Climbing a green unstable table, speaking loudly I hadn’t meat for a week those bloody veggies, walking a shelf into an open window with a nice piece of clothing
for some things it would be a pity, to throw away for instance
for instance how could we have done this without you
telling someone how could we have done this without you
having the best of intentions
trying not to say those kind of people
talking about my mother my mother thinks nature is at her best on her own
my mother
on her own
going to work with some brilliant ideas, nailing a gifted tie on the wall making a video of it
I don’t smell you if that’s not a problem
for the world we keep the arms close to the body
Fremdkörper brauchen wir, wunderbar natürlich
you better ask yourself for a moment can I get out of the yellow collection a better
world should be absurd like sitting on a potato and living day 5 on day 6
giving your friend fresh mango slices, getting some thick oil bars to make a Richard Serra thinking other artists work is too good and being jealous about it which is ok. Seeing very nice work thinking I could have made that myself putting things together I think that’s a good idea for a better world
and a traveling potato
a traveling potato
So what can we do sit on the radiator leave the best pick to others open the door when someone rings the bell, dropping all the trash after her daughter’s moving to Munster, Ich hatte geklingelt aber…wo sind Sie!
So we can show a role model I think it’s with one L and an e after rol. Sie verstehen es genau das Moment so we can sit on the radiator genau das Moment
viel af en toe om
dan zie je heel duidelijk
zie je heel duidelijk wat je allemaal
so what can we do lay quietly on the floor without a green blanket thinking about my grandfather who compared me with Picasso was a ship carpenter himself he made me a ‘make-up furniture’ I have to be careful with what I am going to say I have to take care all these languages what can we do wearing a tie without a shirt what can we do wat is dat met jullie is it for me? Menschen! Ich habe geklingelt who sind Sie denn doch
we can nail the tie on the wall
I brought these catalogi home. Contemporary Art New York Morning Auction, and other moments. I should have a look and put them outside again. I need to write every day. I am wearing nice clothes today, although I am not sure if I am in travesty. Yesterday I bought a body warmer from Barbour for women, a little bit too little. My shoes are a little bit too big. Today I will take things out. Or at least, when something comes in, something goes out. I do not want to be a hoarder. Hoarding is for other people.
Today I arrived in Bedburg-Hau, at the residency Artoll, to make artworks with rest materials brought in by the people living in the neighbourhood. I am going to capture some of their words. As a word hoarder probably. And I am planning to make a list with ideas for a better world.
I have talking with a professional about my impossibility to be. Tonight I will make an altar. Tonight I will prepare my racing ike with thicker outer tubes. Tonight I will continue studying Japanese. There were two large boys with ponytails in the parking lot of the thrift shop. They both came by their own car, a pale yellow one and a metallic grass green one. They were rather small cars. But obviously fast ones. Today I will try to do everything as slowly as possible. And get rid of some possessions. As many possessions as possible. This is an eastern weekend, we are renting a house in the countryside. The weather is shiny with some cold wind. Most of the day we spend shopping in German Supermarkets. The biological products are so fmuch cheaper. I really felt like doing nothing these days. I made two videos and two drawings. I started reading ‘ A hundred years in solitude’ by Gabriel Garcia Márquez. In Dutch. I feel embarrassed by my simple photos and videos. Maybe that’s how it should be.
The assistant of our family doctor asked to make a list of the transgender places in and around Amsterdam, the best would be without a waiting list. They all have a waiting list, and even that’s full and closed. Anyway, I am going to make my own list and keep on waiting. It’s step one. Like the beginning of getting a present that’s not invented yet.
Amsterdam:
Kaleidos - gesloten wachtlijst - afwijzende toon
UniQ (Qpido/Levvel) - voor jongeren
Lang & Gelukkig - relationeel
Praktijk Koning-Grit - relatie/gezinstherapie
Praktijk Winnie Hendriks - klein
Jij Genderzorg - open wachtlijst, geen persoonlijkheidsstoornis- gastvrije toon
Linea Lingmont - relatietherapie
Groei & Glunder - Gender & Eigenheid - kind/jeugd
Praktijk voor Gendervragen
TranScreen (zelfhulp en ontmoeting) - filmfestival
Transgenders Amsterdam ( zelfhulp en ontmoeting) - voornl. trans
Counseling Praktijk Amsterdam Oost -
Klik Psychologen - gesloten
Utrecht:
Genderhealthcare - ook zeer geschikt met zeer lange wachttijden
Humanitrans van Homerun Utrecht Stad ( z en o) - onvindbaar
Trans Utrecht & Beyond (z en o)
Psymens - onduidelijk
Transgenderzorg Utrecht: Psychotherapie Wittevrouwen
Psymobil - expats
Psyq - budget website, fabriekstekst
The Safo Space - expats
I need to check out Alkmaar and Haarlem.
ik waaier mij
ik waaier
het waaiert het waaiert het waaiert
HET WAAIERT
het waaiert mijn koelte
mij koel
( ik mijn koelie nog )
roze breek, mogen
mij roze koelie breek, mogen waaier ik mij
wat niet mij koel
vermag
That’s how it is. ACG Vianen wrote ‘Orgaannevel’. Words are the tools for poetry. His word is about language as a difficulty to make clear what is being done, said and thought. Thank you ACG Vianen. For your words for me to use them as possibilities.
For today. Let me try to see with curiosity. A day with simple things. With real, maybe soft words. Can this reality be true. Or kind. Talking about kindness, I should send my nephew a message. Ask him how he is coping with his family, if his bike is stolen or broken. He doesn’t buy or use American made products anymore because of the horrific clown that’s doing its thing over there. Clowns never helped to feel better. Today was a Sunday, I ran six kilometers and we cycled to Diemen and back. Exercising works.
It’s Sunday again and I am trying not to talk without thinking it over twice. Every word seems to fail in use. I am reading an article in the newspaper, written by Mirjam Groen, about her diagnosis of Autism. She quotes a Classic art meme of a Victorian lady talking to another one: Are you ok? The other answers: I am acting like I am okay. Please don’t interrupt my performance.
For tomorrow I will make an altar so I can sit in front of it with my eyes closed. Or open. My mother used to clean her teeth with bleach. I have vivid memories of the odor.
My family is very nice. I have no complaints. I need to read more poetry. Maybe start my own poetry society. At the moment I am reading ‘Mijn leven als mens’ written by Joke van Leeuwen, absolutely fabulous. And two or three other books. I will mention them later. Last night I was preparing a quiche and boiling dozens of tubes of ancient oil paint in order to get them opened. Once I participated in a talking group full of people who barely left their houses during daytime. The therapist asked about our hobbies and told us about her's: hiking in the Sahara desert with her female friends. A. advised me to read Saturday's newspaper supplement. It held an interview with a non-binary actor.
One day, I will wake up like something completely different. Something compatible with me. I don’t want to sound dramatic, but it will probably never happen. So I better get used to this very situation. Or get some action started. During the nighttime.
I need to buy some yellow bananas because our current ones tend to stay green.
Two days later they are still green. I put them on a place in our house with the greatest change of catching some sunlight. I don’t feel like doing anything. The water is flowing from a hose on the street. They , the handymen, are repairing a leek. First they have to take the water out. I made a short video. At this moment or period of months I am not quite sure of the brilliance of my work. I like languages. I would like to read Marcel Proust in French and A hundred years in solitude in Spanish. Yesterday A. brought a book of poems inside, very experimental poems. To be continued.
What the language.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
