My life as an amateur. Part 71.

 I found a history book on sculpture in Europe from the prehistoric ages until the 21th century. I finished it. This morning was waiting for the traffic lights when the colorful fashion designer stopped next to me and said: I am so much enjoying your red socks.

I think the person is more important then it’s art.

I am buying too many clothes and shoes. It’s getting crowded in my not walk in closet. Every item is second hand most of the time there is a stain or a hole somewhere. So I cannot sell them again. Nobody wants to have a stain or a hole. Except me. It’s an addiction really. I do not like to be addicted.

My mental state is getting amateuristic because of this. But it’s not the cause of this severe depression. I would rather not talk about this. Who does. This afternoon I got this thought and vision of an altar in my studio with just a single candlelight, everything else I had thrown out. I don’t like the word candlelight, I throw that one out as well. I like to drive my car for a long time. I like to shower for a long time. I like to run for a long time. I like to walk for a long time. I like to watch art for a long time.

I really want to make white paintings, starting each work by emptying tubes of red, orange, yellow and blue. And the other colors I have in eyesight. After that comes the road towards the white painting. Until now I never totally succeeded. Because I like colors, how they keep themselves up next and through each other. I like lemon yellow. I like the quietness of white, and off-white. 

My life as an amateur. Part 70.

 My favorite writer of children and adult literature is coming! We will meet her at Central Station to discuss the exhibition we want to offer and help make this autumn. Today it’s Thursday and that’s four days from Monday. I need to read her last books. The first book I red for our son was Joke van Leeuwen’s ‘Ik ben ik’. Poetry.

Humans are too big for me.

Last Saturday we brought an old racing bike to my nephew’s work so he could easily transport himself from the treinstation to the giant thrift shop and back. Afterwards we visited  his mother  in my  place of birth, Vlaardingen. It has been twenty years since I was there. It’s now with paid parking, luckily my sister has a visitors card. My niece came by as well, but didn’t greet me. So I greeted her. In order to feel less transparent. Yesterday I got a message from my nephew that the bike broke down but that he had two great trips with it. I promised to get him another one some day.

This morning, at a quarter before eight, The thought and feeling comes into mind that I need my work to be far more dirty and ugly. And not so terribly squared.

When you write something down it is definitely there. Even the things you cannot think of. Unless you delete it. Maybe poetry can save some parts. Write some. Write some thick layers and peel one off. Peel off another one. I just brought him a better bike, it was an hour by car. I think he appreciated the gesture. You never know what someone is really thinking. Thinking takes a lot of time anyway.

My life as an amateur. Part 69.

I red something about a very well known cabaretier meeting a group of autists, or better people with classic autism. The writers in the newspaper, two women with high functioning autism, thought it a missed change that they were represented in this group. A pity that again that the group was stereotypical for something that can never be stereotypical. A pity that tons of people will not be able to recognize their own atypicality. The two women are chronically depressed as well and they make podcasts and write blogs. I can listen and read. Tomorrow I will make an appointment with our family doctor.

This morning I talked with my colleagues. About how I can not permit myself to be scolded by anyone. So when the scolder is in the house I am going home, or any other place where I can be. It was good to notice that the newest colleague stood totally behind me. That made me feel like a normal person. 

I am reading ‘The white book’ written by Han Kang. She is the winner of the Nobel Prize in literature 2024. The competition part is not important, the fact that her art is noticed and spread around the world is. The following sentences were a consolidation for me:

And so, there are a few things left to her:

To stop lying.

To (open her eyes and) remove the veil.To light a candle for all the deaths and spirits she can remember-including her own. 

My life as an amateur. Part 68.

 There will be a gathering of fellow artists today. Sunday the 19th of January that is. We are supposed to make works from rest materials. I am feeling anxious, these are professional artists who know how to focus on exactly what they need and want. I don’t think I will be able to concentrate with all those people around me. I will listen and write the words found down. After eating the rolls and the pies most of them went to assemblage like crazy in the not so big studio. It was difficult to stay in the race with the words said, but in the end I think it was a marvelous result. The central heating was blowing it’s warm air under the pieces of paper. One artist commented on the other artists work: I love you and your simplicity. In Dutch it sounded better. Today I kept on running and after that I didn’t kept pace with time. A long time ago I invented a solution for this: following my own time. Me and the dog walked a lot. I bought twentysix used tubes of oil paint 200 ml for thirty five euros. So that’s great. I tried not to think about Trump. Tonight my dearest friend red that the man is going to skip all the possible genders except man and woman. I am slightly worried about that, for me, I just look like nothing, so he will probably oversee me.

My life as an amateur. Part 67.

 I think it’s a good idea to go on with the ‘My life as an amateur’ series. It fits my life better. This morning I was running in this very rural area between Winterswijk and the border of Germany. The weather was misty and cold, I went as slow as possible, jogging these rare sandy roads. I thought to go on forever. Like to keep on writing, even as there is seemingly nothing to write about. I am considering a writing course. Or boxing lessons. And eat less cheese. And spend more time painting. There is this volunteer working at the exhibition space where I work as well. She likes to tend the bar during opening nights. She wants to do it her way. All the way. Today she was late and there were some visitors dropping in. I poured white wine in some glasses and emptied a bag of nuts into bowls. She came at last and said that we had already started and that was not how it should be and that I could do the opening. Etcetera etcetera. I received some unpleasant vibes from this lady, like I got them several times before. I took my jacket and went, listening to Michael Gordon. I was home early which was the nice part. We have a new table lamp, the ‘donut’ produced by IKEA. A. installed it on our table made from tropical timber. Sorry for that, but I like to write about it. The lamp and the table. I hope the opening was alright for the artist. He is a nice man. He paid 250 euros for the bar service.

Parmi la foule. Episode 24.

 I want to stumble. On this day. I would like to talk about my nephew. He is a hero and a survivor. My sister invited herself for Christmasday and took the half of her twins. Because he thought it was time to see each other again. So he sat down and during the meal he poured his heart out. About his fear for his father, not feeling seen. About the right winged political choice of his mother, trying to convince her to think about his future. About he never have felt butterflies, for someone. About his not diagnosed autism. About not feeling comfortable at parties. About not drinking and smoking. About feeling more at ease with plants and flowers. About wanting to go to thrift stores together. To do more things together. To visit us more. About ‘a I want to come over to let you check my papers’. At the end of their visit he gave me a written card, about how glad he is that we started to send each other photos of plants and fungi..plants and fungi..plants and fungi

Parmi la foule. Episode 23.

Your art is mine, or your artwork is mine. What is it what you call art. Is it art when a lot of people call it that, and they push each other up. Until they reach unreality. How can images be competitive 

Why does one need to be the best. That’s the thing I, do not like competition. Because I loose myself. I fancy a ballet lesson with the British choreographer Anthony Tudor. I would like to write a journal of solitude ( in the evening I always seem to have forgotten how troubled the daytime was). May Sarton writes about writing and solitude. My mother used to brush her teeth with bleach. I have never liked very white teeth. Perfection bores me. I need to talk to someone, someone who knows about things, about things about how one can be.

So yesterday I went, I wanted to turn around every few meters. In the giant hall of the hospital the internet failed, it took me some time to find the right spot. There are so many receptions that it isn’t client friendly anymore. I got some great advice for searching advice. And help.

This morning I ran with the dog during the moment that parents are bringing their children to school. A mother said to her little ones: luckily we're allowed to start everyday anew.

I am just visiting. I want to stumble.