Parmi la foule. Episode 1.

 Let me start with the history of Napoleon Bonaparte. I want to read one page a day, in French. Underground, Girl in Red. Today we went to the border with Germany. We went for a small walk. Half way we took a shortcut, they call it an ‘Erlebniswanderweg’, oder so etwas, full of mosquitos. My legs are twice as big. On the middle of every road a cyclist was standing next to their bike. We wondered why. 

I would like to walk every day for a few hours, as belonging to my basics. And not to think about useful actions. Stop. I can do the thinking meanwhile and I don’t need to spend that much time in my studio. A former drawing, there is always. Not writing a drowned word, is a floating word. At the same moment we walked eight kilometers after buying some secondhand drumsticks made in USA to be used in my performance in the AIR in Vollenhove. I really like my children. I like to learn French, I like to watch all kinds of sports, especially football and hockey. It is a pity that there is not a sport between those two very different worlds. My son says that football is more diverse than hockey. Maybe so, but which of the two is more inclusive I wonder.

I found a pair of flattened socks on the street. It has the mark ROOTS on it. I had to wash them four times and now there are several holes to look through. When I was in the first grade of highschool every cool kid had ROOTS shoes. I got the Chinese version. Still nice. I am a very slow writer. But I don’t think anyone noticed. From planning my energy leaks. From and to the external.

We have a new washing machine. I like washing clothes. When my mother had a new one she went to sit in front of it to see it circling. Nicely. My son-in-law has an opinion about Napoleon, not such a nice one so I better move on to have an opinion too. 

Een fijn leven. Deel 4.

We hebben een boek kado gekregen. Fenomenale vrouwen in de schilderkunst. Het is een zwaar boek met glimmende bladzijden. Een van mijn favoriete kunstenaars is er in opgenomen. Agnes Martin. Ik ben weer verder gegaan met het leren van de Franse taal. Ik word er blij van, of beter, ik merk een verheugd gevoel. Ik had mij voorgenomen me niet meer met voetbal in te laten. Gisterenavond en vandaag heb ik wedstrijden gevolgd en samenvattingen bekeken. Ik kan het niet geloven. Hoe kan ik me ooit nog iets voornemen. Zo zou ik ook nooit meer enige fiets mee naar binnen slepen. Vanavond was de laatste. Misschien.

We schilderen de schimmel weg. Ik heb twee keer hetzelfde formulier van een open call ingevuld. De eerste keer was ik vergeten de afmetingen van mijn werken te vermelden. Nu denkt men vast en zeker dat ik geen professionele kunstenaar ben. Erg aantrekkelijk lijkt mij. Het Nederlands is mij te naakt. I have tried, sorry for the illiterate. I will continue my daily readymades in English, I might even join the nitwits in French. I am no good. Well, good enough for tons of sudokus. Now how shall I name the following parts…A very nice life actually didn’t represent the content. But not to worry if you were planning so, I don’t even want one. I want something unruly, like some jeans worn for months without washing. Like reading ten books at the time. Like learning three languages every evening. Like being impossibly depressed it seems like your head is imploding with guilt and not-knowing. Like playing the drums after every four words ( I wanted to write three but already used that amount for the languages ). Like standing in the middle of a crowd without being part of it.

Parmi la foule.

Een erg fijn leven. Deel 3.

 Ik heb vanmorgen 5,75 km gelopen. Ik had langer gewild, ware het niet dat we een rekening van duizend euro van onze ziektekostenverzekeraar hadden gekregen, naar ons inziens ten onrechte. Ik moest dus opschieten zodat we snel daarover konden bellen. De helpdesk meneer vond het gelukkig ook te veel van het goede ( voor de verzekeraar) om dit jaar twee maal ons aller eigen bijdrage te moeten betalen. Onze hond gaat steeds mannelijker ruiken. Tijdens iedere wandeling à la campagne worden we achterna gezeten door een stille boze hond. Wij maken ons dan groot. Onze buren houden van apparaten en snelle luidruchtige voertuigen. Ik hou van hun taal, om de paar lettergrepen de toon omhoog. Ik haat voetbal want ik wil dat de uitslag mij niets kan schelen. Ik heb twee beeldende werken gemaakt, jammer dat ik het hier niet kan laten zien. Het zijn aan elkaar genaaide lappen die ik uit de aarde heb getrokken. Ik hoor nu een tondeuze. Misschien gaan we morgen naar huis, een dag te vroeg, of precies goed natuurlijk, omdat onze dochter ziek is. Thuis. Stop. Ik ga na thuiskomst en een dezer dagen een muur in het atelier zeer wit schilderen. Om de viezige nieuwe werken tegen aan te spijkeren. We hebben 12 km gewandeld. Weghalen. Te doen: pakje openen, pakje maken en versturen, nieuwe binnenband in A’s achterband, plankje in de wc opnieuw bevestigen want iemand heeft er zich aan opgetrokken als was het een privé in een aanleunwoning, meerdere wassen doen, nog meerdere wassen doen.

Een deelgenoot. Route. Ontschikking. Boeken uit de auto pakken. Aan de zijkant lopen. Twijfelen over de taal. Zou ik kunnen zeggen, de juiste taal? Afzijdig van de wereld. Afzijdig is een dramatisch woord, woordvoerder van de afstandsbediening. Ik vind de Nederlandse taal niet van mij. Of al een te lange tijd.

Een erg fijn leven. Deel 2.

Het valt al. Het dorp heet ‘We’. We moeten oppassen. Ik heb een lapje gevonden, en een stuk touw. Ik heb het gewassen en opgehangen. Zodra het droog is naai ik de stukken aan de andere lapjes.

De werkelijkheid is geleegd, anderhalve kilo wortelen. Een vloerbedekking van een auto in het modderpad verzonken. Het was te zwaar om uit het pad te trekken. Met mijn Zwitsers zakmes heb ik er twee stukken uit weten te snijden. Het mes is nu bot. Een witte handdoek om de hoek van de basiliek. Onze hond was even tevoren door een vechtersbaas aangevallen, dus we konden er wel een gebruiken. Een reep lood. In ons verblijf heb ik alles in een emmer met heet sop gezet. Hoe kan een berg van iemand zijn. Hoe kan een stuk plat land van iemand zijn. De buren zijn de hele dag thuis. Bruine buiken. Ik doe steeds minder, aan wat ik moet doen. Het schijnt goed te zijn voor mensen zoals ik. Naar schraal toe te gaan in werk en leven. Stans van der Poel doet aan ademhaling. Zij leert mensen hoe dit te doen en wat de baten zijn. Die mensen zijn vooral hardlopers en zieke mensen. Nu probeer ik tijdens het wandelen door de neus in te ademen en uit te ademen en drie seconden niets te doen. En dit heel rustig bovendien. Het lukt behoorlijk. De bonus is dat dit alles is wat er is. Jezelf een dienst bewijzen. Het houden van oude eiken. Een kunstenaar bouwt aan zijn eigen huis. Zie Mark Manders’ Het leven als een gebouw. Wat kan het anders zijn? Mijn hardloopschoenen staan nog net in de laatste zon te drogen, in het meest gunstige geval. Ik heb zin om morgenochtend mijn week record van 5,5 km te verbreken. Via ‘We’.

A very nice life. Part 1.

I have a very nice life. And this is what it sounds like: three storks standing very still in the water. How do you like, look like how do you like, look. Maybe I finished writing about my life as an amateur because I am the best amateur you can think of. Better begin the beginner now: BEGINNER! the green woodpecker calls, or simply a person. How does that sound, the person. I have to think deeply, a nonsense word might do. Or, A very nice life. On this holiday day we were sitting on a stoop in the shade in a small mountain village in a foreign country, then, a tall blond man in a swimming trunk ( not a swimming pool in sight ) with a lot of children and women behind him, scolded : hey look there, Dutchmen!! Easy to tell! His family seemed to ignore him. His dog as well. Today we saw a cirrlbunting, masked like one of the heavy boys who always wants to steal the money from Dagobert Duck. This one was alone. Half way through our walk someone had taken the effort to plant a wooden sign saying: you can go alone and fast, you can go together and further. I taught my daughter how to inflate a tyre with a French valve. She was very proud. And maybe, if the tyre deflates quickly, I will teach her how to replace it, the inner tube I mean. She can’t wait. My son will wait forever. His eyes catches black dots against the sky.

Gerbrand Bakker is my favorite Dutch writer. I am reading his third privé-domein book ‘Moeder, na vader’. And a book about running, breathing and training less in order to have a nicer life maybe. I put all the tea bags, the green tea, camille and nettle tea in one box to create space. Art is important. It will be investigated what is best for the girl. Maybe in Dutch. Stop.

We came to live in a very small house. It had almost everything in it.

My life as an amateur. Part 66.

We met a man of seventy five with holes behind his ears and one blind eye. He walked as if his legs were made of wood. He insisted to show us how to walk, which way to go I mean. He still liked to ride his bike. He seemed proud about that. After a twelve kilometers hike we drove twenty minutes by car to a secondhand shop. Our man was there as well, on his very fast bike. The day after we went to different places, on the outlook for our gentle man. I have almost finished ‘Big magic’, creative living beyond fear, a very positive and encouraging about keep on working, making according to your own needs and standards. I am afraid I like these kind of books. 

Merci Chantal. Chantal had a rotten life so far, but now she is having the better part. She has become a trickster.

I would like to quote from ‘Big magic’ because I couldn’t and didn’t have said it better myself. It’s about the void in a positive way: ‘What you produce is not necessarily always sacred. (…) What is sacred is the time that you spend working on the project, and what that time does to expand your imagination, and what that expanded imagination does to transform your life. The more lightly you can pass that time, the brighter your existence becomes.’ The last sentence is not necessary if I may say so, but ‘ expanded imagination’ is exactly what is needed to fill the unthinkable space, the coincide with oneself. For not swimming. Lightly. Stop. Start. Merci Chantal. 

My life as an amateur. Part 65.

 Today I saw some yellow signs, Dutch trash ladies in a French supermarket buying tons of beer and cocktail snacks. Like pretzels and cheese flips. They look happy. I have some plans I would like to tell about. Finding dirty cloths or pieces of fabric I will sew together, a rough map of a geographic or mental state. I can paint it white when home again, add a little black or sepia brown maybe. The second plan is to find three words a day, if they can be found. It might not always be possible. 

A slight bow.

In the middle of the crowd.

Some remains, and a yellow bird. (Although, better leave the birds out)

Flies here are very stoïc. A little drummer drums after every short sentence. That is what he does. And then, just sit and watch some words creep in my mind: Allez, l’escargots!, trying to find a safe haven overthere.

Once there was a rockstar, maybe ‘heaven’ metall even. I went to Paradiso for the first time ( the second time I enjoyed Cat Power, the Greatest ) on my one so I could concentrate on him singing strong songs. I have forgotten his name. I am a very slow thinker, because I find it unimaginable that it is me me living, talking, hearing, watching making things etcetera etcetera. I just sit still, very still and maybe maybe I can manage to change the clouds turning them the opposite way or at least stop them in time. Stop. 

Stop. Time. 

This time is invented. By Henry Rollins of course, get a grip!

All the people is taking care of their rags. There is nothing to be found and we ran to the top of the mountain to escape the outrageous hurd of cows. We live in a very nice house despite the numerous flies.

My life as an amateur. Part 64.

I am invited for an Artist-in-Residence. That never happened before. It will be a week in autumn and it is  Borrowed Spaces. So the Arist-in-Residence will borrow some space from someone else, a studio from another artist in this particular case. I am stalking this artist on social media and she happens to be a performing artist, dancing on deep earthly soundscapes, actually making rather unexpected movements. I like unexpected movements. Maybe I will write more, on the occasion and play the drums now and then.

I recognized myself in the child in the four hour video artwork STOP by Jeff Preis. STOP. Continue. J’entre, on me salue. Thàt is the biggest present. Tu entres, on te salue. It is nice not to mind that much. Not to say anything. Today. But one gesture, like a stroke of a brush.

Yesterday I ended in Hoek van Holland. I used to go there by bike with my best friend. It was an hour driving and I had a large posture these days. Nevertheless I was wearing shorts with a checkered Scottish pattern. I do not recollect myself on the beach in a bathing suit or whatsoever.

I like the side products of my work best. Eventually I will make only side products. And have an empty studio with white walls. I am reading several books at the time. One of them is a French grammar book, it’s my favorite because of the short exemplary sentences like.

Francesca Woodman; as if wearing her skin inside out, making herself the only subject of her work.

My English is getting worse. I should talk more to people, prepared. Parmi la foule. 

Parmi la foule. La plupart d’entre vous.

Par politesse 

My life as an amateur. Part 63.

 Today is my birthday. I got some presents like trailrunning shoes with Gore-Tex found on Marktplaats, a novel from Anjet Daanje , ‘De herinnerde soldaat’, the third part of Gerbrand Bakker’s memoir published by Privé Domein, ‘ Moeder, na vader’. I am already very grateful. I made a hummus myself and the rest of the presents I still need to unwrap. I am writing, drawing and reading and I would like to see a film with Frances McDormand. We walked eleven kilometers, the shoes were great. A deer ran from us. Now here might be some drama. I am not sure if I should tell you about it. I am wondering how other people do this living. With the running, making works, having family you love and friends you like, sometimes, learning new languages, having a estranged body, reading books, running errands, the cooking….writing. Like an amateur.

Two things. After a week in France I walked the dog in our neighborhood. I always take the same route to check the little free libraries. In one of them I encountered a booklet with ‘notitions’ by Paul Léautaud: ‘Propos d’un jour’, 1947. In Dutch: ‘Een zeker tegengif’. I can not stop reading this very sharp and ‘honest’ or genuine and against hypocrisy writer. And I definitely want to study harder on the French language. Maybe I can become a different person as this politician promised on the television. Every language a new person. 

My father, his boat the Dreamer and his hospitality. He was always inviting ‘friends’ on his boat. Those friends would make fun of him. He didn’t see. My mother did. It was painful because my father thought he was giving them a very special time. He died at the age of 57. My mother didn’t invite his friends for the funeral.She died eight months later. Maybe I already told you about this earlier. I am sorry about that, I never read my writings again. Stop. I find it too embarrassing. And I would most probably stop writing. That would be a pity, wouldn’t it? ( I am not sure about the question mark )

My life as an amateur. Part 62.

 My favorite program on television is First Dates. I like it when there is a spark between two people. Just when they are going to announce if they would like to see each other again it’s eight o’clock and we have to change channels to watch the news. Today there is no news. Just me running too many hills by mistake so I was running late, followed by an oriole. For the rest of the day I did everything correctlOne day. stop. I would like to fall still. To clean everything away, still of mind, of belongings, of too much not me. Of unnecessary words. We are going to visit these friends. We see them every day. One day they visit us, the other day we visit them. This day I will bring my running shoes. They need some mending where my little toe  apparently needs more space. I will have something to do in case I get irritated. Yesterday I was reading some ‘Wuthering Heights’. Mrs Dean the woman in wait for Mr Lockwood is fetching a little sewing so she can sit and talk and do some gossiping as long as Mr Lockwood pleases.

I am wearing antique outdoor clothes three times my size. Where we live now there is an attic. In this attic there is a lot of different noises, especially during the very very early morning. We are amateurs according to birding so our first thought was that we had a whole bunch of Dormouses. But after great investigations it seems to be a pair of Barn Owls raising some very own Owl Chicks. Let me be square with you. I have great difficulties being locked up in me. I want to do everything at the same time because otherwise there is no time. That is why there is a need to abandon time and appointments. In the eighteenth century one had time to recover from an illness, you could take your time, like five weeks. And die young, at the age of thirty, quite normal.

Seamus Heaney said when one is learning to write poetry one should not expect it to be immediately good. That is good to hear. I hope my ‘My life as an amateur’ will be good one day. I hope Part 63 will be better. Stop.

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.

My life as an amateur. Part 58.

 I hear a lot. And I cut my own hair, this way I do not have to look in the mirror for at least an hour. When I was little my father brought me to his hairdresser, near the harbor, I can’t remember that I told him I wanted it as short as possible. I liked it, I recognised myself as myself. That was great and there was sand on the floor, maybe because it was near the harbor. Let us forget about the mosquito and focus on the bee with only one million brain cells. Bees are smart, have their own personality, recognize flowers and human faces. They are giving dancing signals to each other about a location, the longer the dance the better, and full with nectar. I decided not to care about clothes anymore.

This weekend we are in Leuven to visit old old friend. First thing we did together was going to the thrift shop. I bought two Bellerose shirts, one Timberland shirt, one Vaude shirt, one pair of Carhartt jeans, one pair of woolen Belgian army trousers and one unidentified soft yellow vest. My friend is music because in music the other one is knowledged. I am reading ‘Thuis in muziek’, a practiced in humanity, written by Alicja Gescinska. She is a philosopher living in Belgium. My friend is caved in by records, cd’s, speakers and books. While cooking spicy meals he listens to a French jazz radio station. I really should write more, a sentence every day. I should paint every every time I feel like it. It’s like eating and drinking. Stop. I need to go home. Very very very. And go carry a little notebook all the time. In a pocket near the body. To give myself dancing signals.

My life as an amateur. Part 57.

I am the mosquito. In autumn. I need to rest. Because of my feelings. And I need to find some titles for some new paintings. Someone with great taste, I hope we will be friends one day, bought a painting from me last year. This week she told me that she liked it much better upside down. A friend of hers, a great abstract artist, likes it better this way too.

We are having this family weekend in the middle of the country. It is freezing and it is sunday and at the other side of the road there is an old fashioned treadmill with three horses walking circles. It coincides with a great book I am happily reading. ‘Half Broke Horses’, A true-life novel written by Jeannette Walls. I am planning to walk the road from Hondo to Lincoln to Captain to Carrizozo. I am planning to make rough paintings full of rubbish this coming week.

John Fowles’ Daniel Martin. I can’t stand the noise of the television, it’s invading my brains and I tumble down. But before that happens I find all the people acting in whatever there is to be acted in on television very very stupid and annoying.

Who am I to interfere with nature. Today I will keep my eyes closed. While working. My father started his working career as a sailor on the Holland America Line. He sailed to Vancouver where he fell into the belly of the ship. He stayed for three months in a hospital in Seattle. That where he learned to say fuck you, to be used in his later life when something didn’t worked out the way he wished it would. Before he went to sleep he peeled an onion and ate it like an apple. My sister was only born seven years after me.

I like my ears.

My life as an amateur. Part 56.

It’s important. It’s important to be friendly. It’s important to be friendly after running one hour in the rain, visiting three thrift shops without heating, driving two hours on secondary roads without lights but with rows of trees on both sides. We are visiting my sister in law. For a couple of days. It’s important. Sisters think that people with less money can not smoke cigarettes and keep big dogs. Maybe, but maybe it is so that we all can not smoke cigarettes and keep big dogs, or we all can. I think we should all have the right to have and do the same things, if you don’t mind. That money doesn’t have anything to do with it. I am making a jigsaw puzzle called ‘The Tree of Life’. There is not a human being to be found in this tree full of exotic birds and monkey’s. It’s New Year’s Eve and it’s important to be proud of someone, like your mother, or your father.

I am reading a really beautiful book. It is about a friendship between a 85 year old man and a thirteen year old girl. They are neighbors and the girl is ten times smarter than her mother who goes working late at night every night. The book is called Autumn and is written by Ali Smith. The neighbor is witty as well.

I am not made for big things, like big art projects in the middle of society. I am more convenient rummaging on the side, with found materials and some words, definitely some music, some dissonant music. Most of my years I have been making my own agenda, the little book with data and their right days I mean. I am writing down the next week or the next month as late as possible, actually when I need to note an appointment. It feels like I am making my own kind of time, instead of  the time made by some giant ‘agenda plant’.

Yesterday I was talking with some Good Martha’s. We told each other true stories, about parenthood, babysitters, donors and fighting. About moving to a certain neighborhood and being new, trying to visit this neighborhood’s marketplace invisible. Being spoken to, being asked how you are. Stop.

It might be nice, I dare to say interesting, to answer such a private question with a truly private and sincere personal story. The questioning person will probably think that this new person with very different looks and roots is an enrichment, although a little bit out of the mind, for their community. Yes, good idea. Our community. That’s what you get. 

My life as an amateur. Part 55.

 We have been talking. About making something out of these series of texts. In public. I hope I will not become famous, writing and making things shall be an impossibility in that case.

But it has just been talking. So that’s great. I had this thought that it would be a good idea to watch the world with my own eyes. So far any hierarchy eluded me. I like reading better than going through posts. When I do not know how to proceed I start a new one. We are watching The Polar Express, because my daughter loves to on Christmas Day. I want to tell something about my daughter. She is very brave. Three days ago she got diagnosed with diabetes 1, after visiting our family doctor and the emergency department of the hospital. Since then she is pricking and giving herself insulin, keeping schemes of her blood sugar mirror, throwing herself full in the world of this auto-immune disease. As if it is the most incredible thing ever happened to her. As if it is not inconvenient at all. She has all the reason to feel depressed, it is just not part of her system. My partner and I are very lucky parents. She is watching the world through her own eyes.

Every day nowadays I am listening to the remastered Four Seasons by Max Richter. It fills the gap between me and the world, and I can feel some tears behind my eyes this way. I like ‘Drive my car’. It takes three hours after a short novel by Haruki Murakami. I like it so much I fall asleep all the time.

My life as an amateur. Part 54.

 I have learned so many things. That I need less than I thought. I can sell all my expensive trousers. I don’t need to buy that much oil paint, I am going to search the trash and garbage for tins of lack. I would like to wrestle with the paint and the painting ( what is what ) like this artist does. At a certain moment in the process she undresses and hugs and strangles the clay in its form to be. There exists a video of it.

This morning I saw a runner standing completely still in the middle of the road looking intensely at her phone. The upper half of her body tended slightly forward.

I am tending backwards, with the whole of my body. We went to Belgium, my friend and I to bring back the artworks of two Belgian artists. The first said to never drink or serve tea, only coffee counts in Flanders. Then he found some loose and fruity biological tea, almost past the consuming date. So he went to put the kettle on and came back with a little heavy super expensive Japanese teapot.

I want to get rid of all my work in my studio to be able to work. I can give them away as Christmas presents and deflate. I do not like to know what I am going to make beforehand because the need to make it will be gone, and the necessity of its existence too. The rain has stopped and I thought I learned a lesson from Frances McDormand, but I am afraid my heart is in a different compartment. I am not a real actor of course. 

Tomorrow I will go slowly through the day. Maybe standing still.

My life as an amateur. Part 53.

 This afternoon I encountered an old friend, old like four or five years ago. The moment we looked into each other’s faces, at the edge of the park, the friend turned around the give her full attention to a very wild rose.I thought that was a good thing not to stop to say hi.

Maybe, in a year or two, I will be in need of a studio, because I need to leave the current one. I will spare you the details. In the neighborhood of the gallery where I work there is a vacant one, very soon. To apply for this one you need to tell your future plans, and send a list of all the prices you have won. I didn’t apply, I don’t want to tell random people what my delicate plans are. Besides that, I do not think art should be a competition. At least not in my past and future art life, and if I accidently would have won a prize, I would write about it in a part of ‘My life as an amateur’.

One can be a supporter of any club or not wanting to be part of a group. Some things are always new. Today I met a new man in the supermarket. I was there on this late moment of time to do the late shoppings for our elderly neighbor-lady. He was looking for the plums on the scale. It took a long time, a very long time so I went searching with him. He was slightly irritated and told me he was busy finding it but the point were his eyes, and his legs. The elder persons are not worth investing in. There is the reason to keep on going. I liked him. He didn’t wish me a good day. I had plums too. For my neighbor with bad legs.

My life as an amateur. Part 52.

 Questions make you think about things. Tonight I don’t want to think. Tonight I am going to turn a bicycle upside down and throw some paint on secondhand framed linen. And read a page in Ingrid Robeyns’ ‘Rijkdom’.

I learned all about emission and less emission please. Today I received a letter by computer. The letter contained thirteen questions, I started with an easy and a difficult one. How was your holiday? Great. How do you make it through your days and nights? I run and create like a madperson. I write about my life as an amateur. I would like to sing in a minimal punk band, so I started to practice on my ukulele again. And on my French lessons. 

By the way, you could write these stories too, if you try hard enough. It’s easy.

I am in this group of people that had met each other in another group of people. Most of them are artists, maybe all of them, maybe I should have asked. So this new group wants to … stop…how do I describe, house magic collaborations between people who usually do other kinds of stuff. Like a painter goes dancing and a graphic designer goes playing in a band, on any kind of instrument. What I am trying to say is that I don’t want to be a member of the board, with tons of responsibilities. Maybe I should explain why, or maybe I better keep my mouth shut very tight and keep on focusing on being me in my own category.

That’s the best. I am repairing and selling old bikes again, to support our son with his studies, and ourselves with the groceries and running shoes.

My life as an amateur. Part 51.

 It is best to say nothing, when someone else does the talking. I was invited for a garden party this afternoon. I am not so fond of parties and doing small talks. I need to tell this friend that I am not coming, telling her a lie about having family issues.

Last night I had a recall about W. I didn’t see in years, until a month ago. He is making a film and he is busy with it his whole life. He is almost seventy now and it is a comical film in black and white. I played once in it, I was told to fall out of an ambulance while driving. I was pregnant at the time. My son is 24 years old now.

 A mouse came to live in his room, when he needed to go on holiday he took the mouse in a private suitcase on the train to Switzerland. With holes in it. O, and by the way, I do not intend to take notice of external opinions. 

I try to make white paintings. I try not to go to dinner in a restaurant. Tonight we went to a restaurant because there had been some important events in the lives of the children. It didn’t take long and the waiter was nice and I just took a salad and a bottle of water. Another waiter threw a big chicken on the floor, by accident. It was the neighbour’s chicken. Today I finished the same painting for the third time. I am satisfied but it is still not white enough. I might go living somewhere else, where it is quiet, with lots of silence. Do you follow me? I think that is the best thing to write to a friend. To become an expert in one category.

In other words, everyone can go pleasantly f-word themselves. When you think about it. When you cannot find the white space, to be.

My life as an amateur. Part 50.

 Today is not such a good day. That is a pity but not all the days can be good. You know why. Today however is embarrassingly bad, I don’t even care about art. I listened to Stockhausen the elder and now I am writing this sitting in my white design chair. Well, yesterday I intended a gathering of ex-doctors, these were more or less elderly people who needed to drink enough water, to go to the toilet all the time and even one of them was farthing during the reading about the amount of hospitals in Amsterdam last century. I fell asleep, with a drooping mouth, all the others were wide awake, I think. I better start a band with thoughtful music.

While walking the dog for half an hour ten people smiled at me. Maybe that is enough, maybe I should not write that this is enough to live for. A couple of days ago, probably a Saturday, I was going through the racks in a thrift shop, very swiftly, when I heard a mother yelling at her daughter: ‘ Now you listen to me, stop crying, otherwise you go to the hospital’, she repeated this every two minutes. I was wondering what she meant with this threat. I worked very hard. Actually I wanted to leave at five, as I used to do but there was still so much work to do that needed to be done. So I stayed as the others stayed too and finished together. I think that was good. But the dog told me enthusiastically it took too long. I think it is difficult to choose the right thing to do. Stop. There flew a real fly past my ear when I was framing drawings of animals. Should I like animals? Maybe only when they talk, like they do in books.

My life as an amateur. Part 49.

 My sister is seven years younger. This morning I sent her a message for her fiftieth birthday, I wished her a very happy day. She texted me back that her husband had left her after 33 years and immediately had gone to live with another woman. I haven’t seen or heard from my sister for three years, or something like that. I can see some of her life on facebook and instagram. We will be on the phone tonight.

You can choose something and do that thing for a certain range of time, maybe forever. Like you choose to be a hairdresser and run a small enterprise. In five months you are bankrupt and you choose to go work at a police station. In the evening you cook for your boy or girl or another friend and watch your favorite series on your favorite series provider.

I can't do that, I am living somewhere between the police station and the series provider. That’s ok, it is very quiet over here, except for the occasional insects. Yesterday I saw a bit of a documentary about the poet Gerrit Kouwenaar. His comments on poetry were live-saving. So that is great for me. Mental note: listen to music by Karl Heinz Stockhausen, his grand work Aus Licht.

There is to notice some panic when I do not have control. I could give some examples here but it actually matters the whole of life.

The favorite aunt of my former boyfriend ( not that it matters) went on a holiday a very long time ago. Her cat stayed at home and needed to eat while she was away. So she took seven saucers to put seven meatballs on them. And off she went.

My life as an amateur. Part 48.

The dog doesn’t need to read or write something every day. He is waiting for the next moment, or maybe waiting is not the right word for this condition. He doesn’t seems to want any moment at all at the moment, wiped out by the sun, his brains are cooking and his legs are giving in. Just like me, the first half hour of my morning run, even without the sun. But the good news is that after the first half hour I am the wholiest person on earth. We were driving in avery hot car to a second hand shop, on the way we saw ‘koereigers’ ( I have to look that up) . I bought a fantastic outfit for very cold weather. At this moment I bought three times more clothes than I brought in my medium purple The North Face backpack. I hope it will all fit in the car.

According to Bram Bakker according to The Lancet according to scientific research, serotonine has nothing to do with depression, well, it is not proved that there is a connection. So…. That’s Why None Of The Antidepressants Ever Worked On Me.

And now something completely different. I am happy that the coach of the Dutch soccer team is sacked and I ate fried potatoes almost every day, when I was little because I liked it and my parents wanted me to be without hunger. Nothing strange about that I suppose, but I wasn’t getting any smaller, if I make myself clear. Today we saw a beaver and he saw us, so he quickly went to the ditch. We also heard European Bee Eaters and a very rare pigeon. I have to look the name up. It is breeding. 

I like to put words one after another, without instanteneous meaning. Unfortunately there is always seeping some of it in and I feel nauseated and want to delete everything. Untrue dramatic. Stop. The platitudes of the unthoughtful. That ‘s why I train myself in the not-thinking. European Turtle Dove just need to breed. Breed. Breed. Breed. It ‘s true.

My life as an amateur. Part 47.

 Sometimes I want to finish something when it is not ready yet to be finished. Stop.

We was walking, or hiking as we see ourselves as athletes, far too far this afternoon, with more than 30 degrees and lots of paths in the open field, some paths were not paths anymore and some had become rivers. In the morning I bought a pair of blue trousers designed for working on a farm and a faded red t-shirt from American Apparel with a small hole in it. I like clothes to be second hand, cheap and nice. I like to be dressed like a boy. Please don’t tell anyone. My father thought that it was not such a good idea so on the wedding anniversary of my grandparents I was put in a long skirt and a pretty blouse.

There was this place in Spain called Benidorm, all the tourists thought they were kings. A film was being shot, a great Bassie and Adriaan film, and me and my little sister were figurants, my sister singing a Bassie and Adriaan song with other children, me biting my nails in the swimming pool. The film is called ‘Bassie en Adriaan in Spanje’. These holidays were quite similar to exam trips, sun bathing and baking in the daytime, drinking in the evening. I like abstract landscapes. And bus stops. And insect hotels.

I like to be as slow as I want to be. Please tell, anyone.

Only today I learned what an anomaly is. I wanted to tell something about a nice lady I met today but I totally forgot what it was that was so nice. The boy at the cassiere in the supermarket was also nice, he helped me in English by telling me that the peaches were to be weighed by him. He was a great help. I like it the best when people are nice. It is a great start in the middle of the afternoon.

My life as an amateur. Part 46.

 In his violin case he carried a cow foot, a breaking stick made of iron. He grew up in Australia with foster parents. He and his sister were not so lucky. His foster father was a professional violin player and abusive. We are sitting in front of the house, there are hundreds of wasps in the ivy. They are on holiday.

I don’t know anything and I don’t know what to write. I keep thinking, what’s upcoming and maybe nice but it should be now instead. I do not mean this in a sense of mindfulness or zen something something, although it would come in handy sometimes very often. To be mindful I mean. I can’t think of anything nice anyway, better stop trying and take a long good look at the landscape.

I am reading Gerbrand Bakker as you might have guessed,’Knecht, alleen’. He is very depressed, I like how he writes about this. It helps me try to do nothing.

Today we are going to visit a source where women came together, a very very very long time ago, far before there were christians. It might be a nice place for Kevin, since he had an alter ego, Tante Gerritje, with lots of bloody red lipstick. I wonder if all the people who knew him will know by now that he passed away, last Februari.

I am sitting here in a garden, lovely biting one nail. When I was little all my nails were bitten. All the photographs with me on them had a ‘me’  biting my nails. My parents didn’t like it, but at least I wasn't drinking sangria at the age of eleven.

Kevin was suffering from KAD, according to his own words, the K standing for Korsakoff. The violin from the case had been flung to an Australian wall. A very very long time ago.

My life as an amateur. Part 45.

 I am in the midst of a group of flying friends, at least they act as if they are my friends, so close as they are. I hit them on the head. One is staying, feasting on a grape that is on his way to my mouth. Welcome.

I do not like games, or, other people do not like to play with me, because one I fall asleep, second I don’t care if I lose or win, and third I go do something else on the side, like reading or completing a sudoku. Just a moment ago I finished a four star sudoku, it was so easy I must be a champion. I need to tell you about the father of our children. He has big hands and he is good at anything you can think of.

Two days ago I found a very beautiful coat rack made of chrome and wood, blocks painted white. It was a little bit wobbly so I very much hoped that I could repair it. And of course I could. He happened to have a spot on one of his lungs. They found out when he went to complain about his declining level of energy. He was very emotional when he told us but not afraid of dying. Today while we were driving to our holiday destination he sent us a message that the spot was miraculously gone, after only four days. He can do anything, hitting death on its spotless head.

The coat rack is from a Zero Design era. I also need to tell you about Kevin, I still have his violin case.

My life as an amateur. Part 44.

 He left his coat in the train. She said. It is 10 a.m. and I want to leave early in case there will be an encounter of some sorts on my way to work.

Last month I found the gazoline tank of a motorcycle, with some nice ins and outs, ideal to hang a piece of linen with oilpaint. Probably white, white is my favourite colour this days, and brown is winning some terrain too.

My colleague is leaving and I am not happy about it. I am planning to give him two books and two poems. I am afraid that the poems won’t be any good. The books are the following: a catalog from Anselm Kiefer, accompanying his exhibition in the Stedelijk Museum sometime last century, and a gift from all of the bookshops in the Netherlands, Bertus Aafjes’ Een lampion voor een blinde’, 1973. He is going to work as a teacher at a school for blind children.

My sister-in-law was reading the first three parts of My life as an amateur, she liked the mosquito. I had forgotten about the mosquito, so I will take care of it.

Yesterday I saw an elderly couple in the park. Of course there were more elderly couples, amongst young, couples in the park but this one was special. The lady was riding a bike and her husband ( I don’t know for sure but it sounds sweet, sometimes I like something sweet ) held a white cord with some red patches on it adjusted to the back carrier of the bike. The man was holding this cord and was running behind his lady on the bike. He was blind. They went so fast I was too late to film it.

My life as an amateur. Part 43.

I would like to travel around the world and see how most people stay put most of their lives. In one place, being totally satisfied because this is where they want to be. 

I am sitting in the middle of the garden taking little grasses out that are growing rapidly between the flagstones. This is the nearest thing I can do that looks like gardening.

To bring something to another level that didn’t exist before. Like platform 13 ½.

Today I want to think. I saved my sister when we were very little. To be continued, and that was what happened. As a two years old she was left alone in the swimming pool of a hotel on a Spanish island. My parents were drinking there eternal sangria in their hotel room and suddenly I saw my sister floating facedown. I never had seen her doing this before so of I went to bring her in a more lively position. I was a very good swimmer. Fast. But more about that later, I need to write some poems now, in Dutch. I already know these poems will not be any good, someone has to do it.

So how is your opera today. The minute I wanted to write about me being not capable of making lists I completely forgot what I wanted to write about. My grandmother was just past het fifties when she started her dementia. Instead of going back to her childhood she thought that she was at least eighty years old, and dressed like that , , and had herself a haircut, or better, a permanent curly hairdo, like that. Like that, like eighty something. I was seven years older.

My life as an amateur. Part 42.

 After I was born pretty soon I joined the girl scouts. Everyone else was religious, and very very decent. I wanted to be decent too, or at least I wanted to have decent parents. Like the other girls. Nowadays I do not want to be decent anymore but way back then it was similar to having your mother at home taking care of your upbringing more or less, and sometimes your father too. So I went frequently to the other girl scouts homes. I was lucky.

Yesterday I was invited to come sit in a garden any time soon. I rejected dinner. I had this painting I wasn’t happy about. Today I deleted the work from my website and threw it in the waste bin. I am very happy about that, to work by throwing work away.

I might fall into repetition, sorry about that. Every day I run with our dog. I do not like dogs but we have one so I better like this one. He is a gentle dog but he is peeing against the walls of the expensive houses and the wheels of the expensive electric cars in our very expensive neighborhood. Today we just started our run as a man on an expensive folding bike was cycling after us telling me that my dog has peed two times against his house. He said he was going to keep an eye on me, better let the dog not do this, and that he was going to make serious arrangements against us… 

I am easily bored, so when I have a great idea I need to work quickly on a large series before I get bored. Game over.

I said I would do my best. But that was the wrong answer, the man said Doing my best was not enough, I just had to do it. Like running every day with Nike gear, probably. Later I found out that this stalker was a deranged tv-journalist, slightly disappointed in life. Game over. Gone his decency.

I wouls like to travel.

My life as an amateur. Part 41.

 We was going to Chicago. To sing. All we did was singing. And talk. About the singing. That’s how we lived, in Chicago we did.

It is important. When reality, whatever that may be, becomes part of a person, for example through a work of art, whatever that may be, we can say, I mean, we the people or those who agree, that there is an existence. I would like that all the time.

So which factor do you use? You say fifty, you say … I don’t know, you never get tanned that way. It is all about the making, to avoid the word creating, to become, to be one with the material that is vulnerable. I took some pictures of innocent people doing their business in the city, like playing in a brassband. They were wearing their striped blazers. They needed to go somewhere afterwards, maybe to a Chinese restaurant or to their hotel in the red light district. Waiting for the tram, one was on the lookout, one was checking the timetable, the rest were inspecting each other and their striped blazers.

I remember from the time I lived at my parents, maybe fourty years ago, I sat in the bus next to a school girl ( very strange thing to call someone something like that but otherwise I have to go guesing her age, which is impossible ), going home from my volleybal training.. she was handling her agenda and I could clearly see the words ‘I hate myself’. I hope she is oké by now.

Let me finish this Part with something different and maybe joyful. Stop.

My life as an amateur. Part 40.

I like to be productive at all times, daytime or evening, weekend or on ‘office’ days, and during holidays. That is great because I get all the work done, even the work I didn’t know existed. I must be fabulous.

Yesterday I had my birthday, a perfect day with my family in a second hand shop and in a museum, with lots of presents, to run with, to smell, to wash, to read, to wear, to paint and to examine mosses. This morning while running on my brand new shoes from Japan I decided to stop taking the orphan bikes home, in order to repair them.  The very very very last one will be the old Peugeot with the wobbly front wheel and hyper mobile ax. I feel lucky the bikes are not cigarettes.

Soap, black holes, food, sewing machine, water and mountains. And some nice thoughtful people. And some perfect tone of voice. Actually, I think my mother was a gangster. She had a gun in her jewelry box.

Twenty years ago I was vacuum cleaning our ‘entresol’ when the phone rang. The woman on the other end told me my mother died. I ended the conversation as quick as possible and went on vacuum cleaning. First things first I must have thought.

I would like to start very simple, clean, empty and quiet projects. They do not have to end, but I do need to dismantle my studio. This will take a very very long time.

Speaking words softly to a painting in progres, waiting for answers. And throwing myself, that is this body, against a wet painting.

I am happy with these ideas, in spite of these I can live. No need to add the drama. Stop. 

My life as an amateur. Part 39.

 I am reading a volume of collected stories by Raymond Carver, ‘Where I’m calling from’. In the story ‘Put yourself in my shoes’ Mrs. Morgan said to her new neighbors who passed by to say hi: “Stay, we haven’t gotten acquainted yet. You don’t know how we have...speculated about you.”

Today I didn’t have a special or semi-special thought so I do not know what to write. I can mention that I saw a deer in the early morning, two Red Backed Shrikes, a Big Night Peacock Eye which is really eleven centimeter wide and 5 centimeter high. Very very rare in Europe. So that’s great. That I saw it. My mother, when she still lived a very long time ago, was short of words about nature. When she saw something she liked she simply announced: ‘nature ìs beautiful!’, as if its beauty depended on her judgment. Nice.

Our bed-and-breakfast lady needs to go to her sick friend to take care of him of course. She leaves us alone with her gigantic French mansion, d’accord? And we are allowed to eat her brioche, d’accord? She asks us to close the door at night and not set the house on fire. I really need to practice my French more seriously, I think we could get along nicely. And stay there forever maybe.

I am just writing what pops up in my mind. Nothing special.

My life as an amateur. Part 38.

 This morning I am drinking tea. I drink tea a lot, coffee makes me jumpy. The mug says Measurement: Torque Sensors, Strain Gauges, Force Sensors, Pressure Transducers, Strain Transducer, Displacement Transducer and Load Cells. We can go for a walk now.

At the age of twenty two, a long time ago, I was a student at the University of Amsterdam, and I had a oral exam ( if that is the right description of the happening) on Literature of the Middle Ages. I knew all the answers to the questions, but I didn’t say a word. The road from my brain to my speaking organs was blocked. Luckily, the professor could read my mind and gave me a steady six.

I need to talk about some things that happened when I was young. But not now. I forgot what it was. Today we will walk a little walk and the subject will probably pop up. 

We walked eleven and a half kilometers and saw an aesculapian snake and a few dippers, lots of Dacia Logans and Dacia Dusters. Those reminded me of what I wanted to talk about: the dressing gown of my mother which she called a duster. When I was coming home with my first boyfriend, on a sunday morning, and the moment we stepped through the front door my mother screamed ‘oh no, I am still in my ‘duster’ and all, sigarette in her right and a glass of white wine in her left hand. She made us crackers with camembert and brie. That was really nice of her, as I think about now. My boyfriend liked her instantly.

My life as an amateur. Part 37.

 This is about sunday. And my laptop crashed. I am waiting for the fixer to open, I am way too early and am leaning against a wall in the sun. The laptop bag is heavy, I try not to take notice of this and I am posing leisurely while reading a book that popped out of my bike bag.

I am not that talented. In acting as if. This is another sunday and we drove to France. I didn’t fall asleep behind the steering wheel, so it's victory day. On a vide-de-grenier I bought a Levi’s corduroy trousers, far too big for one euro and I made a picture of a train station and of people waiting in line for a vintage ice cream. After that we drove further. This evening I am going to do my best not having to make a work. Except for his here. I thought about my mother on mother’s day. She did her best, you know, I was her mother too.

We were walking and heard the golden oriole singing. No one was there to hear. They never show themselves. In the next village

a cat was sitting very quietly in the middle of a zebrapath. A lot of traffic went through this village and even not that slow. But, now they did, stopped, people went out of the car to gently show the cat to the pedestrian side of the street. Left or right, I will never learn. On our way back home we drove through the same village and at the beginning their was this traffic sign triangle with three pussy cats on it. VICs.

My life as an amateur. Part 36.

 There is this sparrow in the sweet cherry tree imitating other birds and my daughter calling the dog. Such a clever bird. I took a picture of it but it sat high in the tree, singing along all the beautiful songs of the other ones. On the bench beneath I am trying to do my best.

Last week, I do not recall which day, I met a friend. He likes mirrors. So whenever he makes an installation he uses mirrors. He told me about that. Actually, I never liked the sight of a mirror, but now I am going to use one in a tiny installation. It will reflect a white mountain of paint. I am an imitator. My daughter is making a film of a hoverfly, they don’t sting. That is great. She gave me permission to use the film for the film ‘My life as an amateur’. It might be as nice as the film about the lamellen, if this word even exists in English. Let's talk about imperfection. We have this tiny sink in our tiny garden house and when I wanted to wash my hands after removing some asbest plates from the earth there was this sorrowful fat little spider with its legs curled under, or over, I do not know a thing about the physics of spiders, its body. I waited some seconds before turning the tap on and when it was still in the same place I removed it gently with my bare hands to the earth of our garden. Not the safest place I must admit, imperfect it is. Above the tiny sink is a tiny mirror, I gave it a gentle smile. At least that was what I saw, it still stays an imitation.