Gudrun Jandt Ceiling Clock

I can find almost everything I think or know about time in Horst Müller's ceiling clock.
It clings to the ceiling like a big fat spider, ready to drop down upon the next best unpunctual person. Look up at me, it says, for I am in command. Forget the sky, the position of the sun, the shadow lengths and stellar constellations you once used to tell the time. Look up at the whitewashed ceiling and embrace mechanical time. Forget the irrevocable trickle of sand in the hourglass. The circular sweep of my hands holds the promise of eternal recurrence. Spurn pendulum clocks and mechanisms that come to a standstill if they are not wound up. My batteries give me autonomy.
While having to tilt my head back in order to look at this clock altered my line of vision,
it merely prompted me to contemplate things I could also have noted when looking at any other timepiece. My view was inhibited; I failed to notice what was different about this clock: the hour markings are not emphasized in any way – the lines are all the same length.
Where is the top? Where does the hour reach its conclusion? In line with my forehead? Where's six o'clock? Where my chin is pointing? I project the vertical line of my face onto the dial. If I make just a single step to the side, the position of the hands changes along with my angle of vision – and hence the time displayed.
One of these ceiling clocks hung in the studio at Nordstrasse 347 in Bremen for many years. Any attempt to determine standard time with the help of this chronometer was bound to fail.

Zenith Ceiling Clock 1990