Karl Lorentz

Ellerstraße 174

40227 Düsseldorf

 

Annette Shröder

Industriemuseum

Cuxhavener Straße 9

40221 Düsseldorf

 

Oberbilk, den 2. Oktober 1997

 

 

Dear Annette and the management team,

 

I thought you would like to know that I have now come to terms with my unfair dismissal from the Industriemuseum. I’m no longer angry that you did not respond to my previous letters (some of which I admit may have been a little unsettling). After twenty-five years of service at the museum, I have grown accustomed to management (not just yourselves, but your predecessors too) disregarding practically every suggestion or grievance brought up by myself or my fellow museum assistants. Therefore it was foolish of me to expect any response to my protests. Nevertheless, I ask that you give my final request – which I will come to shortly – the utmost careful consideration.

Unlike my previous letters, this is not a request to reinstate me as an employee of the Industriemuseum. I have said before that I was more shocked and upset about being found asleep in the „Mensch und Maschine” section than the manager on duty that day (Kristi Berghammer). Prior to this setback – and one other trifling instance of me being caught sitting in the corner of „Digitale Zukunft” when I should have been roaming – my dedication to the job had never been in question. It is natural of course that a man of sixty-three should not possess the same stamina and sprightliness as the students you have on the books, but I truly believe – even after twenty-five years, with the only changes to the permanent collection being its gradual disintegration – I still have more enthusiasm for protecting and promoting the exhibits than those transient, endlessly replaceable teenagers. Adamant that it was not boredom nor laziness that caused me to fall asleep on position, I visited my doctor for advice shortly after my dismissal, who ran some tests. He relayed the results to me late last week and I am afraid to say that these bouts of extreme fatigue I have been suffering recently are a symptom of a terminal illness.

The diagnosis means I no longer wish to launch an appeal against my unfair dismissal. However, I still love the museum. In fact, the diagnosis has only strengthened my psychic bond to the Industriemuseum, it having been a second home to me for so many years. When I was cruelly forced out in August, I felt that, after the next change of management, I might like to return to the Industriemuseum as a volunteer, to continue imparting my knowledge and passion to all comers. However, my doctor tells me I do not have many months left to live. I will soon die, and you will still be presiding over my beloved Industriemuseum.

As you know, I had been employed by the museum longer than any other member of staff, front or back of house. Having spoken to a few of my former colleagues since my dismissal, I was touched that the general consensus among them is that I should have been honoured for my quarter-century of service, not callously disposed of. What I am proposing therefore – if there is a beating heart among you and all these decaying machines – is a small memorial to be installed within the Industriemuseum after my death, which I will pay for, and which will enable me to live on in that majestic building forever more (without me having to be such a parasitic burden on the payroll).

You should be aware (unless you failed to notice all of mine and my colleagues’ feedback over the years) that the „March of Progress” exhibit in the „Werkzeuge und die Evolution des Menschen” section is in desperate need of renovation. None of you were present for the protest I witnessed in 1981 that saw the crucial figure of der Moderne Mensch hacked apart by a band of French feminists – and none of you seem to care that he still needs replacing, to restore the „March of Progress” to its former glory, to ensure that we are not just exhibiting a chain-gang of apes in a museum some might argue appears to be run by apes!

It is remarkable what can be done with taxidermy and plastination these days. Given that the Industriemuseum clearly has neither the funds nor the inclination to commission a new version of der Moderne Mensch to join his aimlessly wandering, feeble-brained ancestors, I would like to donate my body to the permanent collection, to be preserved and presented as the missing homo sapiens in our stunted „March of Progress”. I am currently in the process of raising the necessary funds, and will include my life savings (around DM 12000) so that the museum need not pay a single pfennig towards the procedure.

Three years ago I had my darling Lotte, a Maltese, taxidermised by a chap in Wuppertal, who did a wonderful job preserving not just her appearance but, I feel, her playful personality and the mischievous sparkle in her chocolate-button eyes. At first resistant, I have managed to persuade Herr X (he does not wish to be identified) to expertly skin me and stuff me once I have exhaled my last breath, transforming me into a truly lifelike representation of that pinnacle of civilisation so far: der Moderne Mensch.

As per our original installation (and as per Rudolph Zallinger’s original 1965 „March of Progress” illustration), I have requested Herr X present me naked, mid-stride. There should be no reason, at the dawning of a new enlightened century, for any member of staff to be unnerved by my natural nudity. Likewise: if any member of the management team is unsettled by the legal implications of exhibiting a taxidermised human, please do not fear. I hereby grant the Industriemuseum permission – in sound mind – to display my sensitively preserved body to the public, thus exempting you from any liability should the authorities raise any concerns. Providing everyone in the museum keeps quiet – and providing a visitor doesn’t recognise me on the podium and sound the alarm – I see no reason for the Polizei to ever know der Moderne Mensch was once Herr Karl Lorentz. My taxidermist is an exceptionally discreet gentleman. He will not contact you in advance of delivery of der Moderne Mensch. At some point in time, hopefully not too long after my departure from this bewildering world, a large unmarked shipping crate will arrive at the Industriemuseum, containing this essential missing piece of the „March of Progress”. It is my gift to you all. Please do the right thing and install me in this most distinguished position in the museum, ensuring the „Road to Homo Sapiens” – our long, hard-won march to intelligence, empathy and civility! – does not just remain an embarrassing evolutional dead-end within this museum’s rapidly deteriorating walls.

Join me on the „March of Progress”, colleagues. Show Düsseldorf we are not just unfeeling, ignorant, prejudiced, narrow-minded Neanderthals.

 

Mit freundlichen Grüßen,

Karl Lorentz

Richard Milward (born 26 October 1984 in Middlesbrough) is an English novelist. His debut novel Apples was published by Faber in 2007. He has also written Ten Storey Love Song, Kimberly’s Capital Punishment, and Man-Eating Typewriter.^[1] Raised in Guisborough, Redcar and Cleveland, he attended Laurence Jackson School and Prior Pursglove College, then studied fine art at Byam Shaw School of Art at Central Saint Martins College of Art and Design in London. He cites Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh as the book that made him want to write and Jack Kerouac, Richard Brautigan and Hunter S. Thompson as influences. He joined fellow Teessider Michael Smith in writing a column for Dazed & Confused magazine.

Author photo: Beth Davis, 2022.