One of the first exhibitions I saw in Berlin was Heute Noch Morgen Schon. It was a collective short film exhibition showcasing the city in the 1990s, when the collapse of the Wall turned the urban landscape into a temporary laboratory for radical art, queer subcultures, and political upheaval. Even before I understood the history, I was struck by the space itself. Housed in the Nikolaikirche, Berlin’s oldest church, the medieval nave was overtaken by industrial scaffolding and snaking pink pipes that carried flickering archives of a city in flux. This visual friction, where ancient stone clashed with a raw, construction-site aesthetic, captured the quintessential Berlin spirit: the beauty of the "meanwhile", where everything is vibrant precisely because it is still here today but already becoming tomorrow. 

It was my first real encounter with the city’s defining philosophy: Zwischennutzung

Literally translated as "interim use", Zwischennutzung describes the practice of occupying vacant buildings or unused land for a limited period before a permanent development begins. In the wake of 1989, Berlin became the global capital of this phenomenon. Because property ownership in the former East was often tied up in years of legal disputes, and the city lacked the capital for immediate reconstruction, vast swaths of the center were effectively paused. These cracks in the system allowed for a radical democratization of space -- without the pressure of high rent or long-term leases, artists and activists could treat the city as a living playground.

This wasn't just about finding a cheap studio; it was a socio-political strategy that redefined the value of a city. Zwischennutzung transformed empty department stores into the legendary Tacheles art squat and turned riverside wastelands into makeshift techno clubs. It prioritized the cultural "now" over the economic "later", fostering a sense of urgency and experimental freedom. Because these spaces were always on the verge of being reclaimed, there was no time for polish. This created a city built on borrowed time, where the lack of permanence became a form of power. By occupying the "meanwhile", artists and activists effectively hijacked the city's timeline, turning vacant lots into political strongholds and industrial ruins into queer sanctuaries. It was a realization that you didn't need to own a building to change its history; you just needed to be there before the bulldozers arrived.

Rather than getting lost in the theory of Zwischennutzung, I want to show you what it actually looks like on the ground. Berlin is full of spaces that refuse to be finished -- places where the temporary has become a permanent way of life. Here are a few essential resources and landmarks that capture the practice in action:

Beyond the examples Berlin provides, I want to talk about something more personal: how Berlin’s philosophy has fundamentally shifted my perspective on my own path. 

In my Experiential Learning class, we read Lauren Berlant’s Cruel Optimism. Berlant argues that we often bind our sense of happiness to "objects of desire", like the dream of a stable, linear career, even when those objects are actually obstacles to our flourishing. For an artist, this "cruel optimism" manifests as a constant waiting for the "real" career to begin, treating the present moment as a mere waiting room for a future that may never arrive.

Berlin offered me a way out of this trap. It taught me that a creative life is rarely a straight line of permanent successes. Instead, an artistic career can be seen as a form of personal Zwischennutzung. Once I stopped looking at my work through the lens of a finished "product," the way I move through my own practice started to shift:

• For a long time, I was paralyzed by the idea of the "final form." I thought I needed the perfect studio, the right grant, or a permanent sense of "readiness" before I could truly commit to an idea. But Zwischennutzung is built on the opposite premise: you move because the space is empty now. I’m learning to stop mourning the resources I don't have and start "squatting" in the possibilities of what is right in front of me. If I only have a laptop and a kitchen table for the next three months, then that is my laboratory. It’s not a compromise or a "temporary" setback. It is the site of the work itself.

• This also changed how I look at the "scaffolding" of my life. In the Nikolaikirche, the beauty wasn't just in the ancient altar or the films themselves, but in the visual friction between the two: the way the industrial pink pipes snaked around medieval stone. I used to be so embarrassed by the unpolished parts of my career: the side hustles, the pivot-heavy projects, the gaps in my CV where I was just trying to figure things out. I treated them like construction site debris that I needed to clear away before guests arrived. But now, I see that scaffolding as the actual architecture. It’s the structure that allows me to reach new heights, and hiding it feels like lying about how the building stays up. The mess isn't a sign that I’m still under construction -- the construction is the art.

• I’m changing how I think about my time. Berlant’s "cruel optimism" is basically the idea that we sacrifice our happiness today because we’re hoping for a "payoff" tomorrow. It makes the present feel like something you just have to "get through." But in 90s Berlin, everyone knew their time in those buildings was limited. They knew the government would eventually take them back. That sounds stressful, but it was actually a relief. It meant they didn't have to worry about being perfect or building something that would last forever. They could just play. I’m trying to learn from that. Instead of treating my current projects like "practice" for a future career, I’m trying to see them as their own little worlds. If a project is only going to exist for a week, why not make it as weird or as honest as I want?

Ultimately, moving from a mindset of "ownership" to one of "occupation" has made the whole idea of a career feel a lot less suffocating. I’m not worried about building a permanent monument that will stand for a hundred years. I’m just focused on how I’m inhabiting the "meanwhile" -- making sure that while I’m here, I’m making as much noise as possible. It’s a bit more precarious and a lot more chaotic, but it feels infinitely more honest. It’s the spirit of that exhibition title finally sinking in: today still, tomorrow already...

Thank you for following along and reading these reflections. This blog is, in many ways, my personal thank-you letter to Berlin for everything it taught me about time, space, and the beauty of the "meanwhile." Whether you’ve gained a bit of inspiration for your own creative path, or simply found a new site to visit the next time you find yourself in the city, I hope these fragments stay with you. Berlin is a city that is always becoming and I’m grateful I got to become a little bit more myself while I was there.