On the video I made from our holiday in Amsterdam.
Showing posts with label Favourite. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Favourite. Show all posts
Sunday, 18 August 2013
Tuesday, 31 July 2012
Thursday, 1 April 2010
A day behind the scenes
Can you believe I had a day with odd similarities to Willy Wonka's Chocolate factory?
There were 5 contestants.
We had all won 'a golden ticket'.
We were winning finalists on an internet quiz.
And it gave us access to the place of our dreams:
The television headquarters, where we could meet the idols of our favorite show.
'Wie is de mol' is an extremely popular TV show in Holland.
And the big prize was to have a real peak in the kitchen of the factory:
travelling with the cast and crew of the next season.
Where all the contestants in Willy Wonka's story seem to be seperating themselves,
we stuck together till the bitter end.
What a blast!
This was the craziest quiz I'd ever done,
with the most insane questions I've ever seen.
During this day
I got to talk to several stars.
I got my T-shirt signed.
I got to see a team of hard-working crew make our day special.
I got to meet some insane fanboys who were even crazier than I was!
And I was in a group of people that soon forgot they were having a competition
and rather felt like good friends.
To keep the series highly confusing and mysterious, the questions in the quiz were increased tenfold while keeping their hard difficulty. We were given the amount of time it would normally take me to answer just one.
Given this 'insane' set of rules, it was even more fun to play.
The elimination can be seen in this video.
Still, you wouldn't believe how insanely cool my day was just by watching it.
I guess for best experiences, you'll have to think a bit like Charly.
Saturday, 18 April 2009
Spain (1)
I saw Prince Felipe
Walked backwards from the mountains
Found the sun so hot, I couldn't stay longer than a few minutes
Was in a wonderful bar, that was founded before I was born
Took the metro, just to watch people travelling
Had french pancakes, made in spanish style
Was amazed by the range of fresh foods in the supermarket
and is still impressed they have plastic seperation in Madrid
Walked backwards from the mountains
Found the sun so hot, I couldn't stay longer than a few minutes
Was in a wonderful bar, that was founded before I was born
Took the metro, just to watch people travelling
Had french pancakes, made in spanish style
Was amazed by the range of fresh foods in the supermarket
and is still impressed they have plastic seperation in Madrid
Friday, 28 November 2008
Miyamoto
Do you know Miyamoto?
The game-designer?
If you know Mario, then you know his father.
Yes, Miyamoto created Mario, and many more famous game-characters!
I made a question for Miyamoto at the Dutch newspaper's site of
'De Telegraaf'.
From 200 questions 5 were chosen to be asked to Miyamoto himself.
And my question was his personal favourite.
Can there be more honour for someone who has played his games for three quarters of his life?
Too bad I didn't speak to him face-to-face. But I got his autograph. On a Wii.
My question: Do you think gaming will become so realistic that you can't distinguish its experience from real life, and would this be a gift or a curse?
The game-designer?
If you know Mario, then you know his father.
Yes, Miyamoto created Mario, and many more famous game-characters!
I made a question for Miyamoto at the Dutch newspaper's site of
'De Telegraaf'.
From 200 questions 5 were chosen to be asked to Miyamoto himself.
And my question was his personal favourite.
Can there be more honour for someone who has played his games for three quarters of his life?
Too bad I didn't speak to him face-to-face. But I got his autograph. On a Wii.
My question: Do you think gaming will become so realistic that you can't distinguish its experience from real life, and would this be a gift or a curse?
Saturday, 11 October 2008
2 old favs
Some photos I make tend to keep returning in my mind.
That means they're special (to me) in some way.
This photo was made during the burial of my grand-uncle.
A lot of my younger family is caught on this picture, in a serious to dramatic state; but not posing, rather natural.
I hardly see my family these days. I think this is a very nice and maybe even unique memento.
The other photo (made on the same day) is rather hilarious and of another order. But I was happy I made it too.
That means they're special (to me) in some way.
This photo was made during the burial of my grand-uncle.
A lot of my younger family is caught on this picture, in a serious to dramatic state; but not posing, rather natural.
I hardly see my family these days. I think this is a very nice and maybe even unique memento.
The other photo (made on the same day) is rather hilarious and of another order. But I was happy I made it too.
Tuesday, 2 September 2008
Live from Madrid (2)
What I did mostly before the movie wasn't going to must-see places most people would look up in their travel guides. I didn´t go to Prado. I don´t feel much priority in seeing classical art that much anyway. I went to the park. And to a bookshop. I saw a book titled ´how to repair your underwear´. With phrases like: the guide for a man´s man. A man who doesn´t wash his underwear, but fixes it.
Maybe I will do the touristic places later. And in the perspective of being efficient, if you want to see a lot, you best go to where it´s less crowded first.
When I walked through Madrid, the first thoughts that crossed my mind were:
It´s so much like Paris!
And (after touching the metal railing in the metro): This is the cleanest metro I´ve ever been in!
Or: The smell in the hallway is just like in Malaysia, maybe it´s because of the desinfectant, Dettol it must be, even though I don´t specifically know what Dettol smells like, but I´ve seen so many commercials of Dettol in Malaysia it hardly can´t be anything else.
I found that El Paseo de Las Delicias is just like that street in La Fourche.
I still see a lot of similarities with France, that probably can be explained by visits of the same architects and designers if my feeling is correct.
It´s only the first day in Spain and I have a lot more to go. I won´t be writing every day I guess. Because I feel like I´m already trying too much, without taking good care of the most important thing. The experience itself.
Goodnight!
Maybe I will do the touristic places later. And in the perspective of being efficient, if you want to see a lot, you best go to where it´s less crowded first.
When I walked through Madrid, the first thoughts that crossed my mind were:
It´s so much like Paris!
And (after touching the metal railing in the metro): This is the cleanest metro I´ve ever been in!
Or: The smell in the hallway is just like in Malaysia, maybe it´s because of the desinfectant, Dettol it must be, even though I don´t specifically know what Dettol smells like, but I´ve seen so many commercials of Dettol in Malaysia it hardly can´t be anything else.
I found that El Paseo de Las Delicias is just like that street in La Fourche.
I still see a lot of similarities with France, that probably can be explained by visits of the same architects and designers if my feeling is correct.
It´s only the first day in Spain and I have a lot more to go. I won´t be writing every day I guess. Because I feel like I´m already trying too much, without taking good care of the most important thing. The experience itself.
Goodnight!
Sunday, 17 August 2008
On the way to Malaysia
As I kind of feared, a big, fat, smelly man was sitting next to me in the plane. Well, he didn't really stink, but I wasn't going to smell extra to make sure. And he wasn't as fat as I had imagined. I guess my anticipation already made the trip less harder to endure.
As I sat down, he didn't look or speak at me.
I was sitting at the emergency door. This meant we had a lot of foot space. Directly facing us were the stewardess's seats. A woman sat down. I started talking to her instead, because the man didn't give the impression he would let his eyes off his car-magazine for one second. The woman kept staring at the other side of the isle.
Having asked why she could sit in the stewardess seat she told me she was one herself. But on a holiday.
She also told me she was Romanian. I could recognise some of that in her face.
Now she was travelling on another company. She worked on Emirates, we were flying Lufthansa. I wanted to ask her more, but then the real stewardess was taking her seat and kind of stole my conversation.
I can't blame her, because she didn't know I was interested in this woman's story.
I tried joining the converstation, the Romanian woman looked back at me sympathetically, but there was no way to get in between them. I let them have their talk, from one stewardess to another.
I had put on my headphone and listened to the arm-rest radio. Greatest channel for in-flight listening was the lounge channel in my opinion. You just fly along with the music. I must have listened this channel a great deal, because I remember that on the entire flight I've heard 2 songs repeatedly. The program must have restarted after an entire cycle. I will never forget that tune. Really loungy music that some Germans would love and I normally would hate for its sweetness, but on this flight it was the best music I could have wished for.
...Cyprus...
I caught that word from the conversation the women had. I believe the stewardess in function must have been from that area. I'd have guessed she was Greek. She looked more Greek to me than Turkish. She had a big nose. She was pretty tall for a stewardess. She wore glasses. She didn't seem extremely young, but she also didn't look like she was the most experienced one either.
I could almost look in her skirt. I was sitting directly in front of her. But I didn't look. I didn't want to look. The girls were having so much fun, but I couldn't hear what they were saying and it was hopeless to get in between that way.
The man didn't care. He just kept his mouth shut. The only words that would come out were the answer to the steward whether he would like chicken or pasta. And even then I couldn't hear him.
The Greek stewardess did have the seat in front of me, but she was going to serve the people ahead of us. Probably buisiness class. And then she closed the curtain. Which wouldn't close completely. You would still see the corridor.
Now I had the chance to ask more to the Romanian woman.
'Who were you looking at?' I asked.
'My husband.' she said. 'He's also a steward. We work on the same company.'
'Aha...! And why don't you sit together?'
'We have spare seats, because we are stewards.' she said.
'Did you meet at work then? And how long are you together?'
'Actually, we just married 2 days ago and now we're going on a honeymoon.'
'Really?? Wow..! Are you going to Bangkok or Kuala Lumpur?'
'We're going to Cambodia actually...'
'Really?'
'We'll change in Bangkok and continue to Ankor.'
I then asked her 'Did you see that movie from Wong Kar Wai, In the mood for love?? I think it's also in that place. Really nice.'
'I think not...'
'I had a girlfriend from Cambodia...or actually her parents.'
The woman used the two folding chairs as a bed to sleep on. Sometimes she would walk back to her brand-new husband.
One time he also came to our side of the isle. I congratulated them.
How nice, a steward's couple, on the way to their honeymoon, with the transportation they are so familiar with.
In Bangkok they left. As the woman was standing up to leave I wished them to have a good time.
I didn't ask for their name. I didn't have to. They were "the flying couple".
If I had not talked to them, I would be oblivious to this wonderful given.
The man next to me never spoke a word on the trip. Maybe he expected a small, skinny Chinese boy and was so surprised it came true that he couldn't open his mouth for the entire trip.
As I sat down, he didn't look or speak at me.
I was sitting at the emergency door. This meant we had a lot of foot space. Directly facing us were the stewardess's seats. A woman sat down. I started talking to her instead, because the man didn't give the impression he would let his eyes off his car-magazine for one second. The woman kept staring at the other side of the isle.
Having asked why she could sit in the stewardess seat she told me she was one herself. But on a holiday.
She also told me she was Romanian. I could recognise some of that in her face.
Now she was travelling on another company. She worked on Emirates, we were flying Lufthansa. I wanted to ask her more, but then the real stewardess was taking her seat and kind of stole my conversation.
I can't blame her, because she didn't know I was interested in this woman's story.
I tried joining the converstation, the Romanian woman looked back at me sympathetically, but there was no way to get in between them. I let them have their talk, from one stewardess to another.
I had put on my headphone and listened to the arm-rest radio. Greatest channel for in-flight listening was the lounge channel in my opinion. You just fly along with the music. I must have listened this channel a great deal, because I remember that on the entire flight I've heard 2 songs repeatedly. The program must have restarted after an entire cycle. I will never forget that tune. Really loungy music that some Germans would love and I normally would hate for its sweetness, but on this flight it was the best music I could have wished for.
...Cyprus...
I caught that word from the conversation the women had. I believe the stewardess in function must have been from that area. I'd have guessed she was Greek. She looked more Greek to me than Turkish. She had a big nose. She was pretty tall for a stewardess. She wore glasses. She didn't seem extremely young, but she also didn't look like she was the most experienced one either.
I could almost look in her skirt. I was sitting directly in front of her. But I didn't look. I didn't want to look. The girls were having so much fun, but I couldn't hear what they were saying and it was hopeless to get in between that way.
The man didn't care. He just kept his mouth shut. The only words that would come out were the answer to the steward whether he would like chicken or pasta. And even then I couldn't hear him.
The Greek stewardess did have the seat in front of me, but she was going to serve the people ahead of us. Probably buisiness class. And then she closed the curtain. Which wouldn't close completely. You would still see the corridor.
Now I had the chance to ask more to the Romanian woman.
'Who were you looking at?' I asked.
'My husband.' she said. 'He's also a steward. We work on the same company.'
'Aha...! And why don't you sit together?'
'We have spare seats, because we are stewards.' she said.
'Did you meet at work then? And how long are you together?'
'Actually, we just married 2 days ago and now we're going on a honeymoon.'
'Really?? Wow..! Are you going to Bangkok or Kuala Lumpur?'
'We're going to Cambodia actually...'
'Really?'
'We'll change in Bangkok and continue to Ankor.'
I then asked her 'Did you see that movie from Wong Kar Wai, In the mood for love?? I think it's also in that place. Really nice.'
'I think not...'
'I had a girlfriend from Cambodia...or actually her parents.'
The woman used the two folding chairs as a bed to sleep on. Sometimes she would walk back to her brand-new husband.
One time he also came to our side of the isle. I congratulated them.
How nice, a steward's couple, on the way to their honeymoon, with the transportation they are so familiar with.
In Bangkok they left. As the woman was standing up to leave I wished them to have a good time.
I didn't ask for their name. I didn't have to. They were "the flying couple".
If I had not talked to them, I would be oblivious to this wonderful given.
The man next to me never spoke a word on the trip. Maybe he expected a small, skinny Chinese boy and was so surprised it came true that he couldn't open his mouth for the entire trip.
Monday, 14 July 2008
Ready to go
This will be the last post for a while. I'm going on holidays.
Tomorrow I hope not to be sitting next to a big, sweating, smelly man...because it's a pretty long way to Malaysia!
I will be reading, writing, sleeping and enjoying the view.
First time Lufthansa Airlines.
Expect a full report when I come back...
Afong
Thursday, 10 July 2008
There is a song I really like. It's the theme of "the diving bell and the butterfly", by Paul Cantelon. Because I don't have the CD I sometimes just listen to the excerpt from this site.
Just that little fragment is enough.
Sunday, 6 July 2008
Goodbye workspace!
Just as new. The hallway in school I used as my workspace has been cleared.
Being an emergency passage and all I got the inevitable speeches from Ferdinand, who had to defend my stay against the fire-brigade and the coffee-machine lady. "People have to walk through! Especially the coffee-lady! And no blocking objects like chairs, take them away!"
One day I even got a letter from him. Basically the same speach, but written in big capitals with a black marker, just to emphasize his stress. I guess it mattered to him that I wasn't there enough. But other people had put the chairs there. How was I supposed to know?
Working on so many photos didn't make it very easy to stay. I got crazy occasionally. Just like Sander, who tried to make a selection from my archive, for one afternoon. The heat was probably the worst. The sun shone in during afternoons. It had to be over 40 degrees C. sometimes. You would sweat by just standing there, looking at the pictures.
Now the sun left a mark on the sheets of paper where I laid my pictures on. Or actually the pictures left a mark; where all the rest has aged, these spots show where time stood still.
Monday, 23 June 2008
Monday, 2 June 2008
Meneer Sietsma
Dhr. A.J. Sietsma Senior. Iedereen kent hem wel van gezicht in onze buurt. Een grappige kop met een alpinopetje op in koude tijden. Hij kwam vaak eten in ons restaurant. Dan kreeg hij een tafeltje voor zichzelf. Hij bestelde óf een beetje bami met groenten (tjap tjoy) óf een nasi met 1 stokje saté. Nooit teveel, want er moest nog een plek overblijven voor de vanille-ijs mét slagroom. Dat hoefden we eigenlijk nooit te vragen. Ik heb vaak het ijsje voor meneer Sietsma klaargemaakt. De laatste tijd heb ik hem niet meer gezien.
Hoe ik er precies achter ben gekomen weet ik niet meer, maar meneer Sietsma hield van fotografie. Dus in mijn tijd als ober heb ik hem wel eens mijn iPod gegeven om te kijken naar mijn foto’s. Niet veel mensen schonken aandacht aan hem, maar nu was hij het middelpunt van de belangstelling. Een oude man kijkt met plezier foto’s op een iPod.
Ik heb een keer gevraagd aan meneer Sietsma of ik hem mocht fotograferen. “Maar natuurlijk!” in zijn beschaafde jofele toon. Ik baal ervan dat ik de foto’s met een erg trage sluitertijd heb genomen. Als commentaar gaf hij ook toen ik ze liet zien dat ze technisch niet goed waren. Maar er zat er wel één bij die hij aan z’n zus wilde laten zien, voor hoe het met hem ging en hoe hij er nu uitzag.
De volgende keer dat hij langs was geweest had ik blijkbaar de fotografische vlam in hem aangewakkerd, want het bleek dat hij met zijn technische camera portretten heeft gemaakt van mijn moeder. Ik was toen niet aanwezig en heb genoegen moeten nemen met de gemaakte foto’s. Grappig dat die oude man interesse had in mijn moeder. Voor hem is ze natuurlijk nog zo jong als een mus.
De laatste keer dat ik meneer Sietsma heb gesproken is op donderdag 8 november vorig jaar. Ik wilde al een tijdje zien wat hij nou eigenlijk had gefotografeerd. Hij had al meerdere malen verteld dat zijn werk in het Oude Raadhuis hing. Wat eerder had ik geïnformeerd naar zijn aanwezigheid en werk. Dat bleek daar toen te hangen en hij zou elke donderdagmiddag een kopje koffie drinken met de buurtgenoten. Deze dag was ik er weer en hij zat er. Ik liep naar de tafel toe en vroeg over zijn fotografische interesse. Hij zei dat ik na het koffie-uurtje wel mee kon gaan naar zijn huis.
Op het tempo van zijn rollator liep ik al vragen stellend mee naar zijn huis. Het eerste stuk lopen was richting mijn oude basisschool. Hij bleek al bijna 90 jaar te zijn. En nog steeds te fotograferen. Ja, van mijn moeder wist ik wel, maar ik dacht dat het een uitzondering was.
We kwamen bij zijn huis, slechts 5 minuten van ons restaurant (halve minuut als ik het sprintend zou doen). Op zijn deur zag ik zijn naam: A.J. Sietsma Senior. Dus hij moest wel een zoon hebben. Dat durfde ik nooit te vragen. Wie wel? Misschien was hij wel zijn hele leven alleen geweest en met zo’n vraag had je hem er pijnlijk aan herinnerd.
Ik vroeg waar de A voor stond.
Arthur. Dat kon ook niet anders. Een naam die ik al kende. Een tijdloze, koninklijke naam. En Arthur Junior? Die woont gewoon in de buurt. En diens jongere broer woont in Utrecht. Ik vroeg nog of een van hen óók interesse in fotografie had, misschien zat het in de familie, maar dat bleek niet zo.
Toen ik de woonkamer instapte viel me op dat, naast het feit dat de man van een goede stooktemperatuur hield, er een fascinerende mate van orde op de keukentafel heerste.
De kerstkaarten, brieven en andere post lagen in nette stapeltjes naast elkaar.
Toen was het zover om zijn werk te bekijken. De man leidde me door een gang die opvallend kouder was. Een voorproefje van strak ingelijste foto’s met abstracte beelden en knappe vrouwen.
En toen kwamen we in de kamer met zijn werk. Op tafel lag een grote stapel dikke fotopakketten, ongeveer zo hoog als tien grote pizzadozen op elkaar. De foto’s waren allen omzoomd met een groot passe-partout, en van ieder jaar zat er slechts één tussen. Ik kon al snel afleiden dat het een hoop jaren zijn dat hij bezig is geweest.
De beelden waren stuk voor stuk perfect in technische uitvoering. Geen wonder dat hij commentaar gaf op mijn foto’s met te trage sluitertijd. Hij kwam uit een tijd dat mensen nog liefde, geduld en aandacht voor de foto’s hadden. Hij zegt voor Philips te hebben gewerkt als een leraar. En dat de fotografie meer een hobby is geweest. Meer een passie zou ik zeggen.
Van de foto’s die ik zag waren een hoop portretten van kunstenaressen. Beeldhouwsters om precies te zijn. Er hing ook een portret aan de muur van, naar het scheen, de secretaresse van Mahatma Gandhi. Ik twijfel daar niet aan. Een zeer tijdloos en elegant portret was het.
Wat ik ook niet zal vergeten is een zelfportret van de beste man in zijn jonge jaren. Hij was op een nudistenkamp op vakantie. Met de zeer herkenbare lach op zijn gezicht en zijn jongeheer in de volle zon kijkt hij je aan.
Het beste werk waren zijn foto’s van bomen. Hij hield van bomen. De bomen op zijn foto’s waren monumentaal, tijdloos en elegant. Zwart wit en op supergaaf papier. Deze man is als zijn bomen.
Bij het afscheid gaf de man nog een flyer mee voor de tentoonstelling die de fotoclub zou gaan houden. Dat zou in dezelfde buurt van mijn voormalige basisschool zijn: ’t Karregat. Ik ben samen met mijn zusje gegaan. De rollator die in de hoek lag moest van hem zijn, maar hem zelf kon ik niet vinden. We keken naar zijn werk. Ik herkende de techniek van collage die hij eerder had toegepast op zijn architectonische foto’s. En de omgevingen waar hij geweest zou moeten zijn. Niet zo ver uit de buurt. Tongelresestraat. Tja, met een rollator kom je ook niet ver. Ik keek heel anders naar die straat op dat moment.
Laatst meende ik meneer Sietsma nog te zien. Mijn vader was net klaar met bellen. We zaten in het restaurant op klaarlichte dag. Ik keek uit het raam en daar kwam een kleine blauwe auto langs rijden. Het kan niet veel anders of die man met dat bijna grijnzende gezicht was weer een paar kilometer per uur extra en een upgrade rijker geworden.
Hoe ik er precies achter ben gekomen weet ik niet meer, maar meneer Sietsma hield van fotografie. Dus in mijn tijd als ober heb ik hem wel eens mijn iPod gegeven om te kijken naar mijn foto’s. Niet veel mensen schonken aandacht aan hem, maar nu was hij het middelpunt van de belangstelling. Een oude man kijkt met plezier foto’s op een iPod.
Ik heb een keer gevraagd aan meneer Sietsma of ik hem mocht fotograferen. “Maar natuurlijk!” in zijn beschaafde jofele toon. Ik baal ervan dat ik de foto’s met een erg trage sluitertijd heb genomen. Als commentaar gaf hij ook toen ik ze liet zien dat ze technisch niet goed waren. Maar er zat er wel één bij die hij aan z’n zus wilde laten zien, voor hoe het met hem ging en hoe hij er nu uitzag.
De volgende keer dat hij langs was geweest had ik blijkbaar de fotografische vlam in hem aangewakkerd, want het bleek dat hij met zijn technische camera portretten heeft gemaakt van mijn moeder. Ik was toen niet aanwezig en heb genoegen moeten nemen met de gemaakte foto’s. Grappig dat die oude man interesse had in mijn moeder. Voor hem is ze natuurlijk nog zo jong als een mus.
De laatste keer dat ik meneer Sietsma heb gesproken is op donderdag 8 november vorig jaar. Ik wilde al een tijdje zien wat hij nou eigenlijk had gefotografeerd. Hij had al meerdere malen verteld dat zijn werk in het Oude Raadhuis hing. Wat eerder had ik geïnformeerd naar zijn aanwezigheid en werk. Dat bleek daar toen te hangen en hij zou elke donderdagmiddag een kopje koffie drinken met de buurtgenoten. Deze dag was ik er weer en hij zat er. Ik liep naar de tafel toe en vroeg over zijn fotografische interesse. Hij zei dat ik na het koffie-uurtje wel mee kon gaan naar zijn huis.
Op het tempo van zijn rollator liep ik al vragen stellend mee naar zijn huis. Het eerste stuk lopen was richting mijn oude basisschool. Hij bleek al bijna 90 jaar te zijn. En nog steeds te fotograferen. Ja, van mijn moeder wist ik wel, maar ik dacht dat het een uitzondering was.
We kwamen bij zijn huis, slechts 5 minuten van ons restaurant (halve minuut als ik het sprintend zou doen). Op zijn deur zag ik zijn naam: A.J. Sietsma Senior. Dus hij moest wel een zoon hebben. Dat durfde ik nooit te vragen. Wie wel? Misschien was hij wel zijn hele leven alleen geweest en met zo’n vraag had je hem er pijnlijk aan herinnerd.
Ik vroeg waar de A voor stond.
Arthur. Dat kon ook niet anders. Een naam die ik al kende. Een tijdloze, koninklijke naam. En Arthur Junior? Die woont gewoon in de buurt. En diens jongere broer woont in Utrecht. Ik vroeg nog of een van hen óók interesse in fotografie had, misschien zat het in de familie, maar dat bleek niet zo.
Toen ik de woonkamer instapte viel me op dat, naast het feit dat de man van een goede stooktemperatuur hield, er een fascinerende mate van orde op de keukentafel heerste.
De kerstkaarten, brieven en andere post lagen in nette stapeltjes naast elkaar.
Toen was het zover om zijn werk te bekijken. De man leidde me door een gang die opvallend kouder was. Een voorproefje van strak ingelijste foto’s met abstracte beelden en knappe vrouwen.
En toen kwamen we in de kamer met zijn werk. Op tafel lag een grote stapel dikke fotopakketten, ongeveer zo hoog als tien grote pizzadozen op elkaar. De foto’s waren allen omzoomd met een groot passe-partout, en van ieder jaar zat er slechts één tussen. Ik kon al snel afleiden dat het een hoop jaren zijn dat hij bezig is geweest.
De beelden waren stuk voor stuk perfect in technische uitvoering. Geen wonder dat hij commentaar gaf op mijn foto’s met te trage sluitertijd. Hij kwam uit een tijd dat mensen nog liefde, geduld en aandacht voor de foto’s hadden. Hij zegt voor Philips te hebben gewerkt als een leraar. En dat de fotografie meer een hobby is geweest. Meer een passie zou ik zeggen.
Van de foto’s die ik zag waren een hoop portretten van kunstenaressen. Beeldhouwsters om precies te zijn. Er hing ook een portret aan de muur van, naar het scheen, de secretaresse van Mahatma Gandhi. Ik twijfel daar niet aan. Een zeer tijdloos en elegant portret was het.
Wat ik ook niet zal vergeten is een zelfportret van de beste man in zijn jonge jaren. Hij was op een nudistenkamp op vakantie. Met de zeer herkenbare lach op zijn gezicht en zijn jongeheer in de volle zon kijkt hij je aan.
Het beste werk waren zijn foto’s van bomen. Hij hield van bomen. De bomen op zijn foto’s waren monumentaal, tijdloos en elegant. Zwart wit en op supergaaf papier. Deze man is als zijn bomen.
Bij het afscheid gaf de man nog een flyer mee voor de tentoonstelling die de fotoclub zou gaan houden. Dat zou in dezelfde buurt van mijn voormalige basisschool zijn: ’t Karregat. Ik ben samen met mijn zusje gegaan. De rollator die in de hoek lag moest van hem zijn, maar hem zelf kon ik niet vinden. We keken naar zijn werk. Ik herkende de techniek van collage die hij eerder had toegepast op zijn architectonische foto’s. En de omgevingen waar hij geweest zou moeten zijn. Niet zo ver uit de buurt. Tongelresestraat. Tja, met een rollator kom je ook niet ver. Ik keek heel anders naar die straat op dat moment.
Laatst meende ik meneer Sietsma nog te zien. Mijn vader was net klaar met bellen. We zaten in het restaurant op klaarlichte dag. Ik keek uit het raam en daar kwam een kleine blauwe auto langs rijden. Het kan niet veel anders of die man met dat bijna grijnzende gezicht was weer een paar kilometer per uur extra en een upgrade rijker geworden.
Monday, 12 May 2008
Goodbye plastic man!
On the day when the city of Enschede was struck by the fireworksdisaster, a few years later this happened:
the plastic recycling factory burns!
There is a little disgrace in that, for I always eagerly snatch my roommates' plastic out of the garbage, just to recycle it.
Yes, they made me a plastic freak.
Even when all the plastic is gone, up in smoke, I still have the traits of a junkie gone cold turkey.
What happened to me that made me have this tick?
Burn baby, burn!
Sunday, 11 May 2008
iPhoto movie maker
Miriam and Saija doing their "glass(es)-cleaning" performance. First try with the Quicktime movie maker from iPhoto.
Wednesday, 7 May 2008
The times I had to cry
* One day the destruction of the twin towers was on TV again. I watched it, alone in the big new empty house of my parents.
I couldn’t help feeling compassionate about those people I didn’t know.
* A suburb in île de France. In a renovated farmhouse "Ferme du Buisson", art and movies are shown to visitors. A performance starting with a spotlight that could change from a white circle into a black circle. Something I had never seen before. The people in the room were facing the floor in the middle, fully concentrated at experiencing this phenomenon. The size of the circle changed. A man in a black, spandex suit entering the stage and a girl in a white similar skin-covering material, when the light split in two.
I don’t know what it was the couple did - maybe it was because they were Japanese - to let me feel something so basic and profound, I had to cry.
The performance still lasted a while, but all I needed was that short peek giving me insight in the beauty of humanity. Words could not have expressed what I felt and I was thankful to have experienced this moment, for some things can not be explained, they have to be lived.
I couldn’t help feeling compassionate about those people I didn’t know.
* A suburb in île de France. In a renovated farmhouse "Ferme du Buisson", art and movies are shown to visitors. A performance starting with a spotlight that could change from a white circle into a black circle. Something I had never seen before. The people in the room were facing the floor in the middle, fully concentrated at experiencing this phenomenon. The size of the circle changed. A man in a black, spandex suit entering the stage and a girl in a white similar skin-covering material, when the light split in two.
I don’t know what it was the couple did - maybe it was because they were Japanese - to let me feel something so basic and profound, I had to cry.
The performance still lasted a while, but all I needed was that short peek giving me insight in the beauty of humanity. Words could not have expressed what I felt and I was thankful to have experienced this moment, for some things can not be explained, they have to be lived.
Sunday, 4 May 2008
Zeppelin
The funny thing about this zeppelin was that I saw it in Eindhoven in the afternoon, and while I was travelling towards Rotterdam, I saw it again out of my window!
I must have caught up with it...
Encroyable
Saturday, 3 May 2008
How to...
I love the fact that you were free to look at these books and photocopy pages while being in a "white cube" of the VanAbbeMuseum. This one about stealing from the supermarket was my favorite to begin with. My second choice was "Be your own dick", the last word meaning a private detective (just in case you might think it's about understanding your penis).
Other books were about cooking with cannabis, guns and everything else illegal you can imagine.
What a cool library that was...too bad it's gone now
Sunday, 6 April 2008
Qing Ming meets Deezer.com
Today, on the day when Chinese remember their dead,
me and 2 friends were listening songs with dead/die in the title, without notifying each other.
I just happened to notice this strange coming together of subject.
Wednesday, 18 July 2007
the Dream
Sleep well?
Well, I had a dream I couldn't shake off my mind today. I wouldn't say it was a nightmare, because I wasn't shocked, more stunned.
It started with smoke coming from a place that only existed in my imagination. It looked like an American city at dusk, but it felt like Enschede, my city of study. I was biking with a small group of men towards the fire. Then we saw clouds rise, like an explosion just took place. Out of nowhere a red-hot scorching train was slowing down on a hightened track, but still with great speed came pelting towards us. I saw there were still people inside the train. One wagon detached itself and came flying towards me. Time slowed down considerably, making the experience really intense. I was waiting for the right moment to jump away if necessary, but I was nailed to the ground. Maybe it was the slowing of time that made me as heavy as a weight. I hoped the train would go past me. But it stopped moving.
I was in my bed. The images freshly burnt in my memory, I was looking for my pen to write it all down. I always keep my pen in my photo-bag, but the bag was nowhere to be seen! I was desperate to get it down on paper. About 6 times I imagined that I had found a pen and started writing the story. But it wasn't real! I thought to myself: get this recorded, somehow! I never had such a clear memory of the details in a dream for so long after having dreamt it. It was as though my mind was fighting against a force that didn't want the dream written down. Then I thought about my mobile. It was right next to my pillow! All this time I could've been typing in there. So I started typing. Nearly not as fast as with a regular keyboard, but it worked. When I reached the third message though, there were no more letters left! And I wasn't finished yet!
Eventually I got out of bed, got my bag and wrote the rest on a piece of paper.
Why I'm putting it online? I don't know. But it's here now.
ps. My mother told me having dreams with fire, brings wealth, in some Chinese superstition? Not a bad thing I would say...:)
Well, I had a dream I couldn't shake off my mind today. I wouldn't say it was a nightmare, because I wasn't shocked, more stunned.
It started with smoke coming from a place that only existed in my imagination. It looked like an American city at dusk, but it felt like Enschede, my city of study. I was biking with a small group of men towards the fire. Then we saw clouds rise, like an explosion just took place. Out of nowhere a red-hot scorching train was slowing down on a hightened track, but still with great speed came pelting towards us. I saw there were still people inside the train. One wagon detached itself and came flying towards me. Time slowed down considerably, making the experience really intense. I was waiting for the right moment to jump away if necessary, but I was nailed to the ground. Maybe it was the slowing of time that made me as heavy as a weight. I hoped the train would go past me. But it stopped moving.
I was in my bed. The images freshly burnt in my memory, I was looking for my pen to write it all down. I always keep my pen in my photo-bag, but the bag was nowhere to be seen! I was desperate to get it down on paper. About 6 times I imagined that I had found a pen and started writing the story. But it wasn't real! I thought to myself: get this recorded, somehow! I never had such a clear memory of the details in a dream for so long after having dreamt it. It was as though my mind was fighting against a force that didn't want the dream written down. Then I thought about my mobile. It was right next to my pillow! All this time I could've been typing in there. So I started typing. Nearly not as fast as with a regular keyboard, but it worked. When I reached the third message though, there were no more letters left! And I wasn't finished yet!
Eventually I got out of bed, got my bag and wrote the rest on a piece of paper.
Why I'm putting it online? I don't know. But it's here now.
ps. My mother told me having dreams with fire, brings wealth, in some Chinese superstition? Not a bad thing I would say...:)
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