Among the ruins of a fallen temple, beneath a fading sun, figures painted in blood gather in solemn communion. Their forms, fragile yet vivid, contrast with the cold permanence of stone columns and shattered marble. Here, Mona von Wittlage stages a ritual at the threshold of endings—the banquet of humanity at the dusk of its own myths.

The title evokes Wagner’s cataclysm, yet what unfolds is quieter, more intimate: gods reduced to mortals, seated not on Olympus but at a fragile table in the dust. The red of blood breathes a pulse into desolation, insisting on life, desire, and memory even as civilizations collapse into twilight.

Twilight of the Gods is both elegy and prophecy—a reflection on the fragility of human grandeur, and on the stubborn vitality that endures in its wake.