I am a unique being, my scales pointing to where the sun sets, the sun that never reaches my core. My skin is made of reinforced concrete, thicker than the height of a human. I am pristine, indestructible—at least as long as time allows. And yet, I lie here, shyly hidden beneath ivy, in the shadow of an old pine, at the western edge of Wilhelminapark.

My shyness stems from shame; I bear a mark of the past. I was built by an enemy of this city. I was the headquarters of criminal commands, a shelter from Allied bombing raids. That no daylight reaches me is the perfect symbol of the circumstances under which I was created.

But time took this beautiful city by its inevitable hand, leading it away from darkness. I became a storage space, an absurdly strong shed for cables, tools, and old mopeds. Most people forgot about me. Hidden from view by nature, I wore my leafy-green cloak of penance for decades—gladly.

Until, seventy years after my construction, four artists, sons of the city, knocked on my steel door. They found my isolation cowardly. They spoke to me. "True atonement" they said "is giving something back to the city. You once served darkness, but you could also house beauty". Me, beauty? The idea!

Yet, the idea was this: to fill me every month with new, groundbreaking art. Installations, photographs, poetry, sculptures, paintings, films, and performances. Work with a high X-factor—a pulse on contemporary art. Non-profit, because everything good simply deserves attention.

Slowly, the conviction settled into the hairline cracks of my meter-thick skin: this is my new fate. On one condition: do not call me a bunker anymore. I will never again hide what cannot bear the daylight, but I will showcase what must be seen. I am no longer a shelter—I am a refuge. I carry the past with me, but I am no longer defined by it.

I am the EXbunker.