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.