All the people on my side of the platform were reading. Newspapers, leaflets from supermarkets, free newspapers handed out especially on train stations, they were called the ‘Echo’, from what I always thought, like I had so many repetitive thoughts with a great amount of details, paperbacks, from which I tried to decipher the title to construct my opinion about the person, study books and recipes.
I was heading for Den Haag, to meet my former gallerist. We were going to visit a collector’s office. The man had bought several works of my hand, mostly clumsely painted portraits with which even the models were not happy. But this collector Pieter was determined to invest in my artisthood. I don’t know why. Trying to push those thoughts aside I concentrated on my book running a 100 miles race in the United States. The name I forgot, I lit a cigarette, it was thirty years ago ( or what did I say in Part 1 ), I thought about Charlotte Rampling a lot, her staring fatalistically in the direction of the other side of the ocean.
When you would ask me what I was reading myself, I must fail you the answer, but probably it must have been something romantic, like the Julia from Rhijnvis Feith. I liked it. My train arrived and I had to get in.
The office of the collector was huge and looked over the highway that goes straight into Den Haag, like you are in a hurry to get into that city. The secretary, who was talking a lot, showed us all the separate working spaces, and all the excellent art hanging on their walls. At the end of the guided tour the talkative secretary stopped us before entering the last room: what you are going to see here I think it's a disaster, all the canvasses hammered on old pieces of wood and the faces have blue lips and purple hair, I just think it as a waist of money and so on and so on..
And so my former gallerist ( she was retired) and I went quietly side by side to the elevator, ignoring the lady. The works were mine.
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