‘Waiting. Believe. Hope.’ A red boat, tilted to one side, held up by a number of strong white straps. You stare in amazement. And immediately the questions arise: Are the straps holding the boat in place or forcing it into an unnatural position? Are they pressing it down or preventing it from tipping over? Or is it the other way around? Is the boat supporting the ribbons or stretching them too far? Then suddenly: Wait a minute. A boat. Waiting, believing, hoping. This must have something to do with refugees. Right? Olivia Wiederkehr shakes her head and laughs as she recounts a newspaper article in which she was recently described as a ‘refugee artist’. Of course, she says, that works as an explanation, but "Waiting. Believe. Hope.‘ was created before the refugee issue received widespread public attention. The artist finds it interesting that the little red boat is interpreted in such an explicit way: ’It's impressive to see how a work can repeatedly be placed in a new context and attract attention." Nevertheless, the work really has nothing to do with refugees. So what does it have to do with? The ribbons are from the Swiss army, which weaves them into safety nets to prevent F/A 18 fighter jets from crashing into houses when landing on short runways. Safety nets for fighter jets? That's better than anything in the movies! If we stand in front of the boat again, it suddenly doesn't matter anymore whether it's been beaten down, protected, rescued or captured, or whether it references the issue of refugees. The discussion takes place elsewhere, namely where it began: in the title. ‘Wait. Believe. Hope.’ It not only opens up the space, but also verbalises our relationship to it, to the boat, to art, indeed to life itself. We wait: how long will this construction hold? We hope: please, let it hold. And we believe: yes, it will hold.