In Berlin Zero Hour 3, Mona von Wittlage turns the street into a paradoxical playground, where the ruins of history frame an act of leisure. Amidst façades torn open by war and memories that refuse to settle, a naked golfer swings his club. At his side, a caddy stoops, blood-red and spectral, preparing the next move as though the city itself were a course awaiting conquest.

Here, Berlin is caught between past and present: rubble still smoulders in the outlines of buildings, yet everyday life seems to stir in the background — passers-by, indifferent, moving within the ghost of catastrophe. The golfer’s gesture, absurd and intimate, cuts through the silence of memory with the indifference of play.

Von Wittlage paints not satire, but unease: the image is both ludicrous and tragic, a theatre where the frivolity of human desire collides with the heavy sediment of history. The work asks whether remembrance can endure when spectacle, leisure, and consumption claim the stage. Berlin Street Golfer thus becomes an allegory of our age: history as backdrop, tragedy as scenery, and play as the eternal refrain.