My life as an amateur. Part 61.

 I do not always have enough time for being an amateur. One has to do so many different kinds of things, it is exhausting. I am going on a self declared holiday. Last minute. I will clear up my studio and paint things white. Or at least try to paint things white, the paintings as well. I can call them ‘Compositions in white’, whether they are white or not. That is not my problem. I met this artist during an exhibition in a chapel. I recognized her as my art teacher on highschool. Her artworks are familiar with mine so it was very nice to meet her. She lives above the café where I used to go with my father, me drinking a chocolate milk, wondering how the glasses with beer didn’t fell over because of the thick wobbly carpets on the tables. She told me she was invited by a Parisian gallery. Today I am going to read a Grammaire fondamentale, fondée sur le français fondamental. I am going home. Stop. For the third time today I told the same story. I am hesitating to tell you about it here. Because it is such an important story. I wished I was born fifteen years ago. I wish words do not have to be written, that they flow from mind to mind. I flutter from book to book, from language to language. Everything is equally interesting. Maybe when I manage to clear the water I will manage to stick with one book ( or two, a novel and a book on economics by Thomas Piketty ) and one language ( or two ). Auntie this behavior of an addict? If this is the case I might be in terrible need of professional help. If I only was a boy.

My life as an amateur. Part 60.

 The human condition. I think that an artist has to be a gentle person. And that an artwork is never finished, or at least can keep on ‘becoming’, growing, becoming less or different, or vanish… It is Saturday and the dog is sick. He has to wear a plastic megaphone and he is peeing blood. So that’s not fantastic. And the dog doesn’t have the best time of his life. And we neither. I repaired two bikes and I have been trying to sell my wardrobe. No one is interested. Or maybe I made them too expensive. Or maybe I have a too exclusive taste. The titles I give to my visual works are expansive and poetic, if you allow me to say so. The idea occurred to me that it might be a relief to bring the titles down, step by step, with my eyes closed. In the end there will be poetically nothing, or just ‘The painting and me’, or just a number. My friend.

I asked her opinion about a painting, if it was ready or not. She told me that it was just about ‘not ugly’ enough. Stop. This morning I ran six kilometers in fifty minutes. I felt like a top sporting person. Later I will tell you about the swan.

The swan is a solitaire being a white spot in a large green pasture. After I tried to get closer, the bird went swimming in its private stream. For a whole day. Now it is back. It has to be a long distance relationship. Of course. A very long and slow relationship. So I can keep up on pace. I am a very slow person. Therefor. Or we can call it thoughtful. I am reading a catalog from Galerie Schuler : 'Europäische Avantgarde nach 1945’. There are some great works in it by Lucio Fontana, Alberto Burri (Bianco 56!), Karel Appel ( Nu tragique, with just a little red ), I  am far more inspired than lately by my fellow artists ( sorry fellow artists ) and I would like to go to my studio to pour the paint and other materials on one big heap. I allow all and everyone to declare me an imitator. Because we all are. Nothing less. And I will name the works ‘composition nr. so and so’ or ‘Orange and brown’. This make me think of ‘This Way Brouwn’, I wished I had made that work. Me me me me and me. In the work. Or only the work. Stop. Breathe and be gentle. I am going to say hi.

My life as an amateur. Part 59.

 Yesterday I went to the Stedelijk Museum and saw some artworks of great artists. I immediately wanted to go to my studio to make some great artworks. Make second sentences to dip my hair my head my eyebrows in oily oilpaint my hand rubbing and going round and round and round all over over all over my skull while reading this absolute genius novel in verse. thinking. do not go do not go please stay inside these sentences. How the people are called, lying in wait.

I cut my own hair very short now my ears are showing. That is the best part, I very much like my ears they are big and fabulous. It’s Saturday late afternoon and my mood is sinking deep. I need not be too dramatic just a tiny bit. About tiny my trousers are lately gigantic huge, held up by a single leather belt they are happy not to feel huge myself in them, that I keep on being my own self. Stop. Now I am starting with drama all together ever the same alla…alla. Keep reading the ‘my’ books like the ones by Jón Kalman Stefánsson: Summerlight, and then the night comes. My former galerist sent me a message about a dream she had in which she angry with me because I didn’t dare to show myself, hiding under thick layers of paint, thicker and thicker. I told her that I was feeling honored, being in her dream and that I thought it a sign of caring. And that I was ever so comfortable in my thick layers of paint without any anecdote bothering me myself and my painting. Have a nice trip. See you later. My hair will be longer.