Icon: enlarge
Henry Hübchen and Michael Gwisdek (2009 at the film awards party)
Photo: Jens Kalaene / picture-alliance / dpa
Now enough is dying.
My longest companion and friend has disappeared.
He can no longer tell me our many common stories so inimitably.
Always with a punchline and a precise dramaturgy.
Although we often got into arguments because my story was different.
The truth was somewhere in between.
I will miss the endless arguments about what is really weird, the incredible exaggerations that infuriated me.
And Micha always needed an audience - even if it was only the fish in his self-made pond that he would fall into to surprise a guest.
Micha, the ingenious slapstick, who was seamless.
Micha, the physical talent who played the physicality of a boxer, as if he hadn't trained anything else since childhood and not just four weeks before shooting began.
Micha, the theater actor who turned the team into his audience even while filming, and not just when the camera was on.
Micha, with whom I spent the night in hotel double beds for financial reasons and got into a solid argument about dog-ears in his glossy illustrated.
Whenever my chaos paralyzed me, all I had to do was seek out Micha and I would feel good again, like a tidy Prussian.
Who is telling me now the many stories and the ones that have not yet been told?
Now I have to tell it myself.
This is nowhere near as entertaining.
But what's worse is that the untold stories are lost forever with Micha's death.
Icon: The mirror