Holly Hirschfeld

During the day, she studies contemporary history. She researches books and preserves her pallor under the protection of libraries. She disguises herself. Holly Hirschfeld, this petite little lady, is not shy, but carefully considered. As if she were hiding her light. Her light that shines in the night. Only then does she reveal her true self: elegantly wicked, scandalously dazzling, with that sophisticated laissez-faire attitude that only women of the cosmopolitan city possess. Holly Hirschfeld embodies the nocturnal flair of legendary Berlin. With her peculiar, almost dangerous flicker, she resembles an absinthe fairy of the Great Depression. Never tangible, yet so confusingly approachable, she draws her admirers in. A glass of sparkling wine on two long legs, dancing over the abyss – catastrophically euphoric, in trance-like certainty. For within her dwells an older spirit, whose imperishable secret weaves through the centuries. The counterpart to linear history, eternal recurrence.

Holly about herself.

One of my lovers once told me he was hurt because he had seen me with someone else: I could find any man attractive, he just had to desire me… maybe that’s true. I like to spend my nights in Berlin’s hottest clubs. I love to dress lasciviously and dance freely at wild parties. The exquisite intoxication is the dark source I draw from when things become light and quiet again. Then I immerse myself in deep black poetry. Secretly, I long to finally meet my beloved Nosferatu among the nighthawks. Or maybe I already am?