WHO'S NEXT?
Someone playing the bagpipes.
Imagine. We are in a round building. Located in a beautiful spot whith no name. Built with precision. It is said that it is a pleasure to be here. A building: six views, six windows, six statements. Imagine.
The second window
It's been many years since it was last painted. Not a hint of daylight, opened occasionally - to bring something in or to take something out. Meticulously lined up next to each other, in pairs, waiting for a possible journey. Some freshly polished, some with a dull shine. The rest carefully stretched with springs and wooden moulds. One pair, still in its fancy box, looks like the leader of the pack. Presumably the pair off to the side is the odd one out. Above this mass - clothes. Hanging precariously from a wooden stick, bending beneath their weight. Bulbous shapes, lying on a shelf, in the corner. Belts and ties hanging from a rope, stretched across the door. The shoes win. They are the proud carriers. You can read everything from them.
The third window
Step by step you rise. A soft carpet gives you the sensation that you're wearing trainers. Fingers curled around dark, carved wood. Smooth and shining with the scent of wax. Up, in the left hand corner, a distorted window signals the imagination of the architect. A small beam of light is all that is allowed to shine through. A mirror creates the illusion of space, portraying a completely different staircase, stretching further away. I see music, a waltz. Descent is unimaginable.
The existence of an artwork is a delicate matter. Old fashioned, static, within spotless white boxes. You'd be fooling yourself if you thought they could compete with film, mass-produced products, bingo halls or dazzlingly lit amusement parks. Electronic technology offers such amazing views that the static artwork is quickly lost in the crowd. Ask yourself. Does the image need to be animated, or make use of electronic technology? Perhaps we should move the museum itself into the laboratories of NASA. It's as pointless to deny this development in our culture, as it would be to abolish 'static' art. Facing this phenomenon, the artist's duty is to take a stand and attempt to offer an alternative.
The fourth window
Four comfortable chairs, gathered behind a pillar, covered in smiling cupids. To the left is a guest of some importance, judging by his shoes, face hidden behind a newspaper. Further to the left you catch a glimpse of a kitchen. Furnished with stainless steel appliances. The dark ceiling covered in atmospheric lights. Over to the right, a few suitcases, waiting, in front of a bar. In the foreground a small table with fancy cakes. It's difficult to resist the temptation.
The fifth window
Carefully arranged seats, row after row. Partly occupied by families and lone travellers. Luggage is scattered about - suitcases, trunks, carts, bags, you name it. A plain floor, and cylinders everywhere. On closer inspection they turn out to be glorified ashtrays. An empty counter. Above it a pricy monitor, showing times and destinations. There's glass and aluminium everywhere, shining. A cleaning machine with buckets full of foam. Blue suits, reading the Wall Street Journal, everywhere. Next to each chair the yellow bag, with the well-known logo, full of recent purchases. People double their pace on a conveyor belt. The frantic activity visible trough the glass. For those waiting a good enough reason to stay put.
With all this overload of information, the time to celebrate the transition of seasons is at hand. The treat is in the transition. A panoramic view - rearview mirrors, completely nuts. Colour shifts, everything is in-between, red no longer red, blue no longer blue, yellow no longer yellow. Start the music, everybody dance. This is not a party for the faint-hearted, those with 'Yes ... but', 'however' and 'nevertheless' need not reply. This is no celebration of the throwaway quote. No, it's going to be a party to celebrate change, a caleidoscope of colours. The party has taken over, frivolous merryment abounds. Who cares about how it could be, should be, or would be. Here, let the good times roll.
A carnival of shifting opinions, cross-dressing and masquerades included. Long live beauty, beauty back, better than ever.
The sixth window
There's a hitch, when we discuss the unnameable. People hate it when things come without a label. If it's without a name they bend over backwards to give it one. Having said that, nothing is truely without a name. Picture this - I created a brand new shape. You would not be able to see it. You could only see it after having applied the Cow's Principle. Simply put the Cow's Principle is based on repetition, slowly bringing about a transformation. It's not the cow that changes. It's the grass it eats, digests and redigests until, eventually, milk is produced. The same principle applies to visual art. The strength of a brand new gesture enhances with repetition. The odd thing is that repetition is key to giving the unnameable its power, at the same time acquiring a name. Having said that, unnameability is just another word, and as such a name. It's nothing more than a flashlight illuminating something in the dark. It definitely is not the glowing Stone of Wisdom, if there ever was a glowing Stone of Wisdom. It's not about names, interpretations, or identifications. It's about change, about balancing. A juggler on a tight rope, preferably without a balancing pole.
The first window
Outside. A storm rages. Streetlights in the air, equidistant, lit but obscure. A mysterious glow announces the transition from day to night. Dusky skies, the sea a picture of chaos. Cresting waves form the lower part of the image, competing with the tablecloth and cruets. There's even a bolt of lightning. The dark sign 'Sea View' looks like a ship in distress. Glass screens apparently waving. White houses, against a black landscape. It works every time. You feel the wind through your hair. Out in the distance, far away. The party is stateless. No place for Holland, England, France or Italy here. No place for nationalism. They're gone at long, long last. Those excruciatingly tedious exhibitions of seven - it always seems to have to be an odd number, doesn't it - Dutch artists in Reykjavik, or contemporary - because new is good - art from Germany. At the party, it's all about art. It's not that art has become so universal, it's far from that. It is about culture, time, colour and particular places. Hopefully people will discover that, sooner rather than later. Life's too short. Party poopers are more than willing to crash our party. Academics, Calvinists, fingers wagging, declaring our party ridiculous, vulgar, obscene and taboo. They will bring back Granny's kitchen, declaring it all right and proper. We haven't even got Calvin out of our system yet. That'll be the the transition. But hey, at least we're working on it.