One day it is there. Standing there at the end of a blind alley in the city. It is a big child. Its eyes are humbly cast downwards to the street, its skin is cracked. During the day, city’s inhabitants congregate around this child, they organise rallies and concerts in its vicinity. At night they beat it with their fists, sticks, and chains – they beat the sculpture made out of soft and never-dry clay, the Mahlstädter Child. The artist has given the child to the people to complete his work, has given them the task to mould it into what is generally perceived as a perfect idea of a child. First the inhabitants of the city are urged on by their enthusiasm for art, then they come to the child as pilgrims of anger, losing control while they beat it up, and almost losing their minds in the process as well.