What interests me is gathering as much information as possible and feeding it into my models. The better the quality and the broader the foundation, the more interesting the model becomes. After all, my perception of everything around me and within me is all I truly have—it’s the space in which my life unfolds. 

In my reflections on these models, I explicitly refer to the history of physics and some of its key figures, whom I enjoy engaging with. Simply put, physics long relied on Newtonian mechanics to make predictions—until it became increasingly clear that there were minor and major deviations from reality in certain areas. It was a painful and conflict-ridden process within the discipline to realize that previous explanations only held within very specific limits. Gradually, quantum mechanics emerged. Today, every physicist knows that these are just models. The key is understanding when a given model allows for accurate predictions about reality and when it doesn’t. And, crucially, these models are not reality itself.  

The same applies to my perceptions of the world—my "models"—and I try to keep this insight in mind.  

A walk, whether literal or metaphorical, is for me a method of aligning my models with reality. It begins with the intention to consciously observe and discover. Since it’s an engagement with myself, I can start anywhere.  

In my artistic work, I’ve long been fascinated by Darwin. Within this context, his historical role and discoveries are particularly interesting. During his voyage on the Beagle, he observed, collected information, recorded data, and conducted experiments. His greatest strength was that he gave more weight to real-world observations than to the models in his head. Of course, his ideas—and those of his contemporaries—were heavily influenced by religion, among other things. Time and again, he had to acknowledge that what he observed contradicted the prevailing explanations of his time and culture.  

One could argue that this realization was available to everyone else as well—it was literally happening right before their eyes. Darwin gathered information, clues, and evidence, constructing a picture that was fed by reality and observation. He did not try to impose a preconceived narrative onto reality. His explanations had to be provable.  

Beyond this, there are other aspects of Darwin’s approach that interest me and that I consider important for a "walking" methodology. For instance, he ended up on the Beagle largely by chance. He was curious and deeply engaged with whatever captured his interest and attention. His process was far from systematic or goal-oriented—there was no way to foresee what might come of it. He simply collected. One might even describe his approach as playful and exploratory. He engaged with whatever crossed his path on that journey. And he persistently continued his work, researching further. Only many years later, on the basis of this material, did his theory of evolution take shape.