You can find Floating University Berlin behind an unassuming chain link fence on a dusty back road between Südstern and Tempelhofer Feld. Walking across an industrial metal catwalk, you’ll see a patchwork of wooden docks and oblong open-air structures surrounded by thick foliage, complete with a dreamy view of the Tempelhof Airport radar tower looming in the background. The campus is built on a large section of asphalt just next to Tempelhofer Feld’s rainwater retention basin – if it’s rained recently, the whole campus appears to float on the water.
We have people that support us, but we also have a lot of people that would be happy if we disappeared.
Floating, as it is familiarly called, is a non-profit “unlearning” site – hence the crossed-out “University” – that hosts a variety of programmes throughout the year, including artist panels, curatorial events, “Kids Uni” and Space for Practice, a movement workshop that runs during summer. Floating also comes out with a community newspaper, the reeder.
For founding members Sabine Zahn, the coordinator of Space for Practice, and Jöran Mandik, a producer and member of the board, the six-year-old institution is “an ongoing negotiation”. “We have people that support us, but we also have a lot of people that would be happy if we disappeared,” Zahn says.
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In 2018, when the idea for Floating was first floated, so to speak, it was only supposed to be a six-month learning and research project on sustainable energy, as mandated by Section 35 of territory building law, dictating use of “undesignated outlying” land. With programmes on issues from urban development policy to the study of knowledge production – including the summer school Datatopia, which reexamined the philosophy of Bauhaus for the modern day – Floating quickly became a high-interest project in the community. In response, the founders agreed that they would attempt to continue Floating as long as they could, and formally establish it as an association.
One of the things that makes Floating unique is that it somewhat eludes definability. It has hosted free workshops open to the public on subjects ranging from ecology in urban environments to poetry about fungi to challenging the term ‘toxicity’ in combination with queer theory. They have also led experiments in sustainability, such as modelling new prospects for the site’s irrigation system to recycle rainwater. As a piece of blue-green infrastructure – urban design that incorporates water and greenery to intercept water – the space itself is also hybrid, and home to a thriving ecosystem of both land- and water-dwelling animals, including ducks, dragonflies, swallows, crows, herons and foxes.
It is an environmental, architectural, sociocultural, artistic and educational project, the execution of which has earned it several awards, including the 2021 Golden Lion at Venice Architecture Biennale, the 2021 Berlin Award, and, most recently, the New European Bauhaus Prize in 2023. Floating has also collaborated with over 80 universities worldwide and developed programmes in over 25 schools across Berlin.
“The thing that wins us prizes, that makes us cool, is this hybridity,” says Mandik. “It’s being in a totally new category. This is special. That’s why we want to do it. That’s why people come here.” The flipside of its hybridity, however, is that sourcing public funding has required some Olympic-level bureaucratic gymnastics. Since Floating does not completely fall into any one funding category, no one Senate department is clearly responsible for them, nor has a standing spot for them in their budget. This process has become more difficult over the past three years, as funding for cultural programmes has continued to dwindle. After constantly applying for six-month allocations of funding since its founding, 2024 has been the year that the well has run dry. “[We are] actually in very, very dire straits,” Mandik says.
The thing that wins us prizes, that makes us cool, is this hybridity.
In the wake of rejection of a number of proposals, Floating is currently out of funding. Almost all programming has been halted, and – most critically – the space is due for repairs. The structure of the dock is beginning to rot in some areas, to the point where someone recently fell through a board. Renovation will be an urgent necessity to continue, on top of the site maintenance that in any year makes up a significant portion of the budget. Mandik estimates that the bare minimum annual cost to run the institution is around €400,000 – a figure that does not take into account the funds they’d need to hire their 20-some staff members for full-time work, who currently work as volunteers or for a handful of part-time hours. For many contributors, this has led to burnout.
“It’s exhausting. Which is sad, because it’s such a beautiful project,” says Mandik. “It’s so much fun. But if you’re trying to do something like this that doesn’t exist, you have to grind. So no wonder there’s friction. But we’re here for it.”
Murky waters
In terms of aims for the future, Zahn describes a timeline that has always been in limbo – there have rarely, if ever, been room for long-term plans. “[This project] didn’t always come out of propelling towards the future. We were really measuring what was at stake; maybe this makes sense for now, and then we’ll see in another half year.”
Despite being on the brink of potentially closing for good, their international recognition has continued to pave the way for opportunities for collaboration – such as an upcoming arts event in Hanoi, Vietnam with local partner Think Playgrounds, where Mandik and a colleague were invited to create an installation called Red River Table, which featured the dinner table as a social sculpture, serving several community meals along Hanoi’s Red River.
At the beginning of this year, Floating also signed a Letter of Intent with the Berlin Senate Department for Urban Development, Building and Housing, as well as with their landlord, Tempelhof Projekt GmbH, with the goal of transforming the water basin into one that sustainably manages rainwater through organic filtration.
Another recent prospect is Floating’s proposed project ‘Club Mud’, an idea that they’ve pitched in several funding applications this year. The concept encourages a sustainable approach to activism by turning Floating into a sort of naturalist resort, complete with entertainment and relaxation, like karaoke and mud baths. They have not yet been able to source funding for the project. “Unfortunately, no one wants to pay for leisure,” Mandik says.
It’s unclear what will happen to these pending projects, as well as to Floating itself, in the coming months. If some funding comes through, they may manage to buy some time, but the future remains murky. Amid the uncertainty, Floating has begun to mobilise the community as a last resort, hosting a fundraising day at the end of July, starting a donation page and making a general appeal for sponsorship. A letter of support has over 400 signatures.
“If you like Floating, hit up your local billionaire, talk to the Senate, send them an email,” says Mandik. “We definitely need support.”
