In high school, all the cool kids stood outside to smoke. My friends and I sat inside, a few tables further than the geeks and decided that smoking was for losers, by which we elevated ourselves from both parties. Just before I turned eightteen, I moved to Amsterdam and my great aunt blamed my dad for sending his only daughter to the Dutch Sodom and Gomorra. Her prediction that I would earn my money as a heroin hooker so far hasn't come true. On an incredible vague evening, just before graduating, I ate two slices of space cake and lost it in such a way that I avoided any use of drugs for years to come. When, in a belate adolescent fit, I deiced to start smoking when I was twentytwo, I always needed alcohol and other smokers to actually do it.
Since then, I only smoke when in company of others, and once in a while I can be persuaded into using soft drugs (the latter only abroad) and a few nights per week, I drink some beer, wine or whisky. Everything in moderation. In other words: I really tried, but I find it hard to get addicted to something. I can even put aside sugar, as appeared for the last couple of weeks.
There's one thing though, that makes me lose control, and puts me away as an languishing pile, longing for more, surrendered to the uncontrolable force that can be found in every cell of my body: television shows. I don't watch tv, I see them on the internet, where I - or the force in my cells - can watch them on every desirable time of day. Mostly till late at night. I surrender myself, my time and my intellect defenselessly to storylines, characters and cliffhangers. Once in a while I indulge myself with socalled 'bad series' that don't really have a plot but are lovely to watch mindlessly, like Sex and the city or Grey's Anatomy. More dangerous are the 'good series', with good acting, exciting storylines and great characters. Like Six Feet Under, Dexter or In Treatment.
And now, there is the West Wing. The last show was broadcasted in 2006 and all that time, I could resist the longing. Knowing I had to protect myself, I didn't listen to any of the stories about the show, refused to get any dvd set in my house and when the last thing did happen, I put it away in a deep closet. Untill I recently was in a cleaning mood and found it again. I blew the dust off, like an alcoholic would do with a good bottle of wine. I looked at it, held it, read the label and took the first dvd out of its cover. While crying, I put it into my computer, knowing I was lost.
Now, halfway the fifth of seven seasons, I am sleep deprived, have no social contacts because I always run home to watch more, I dream about my new friends CJ, Toby, Josh and Donna, and I try to change the subject through American politics to the series. My world exists out of the West Wing and I know it has to end soon, I have to go outside again, face reality.
Untill then, I vote: Bartlet for president!
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Sunday, July 24, 2011
The slope
When the ferry hit the land, the soft sound of a music beat could be heard afar. Other than that, the only other sound was the rain, that had been poring down all day. The slope was surrounded by fences, with one opening for the entrance where security guards were checking bags and visitors for hidden drugs.
The slope, where once ships went into water, this time was home to Henk on the Slope. Where on other days ordinary people shopped for bargains on a flea market, and where once a year beautiful theatre performances from Over 't IJ festival play, now there were dj sets, party tents and bars that sold beer, wine, coke and vodka. In a corner on top of the slope, a long line of people waited for the grilled vegetables, hamburgers and pasta salads to get ready.
Apart from my clothes, that were soaking wet and that made me want to go home and take a hot shower more than anything, I didn't like the dance and trance music that was typical to this festival. I wondered why I let my friend persuade me into going, or why I accepted her invitation and left my cosy and warm home for this cold and noise. My friends new boyfriend was the reason. Henk op de helling isn't only music beats and drinks, there are also art project, among which The Fisherman (Den Visscher) from Piet. Piet, who walked around in a green fishermen suit, his blond hair tied in a tail. Other people suspected him to be Henk. Piet told his story in a little boat, for which you had to climb a long ladder to enter it and that fitted seven people but only with their legs pulled in, who would listen to him. One of those people was Paul, a twenty year old who looked at me with wide open pupils and started an incoherent story about his passion,that consisted of partying, drinking and taking pills.
Next to Piets boat, there was a poetry stage, where writers and poets mumbled their thoughts into a mic, in front of a tribune that was filled with people who sought shelter from the weather and weren't really interested in poetry. "This is so tiring," the girl next to me sighed to her friend. Both of them were wearing short skirts and t-shirts, and had pulled their hair in a ponytail. they were eating some grilled vegetables. And while the wind blew the rain along the slope, they jumped up and slowly walked to the party tents. I found shelter in the little boat of Piet, where my clothes dried while we drank juttersbitter. Like you should on a boat.
The slope, where once ships went into water, this time was home to Henk on the Slope. Where on other days ordinary people shopped for bargains on a flea market, and where once a year beautiful theatre performances from Over 't IJ festival play, now there were dj sets, party tents and bars that sold beer, wine, coke and vodka. In a corner on top of the slope, a long line of people waited for the grilled vegetables, hamburgers and pasta salads to get ready.
Apart from my clothes, that were soaking wet and that made me want to go home and take a hot shower more than anything, I didn't like the dance and trance music that was typical to this festival. I wondered why I let my friend persuade me into going, or why I accepted her invitation and left my cosy and warm home for this cold and noise. My friends new boyfriend was the reason. Henk op de helling isn't only music beats and drinks, there are also art project, among which The Fisherman (Den Visscher) from Piet. Piet, who walked around in a green fishermen suit, his blond hair tied in a tail. Other people suspected him to be Henk. Piet told his story in a little boat, for which you had to climb a long ladder to enter it and that fitted seven people but only with their legs pulled in, who would listen to him. One of those people was Paul, a twenty year old who looked at me with wide open pupils and started an incoherent story about his passion,that consisted of partying, drinking and taking pills.
Next to Piets boat, there was a poetry stage, where writers and poets mumbled their thoughts into a mic, in front of a tribune that was filled with people who sought shelter from the weather and weren't really interested in poetry. "This is so tiring," the girl next to me sighed to her friend. Both of them were wearing short skirts and t-shirts, and had pulled their hair in a ponytail. they were eating some grilled vegetables. And while the wind blew the rain along the slope, they jumped up and slowly walked to the party tents. I found shelter in the little boat of Piet, where my clothes dried while we drank juttersbitter. Like you should on a boat.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Freddy
Looking back at it, he probably was the first of several homo- and bisexual artists that mercilessly captured my heart. Although its impossible that none of the New Kids on the Block, whose music I loved before that, was gay, in his case it was more obvious. It wasn't as much his looks, nor his choice of clothes that did it for me. It all began with his death. My fascination started when they announced his passing, which was obviously quite intense then, and even more the vulnerable song that was released immediately after that. That was what moved my teenage feelings. Which also explains why his looks - hair, teeth, skinny body - didn't do it for me. I was thirteen years old and unable to visualize what you could do with a male body.
What did do it for me was his incredible presence. His stage behaviour, his shameless desire to be present, to express himself and to show who he was. Which he did by all the means that were possible: spandex suits, flags, fur coats, torches. And his music. Or, his bands music. Because there were three more musicians behind him, who only stood in the spotlights when he had dissappeared. On my list of 'things i wish I had done', a stadion concert of Queen is ranked pretty high.
Once in a while, I indulge myself to their exhilarating drum- and guitarsolos, and especially to Freddy's voice. In my short existence as a Queen fan, I was lucky to also listen to their less known songs, like the great Breakthru, You take my breath away, and Love of my life. But, eventually, their more well known songs are also the songs that I carry around in my mind for days: Killer Queen, Fat bottomed girls, Somebody to love and my favorite is the song below, on which I can really swing along on my bike.
Since I'm finally out of the closet about my preference for homosexual singers, I also can admit that Freddy's suits turn me on a little, that I can see how his teeth add to his extravagant persona and that I would have loved to run my hand through his hair.
RIP Freddy.
What did do it for me was his incredible presence. His stage behaviour, his shameless desire to be present, to express himself and to show who he was. Which he did by all the means that were possible: spandex suits, flags, fur coats, torches. And his music. Or, his bands music. Because there were three more musicians behind him, who only stood in the spotlights when he had dissappeared. On my list of 'things i wish I had done', a stadion concert of Queen is ranked pretty high.
Once in a while, I indulge myself to their exhilarating drum- and guitarsolos, and especially to Freddy's voice. In my short existence as a Queen fan, I was lucky to also listen to their less known songs, like the great Breakthru, You take my breath away, and Love of my life. But, eventually, their more well known songs are also the songs that I carry around in my mind for days: Killer Queen, Fat bottomed girls, Somebody to love and my favorite is the song below, on which I can really swing along on my bike.
Since I'm finally out of the closet about my preference for homosexual singers, I also can admit that Freddy's suits turn me on a little, that I can see how his teeth add to his extravagant persona and that I would have loved to run my hand through his hair.
RIP Freddy.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Suspecting we had to go on
We gathered next to one of the large hangars on the outskirts of the festival, while eliminating the taste of vegetarian roti and beer with a peppermint. Then the sound of a voice, and the group that had gathered started to move. We passed other visitors, and left the festival behind us. The northern waterfront, the unexplored area, the new buildings that were resurrected from the sand. The group moved along between the brick offices. At the end of a parking lot, where the road just made a small bend, stood a tribune.
We sat down, put on the headphones on command. We heard nothing and looked out onto an empty street. Just as the man next to me jokingly said he really loved the music, we heard the sound of the sea. Crackling footsteps in gravel. In front of us, there was the empty street. A voice hummed softly in our ears, in the distance a car stopped at the intersection and pulled back slowly. Everyone held his breath. Was that supposed to happen? The voice sang softly, the footsteps multiplied. Two men walked. Sighed that it was too far. That they had left the sea behind them. That they did not know where they came from. The emptyness in front of us, was filled with meaningful coincidences. Cars. Walkers. Cyclists, who cycled with a surprised look on their face towards the corner, looking at a hundred people watching them.
In the distance two figures were visible, who behaved like the voices in our head had predicted. "I think I'll lie down." "Then I walk back and forth." Minimalist texts in an almost panoramic landscape. A small woman came into the picture, her clothes betrayed she belonged to the story. She moved around. The men came closer. The small woman could be heard by the presence of the men. The sea rustled in our ears.
But they had to go on. The men. So the woman stayed behind, and the men disappeared. In the silence right before the applause started, the sigh of the audience before everyone finishes the story in their head and starts clapping, two bypassers walked into the picture. Just in time to receive a huge round of applause.
Bambie, one of the best theater groups in the Netherlands, plays on the IJ Festival. Do not miss it!
We sat down, put on the headphones on command. We heard nothing and looked out onto an empty street. Just as the man next to me jokingly said he really loved the music, we heard the sound of the sea. Crackling footsteps in gravel. In front of us, there was the empty street. A voice hummed softly in our ears, in the distance a car stopped at the intersection and pulled back slowly. Everyone held his breath. Was that supposed to happen? The voice sang softly, the footsteps multiplied. Two men walked. Sighed that it was too far. That they had left the sea behind them. That they did not know where they came from. The emptyness in front of us, was filled with meaningful coincidences. Cars. Walkers. Cyclists, who cycled with a surprised look on their face towards the corner, looking at a hundred people watching them.
In the distance two figures were visible, who behaved like the voices in our head had predicted. "I think I'll lie down." "Then I walk back and forth." Minimalist texts in an almost panoramic landscape. A small woman came into the picture, her clothes betrayed she belonged to the story. She moved around. The men came closer. The small woman could be heard by the presence of the men. The sea rustled in our ears.
But they had to go on. The men. So the woman stayed behind, and the men disappeared. In the silence right before the applause started, the sigh of the audience before everyone finishes the story in their head and starts clapping, two bypassers walked into the picture. Just in time to receive a huge round of applause.
Bambie, one of the best theater groups in the Netherlands, plays on the IJ Festival. Do not miss it!
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Art in images
Films about art. Is that fun? Does it work? Is it possible to visualize other forms of art and, indeed, tell an interesting story about it? Without getting into a deep discussion about the subject, I would like to plead in favour of these films. And even that, although not every film succeeds in its attampt, there are beautiful examples that argue my point of view.
Starting with Untitled. A somewhat bizar movie, that premiered in the US in 2009 and took two years before getting to the Amsterdam art house cinema scene, about two failed New York artists. Failed might not be the right word though. When are you a failure? Adrian composes avant-garde music, where people have to kick buckets, where clarinet players have to scream and where paper is being torn in two. Is brother Josh makes paintings of dots and circles. His work can be seen everywhere: in hotels, in banks, at all these different places where no one expects art and where no one experiences his paintings as art. "I give myself three more years, if I haven't made it by then," Adrian says, "-then you take a job," replies his brother. "No, then I kill myself."
The great things about Untitled are the meaningless conversations, the semi intelligent comments, the superior critics, that all show you exactly what you've been thinking all along: the world of art is one big fantasy world, in which no one really knows what he or she is doing, As an ultimate proof of this, there's the artist that makes art of the world around him. By putting name tags on stuff, saying that they are exactly what they are. "Wall surrounding space." "Pencil." Instead of bringing the ordinary world into a museum, like Duchamps did, he turns the world into a museum.
Later this week, I saw Howl, about Allen Ginsbergs poem, which he wrote in the fifties. After it got published, the explicit language caused a lot of commotion, and the publisher got sued for obscene language. Next to Ginsbergs story, filmed in a documentary style, in black and white, the film also shows the trial in color. The nonchalance and artistry of an artist and his world against the official world of 'grown-ups', where people discuss terms like context, intention and use - in art. Does a poet need to use certain words, or could he use other words that just as well could describe is story, but in a decent way? The rythm of the film comes from the recitation of Howl by the actor playing Ginsberg, in a small, smokey room, in the presence of his friends, still unaware of the impact that his words will have later on. His words, that gain more meaning in other pieces of the film, the speed, the volume. And next to that, animations, that clarify the story of the poem even more.
Untitled made me happy, but also slightly depressed by the meaninglessness of art, but Howl is inspiring, exciting, provocative. Art is a personal experience, as was obvious when my movie friend started to roll a cigaret near the end of the film. When I pointed at it with a surprised look on my face, he whispered: "I think it will finish in a minute."
Starting with Untitled. A somewhat bizar movie, that premiered in the US in 2009 and took two years before getting to the Amsterdam art house cinema scene, about two failed New York artists. Failed might not be the right word though. When are you a failure? Adrian composes avant-garde music, where people have to kick buckets, where clarinet players have to scream and where paper is being torn in two. Is brother Josh makes paintings of dots and circles. His work can be seen everywhere: in hotels, in banks, at all these different places where no one expects art and where no one experiences his paintings as art. "I give myself three more years, if I haven't made it by then," Adrian says, "-then you take a job," replies his brother. "No, then I kill myself."
The great things about Untitled are the meaningless conversations, the semi intelligent comments, the superior critics, that all show you exactly what you've been thinking all along: the world of art is one big fantasy world, in which no one really knows what he or she is doing, As an ultimate proof of this, there's the artist that makes art of the world around him. By putting name tags on stuff, saying that they are exactly what they are. "Wall surrounding space." "Pencil." Instead of bringing the ordinary world into a museum, like Duchamps did, he turns the world into a museum.
Later this week, I saw Howl, about Allen Ginsbergs poem, which he wrote in the fifties. After it got published, the explicit language caused a lot of commotion, and the publisher got sued for obscene language. Next to Ginsbergs story, filmed in a documentary style, in black and white, the film also shows the trial in color. The nonchalance and artistry of an artist and his world against the official world of 'grown-ups', where people discuss terms like context, intention and use - in art. Does a poet need to use certain words, or could he use other words that just as well could describe is story, but in a decent way? The rythm of the film comes from the recitation of Howl by the actor playing Ginsberg, in a small, smokey room, in the presence of his friends, still unaware of the impact that his words will have later on. His words, that gain more meaning in other pieces of the film, the speed, the volume. And next to that, animations, that clarify the story of the poem even more.
Untitled made me happy, but also slightly depressed by the meaninglessness of art, but Howl is inspiring, exciting, provocative. Art is a personal experience, as was obvious when my movie friend started to roll a cigaret near the end of the film. When I pointed at it with a surprised look on my face, he whispered: "I think it will finish in a minute."
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Rabat
Although I love Dutch FIlm, and especially the Dutch Documentary Film, when it really comes down to it, I must admit I'm rather sarcastic. I'm too childish to leave factual inaccuracies behind, which makes it hard to really get into the story, and often, I've seen the actors so many times before, that I keep having thoughts like 'That Barry Atsma guy isn't getting any younger' or 'What new project is Carice van Houten working on right now?' That last argument could also count for Films in general, not only the Dutch versions, but I blame the size - or the lack of it - of the Netherlands here. I don't ever think these thoughts when I see Johnny Depp or Heath Ledger in a film.
After Sonny Boy, the last Dutch film I saw this winter, I decided I was done with Dutch Films. So when the media campaign of the movie Rabat started, I didn't feel any urge to rush to a movie theatre to see this new Dutch Pearl. The hip-ness of the producers Habbekrats doesn't interest me, and vaguely, parts of that other cool Dutch movie forced themselves into my mind. A movie that actually kept me out of the theatres for a while, or one in particular, the one that specializes in Dutch movies, since I got so frustrated while watching that I couldn't stop commenting during the film, after which I was afraid to return to that place.
But faith brought me and Rabat together. On a very pleasant evening, that started with the vegetarian version of Kebabs and a Morrocan mint tea to get into the right vibe. In the beginning, I watched with bated breath. The sound wasn't really good and the 'real' Morrocan accent sometimes was difficult to understand. But once the guys started driving, and when they apparently realized they had to change something about the sound, and once you get used to the accent, it turns into a great road movie!
With beautiful images, really, beautiful, and great scenes. With characters that you start to love along the way and with all the Big Themes that belong to road movies.
I had a wonderful time. Apparently, it is possible, great Dutch movies. But I wonder if it's a coincidence that this film was made on a tiny budget, with a lot of love and little pretentions. Especially in a time where Dutch actors and artists walk a March for Civilization, these guys show us that the Art that really HAS to be made, will be made. Hey cat, right on!
After Sonny Boy, the last Dutch film I saw this winter, I decided I was done with Dutch Films. So when the media campaign of the movie Rabat started, I didn't feel any urge to rush to a movie theatre to see this new Dutch Pearl. The hip-ness of the producers Habbekrats doesn't interest me, and vaguely, parts of that other cool Dutch movie forced themselves into my mind. A movie that actually kept me out of the theatres for a while, or one in particular, the one that specializes in Dutch movies, since I got so frustrated while watching that I couldn't stop commenting during the film, after which I was afraid to return to that place.
But faith brought me and Rabat together. On a very pleasant evening, that started with the vegetarian version of Kebabs and a Morrocan mint tea to get into the right vibe. In the beginning, I watched with bated breath. The sound wasn't really good and the 'real' Morrocan accent sometimes was difficult to understand. But once the guys started driving, and when they apparently realized they had to change something about the sound, and once you get used to the accent, it turns into a great road movie!
With beautiful images, really, beautiful, and great scenes. With characters that you start to love along the way and with all the Big Themes that belong to road movies.
I had a wonderful time. Apparently, it is possible, great Dutch movies. But I wonder if it's a coincidence that this film was made on a tiny budget, with a lot of love and little pretentions. Especially in a time where Dutch actors and artists walk a March for Civilization, these guys show us that the Art that really HAS to be made, will be made. Hey cat, right on!
Monday, June 20, 2011
Legitimacy
In my opinion, in the Dutch society, it's all about your education and the job you're doing.
When first meeting someone, the first question usually is: "what do you do?", which you are supposed to answer by telling about your profession, and not with the things that you're actually doing at that time (well, I just shook your hand, we're talking, I'm at a party, I'm in a bar). And by talking about your profession, you tell them who you are. "I'm a doctor' means: I make a good living, I own a nice house, I have a subscription to the magazine 'Doctors and cars', I have a high endurance, I'm very good at remembering Latin words, I chose chemistry in high school and if necessary, I can save someone. "I'm a cashier at the supermarket" can either mean that you're a middle aged woman, who's older husband suddenly drove her crazy when he retired, which made her decide to leave the house and get a job herself, or you're a teenage girl, who works on Saturdays and who checks out less beers for her boyfriend so they both can drink enough before going to a party later that night.
I know that I'm modest in using prejudices.
But that's because these are the prejudices that torture me when I try to define what I do and therefor who I am. When I answer hesitantly that "later, when I'm a grown-up, I want to make films", people always ask next: "Oh, did you go to film school?". No, dear, I didn't. I've studies long enough and worked even longer since to not wanting to return to school and have classes with nineteen year olds. This answer doesn't help the conversation. Neither does elaborating about how this legitimacy of my efforts to creativity is exactly what is on my mind for years now, and that this is what is keeping me from choosing it so I can be who I want to be.
A dear friend of mine in New York - the city where everyone can be who they want to be and where people react to my first answer (later, grown-up, film making) with the comment: "that's great, what kind of films?", after which a nice conversation about film making can start - I learned that I have to reply in a simple way: "No, I did it differently, I did it on my own terms and just started filming".
The next video was very inspiring to me, where Shea Hembrey talks about the hundered artists he invented. After deciding to organize an international art show, and then realizing how difficult it was to find good artists, he decided to make up the artists himself and make their art. Especially the way he talks about his characters is great: for him, they are all alive.
As long as you convinced yourself, and believe in it, I think it comes down to that. So, starting now, when someone asks me what I do: I make films, I write and I make collages. What about you?
When first meeting someone, the first question usually is: "what do you do?", which you are supposed to answer by telling about your profession, and not with the things that you're actually doing at that time (well, I just shook your hand, we're talking, I'm at a party, I'm in a bar). And by talking about your profession, you tell them who you are. "I'm a doctor' means: I make a good living, I own a nice house, I have a subscription to the magazine 'Doctors and cars', I have a high endurance, I'm very good at remembering Latin words, I chose chemistry in high school and if necessary, I can save someone. "I'm a cashier at the supermarket" can either mean that you're a middle aged woman, who's older husband suddenly drove her crazy when he retired, which made her decide to leave the house and get a job herself, or you're a teenage girl, who works on Saturdays and who checks out less beers for her boyfriend so they both can drink enough before going to a party later that night.
I know that I'm modest in using prejudices.
But that's because these are the prejudices that torture me when I try to define what I do and therefor who I am. When I answer hesitantly that "later, when I'm a grown-up, I want to make films", people always ask next: "Oh, did you go to film school?". No, dear, I didn't. I've studies long enough and worked even longer since to not wanting to return to school and have classes with nineteen year olds. This answer doesn't help the conversation. Neither does elaborating about how this legitimacy of my efforts to creativity is exactly what is on my mind for years now, and that this is what is keeping me from choosing it so I can be who I want to be.
A dear friend of mine in New York - the city where everyone can be who they want to be and where people react to my first answer (later, grown-up, film making) with the comment: "that's great, what kind of films?", after which a nice conversation about film making can start - I learned that I have to reply in a simple way: "No, I did it differently, I did it on my own terms and just started filming".
The next video was very inspiring to me, where Shea Hembrey talks about the hundered artists he invented. After deciding to organize an international art show, and then realizing how difficult it was to find good artists, he decided to make up the artists himself and make their art. Especially the way he talks about his characters is great: for him, they are all alive.
As long as you convinced yourself, and believe in it, I think it comes down to that. So, starting now, when someone asks me what I do: I make films, I write and I make collages. What about you?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)