Street Harassment

Ramadan in Amsterdam

 

 

 

Art Block

One month of isolation

  

  

 

 

An Atheist's Prayer II

An Atheist's Prayer I

The Madding Crowd

The Madding Crowd

When I came up with the title, I was so sure. Finally, this three-worded string managed to capture my feelings when I was creating it. 

Unlike most art I make, this project was driven by anger, rejection, pain, despair, fear, subjection and sadness.

At times I felt like I was creating a collective, a paper revolution. I felt hope as I cut out the faces. How powerful can an individual be in a collective. The crowd is fighting for a brighter future.

Other moments I would feel watched, observed. Not by a collective but a collection of individuals. Each their own judgement, their own reflection. You never know what they might think. 

It’s a crowd of individuals, each with a unique print and pattern. Each with their own thoughts, logic and morals. How can we then ever become one to make a change? 

 

I was running out of paper. I started cutting multiple faces from one page. Of course I tried to have them as far apart as possible. For composition’s sake. 

Now when I look at my wall, I feel like God. Plato said that soulmates were one creature, but cut and divided by God as a punishment. I took the pairs apart and tried to mix everything well. I bet he tried to do the same. 

There are groups and factions in the crowd. The red ones don’t like the blue ones. The floral ones believe, the fashion ones don’t. The modern art ones are leftist, while paint smudged ones are alt-right. Interieur design are queer, the newspaper ones have "traditional" preferences. 

 

But you see, none can be described just their pattern or just their beliefs. In the crowd they are divided by colour and the rest of their facets are forgotten. 

But even if I, as God, would hear their prayers and cries, I could never grasp how rich and dimensional they can be. That idea equally pleases and terrifies me. 

More than a hundred faces hang on my wall. Each of them I traced and cut and stuck to the wall. I’ve touched all of them. Does that make us family? What more is family than a promise and a personal touch?

Whether a unified collective or a collection of strangers, the madding crowd will be watching me. Maybe they are my god.  

Blueprints

Blueprints

It was a world where everything was square. Buildings were cubes, trees were cubes, wheels were smaller cubes, squares were squares and people were rectangles. 

They lived their whole life in a square society. Things were either in or out, knowledge could be categorized or it was not, everything was put in boxes.

The pyramids were square. The messiah of the rectangle people was crushed by a giant square boulder. Thus the symbol of piety was a square. The notion “god is in everything” was easy to argue in this world.

We see inside the square that is Hector’s house. The fridge, the washing machine, the chairs and the table are only to be distinguished from one another by size, color and buttons. Hector was an innovator of sorts.

He worked for the department of geometry development. He made equations. The department had a rule that no mathematical equation should ever result in any other shape than a square. 

Hector had known Pythagoras, the poor colleague that invented the triangle. At the court of many sides, he was found guilty of treason and additionally charged with witchcraft, when he claimed that two triangles would make a square. They forced him to count  the sides of the triangle, it was on national television. His execution was too. 

Hector had had a long day at the office. He took his square glasses off and put them on the blue square with stars, indicating its purpose as a nightstand. To avoid confusion as to which cube served which purpose, the colors and patterns had been dictated by law. Imagine someone putting down his glasses on a chair!

Not that there was anyone to sit on his glasses. Hector had always been alone. Not lonely, mind you. He was content with his own thoughts. He thought in many more shapes and colors than the outside world would allow.

Sometimes at night, he would sit under his blanket with a box of crayons. Inside of the box was an envelope with very small pieces of paper. On each he tried to reinvent the world.There were bright yellow circles, with arrows coming out and red numbers scribbled on the side. Purple hexagons, gradual slopes, bent lines. Hector drew and drew. Every night he drew. If an envelope was full, he would put it under the cube that was his wardrobe. At first, this was not visible, but as the years went on, the wardrobe slowly rose.

In the morning, he took his rectangular suitcase and wandered through the shoebox town. Pigeons pecked at some crumbs. The sun was a huge fiery cube. He walked through the gates of the geometry department. The receptionist was very skinny, she looked like a ruler. She cheerfully greeted him. He did not pay her any attention. Elevator, 17^th floor, 344^th cubicle. He had no assignments so he sat down on his square chair. He looked at the snow on his monitor. It probably was not plugged in right. 

When Florence walked in, Hector had just drawn a few squares with some squiggly numbers on its sides. Hector thought about saying, how can I help you. He did not. Florence said, I start working today. I was told this was my office. Hector said, that is a mistake, but 345 is empty. Florence smiled and walked out. Then he walked back in, saying would you want to have lunch together?

Hector sketched increasingly wild. His equations were surpassing the 3^rd dimension when we met him. Now we are well into his grey years. He was retired now. He was working on the 14^th dimension. He was so old that he had to sketch at his table. The doorbell rang. It is open, Hector shouted. Florence walked in. I start living here today and I believe this is my house, he joked. Witty as ever. Florence had become a very fine old man. His jaw square, his beard strong, his shoulders broad. Hector always enjoyed his company. 

Florence picked up a paper and inspected it. What vibrant colors, and these incredible shapes! I cannot believe what I see. Hector got up slowly and took his hand. Florence, listen to me. Do not be afraid of what you just saw. You need to believe me when I say that we are turning our backs to the world that could be. We are only allowed to live in the world as it is. Hector took the papers and showed him. His eyes lit up. This is what we are told to ignore. We could be exploring dimensions. 

Florence left early that night. He forgot his coat. Hector carefully draped it over his fridge, Florence could pick it up tomorrow. He felt uneasy. He wrote a letter to Florence: I always cared for you. If something happens, send all the envelopes under my wardrobe to the department. Maybe someone will understand. 

The furniture was thrown about. Signs of struggle everywhere. Florence stepped over a chair. The fridge was still in place. On it, his coat. He slipped it on, opened the fridge and drank some juice out of the box. He found the letter in his pocket and read it. He found a bag and started filling it with envelopes. Florence left the house with three bags and one bag with the contents of the fridge. 

He watched national television, or tried to. He had to pinch himself. Only the cat was watching him. Florence flipped through the drawings. He smelled the chalk, touched the paper, licked a corner.

Later he counted his stamps. Who has 145 stamps at home. Would it be suspicious to buy that many stamps. He could not possibly put all the envelopes in the same mailbox. What was his distribution plan. 

When it was pitch black outside, he went into his garden and grabbed a rusty square barrel. The envelopes fit in one try. He reached for his matches, touched the letter. Florence read it and lit it. The fire burned for four hours. The chalk stained the flames and made them cry.