+ 21 - 12 | § ¶stc wand
Henk, mijn onderaannemer van KLIEF wordt 's nachts gillend wakker, badend in het zweet en met angstvisioenen van zwart/wit afbeeldingen en omvallende potten plaksel. Maar hij is wel klaar nu, ruim 200 vierkante meter wand beplakt met houtdrukken op reistpapier. Volgende week word er een pu kleurlak op aangebracht. Na lang aarzelen is besloten tot een oranje/ oker achtigew gloed. Volgende week meer....
+ 23 - 18 | § ¶brief aan mijn oud waterford collega's
Hi Guys,
I was in Johannesburg last week. I expected to land at Jan Smuts airport, but the name had changed to JIA, there were Africans sitting in my bus, what is the world coming to?
Rich Jo burg lives behind secured fencing and drives to shopping malls in cars that automatically lock all doors, hardly venturing out onto the street. The down town areas of Jo burg and Durban are ghetto like areas with gangs of gun slinging hi-jackers and rapists. Our -formally Russian- south African Italian restaurant owner was easily tempted to sprout his deeply racist concepts. Various factions tell us that there is no future for the white South African male. There is still major antagonism between the triumphant and the apologetic, the various racial groups dislike each other in various constellations With the Afrikaner in pole position: simply hating everyone, but at least being honest about it.
Another thing that hasn't changed is the consequential bad hair days the white male population suffers and the African ladies panic about theirs.
Definitely not a relaxed place to be, good fun though was my little trip to Maputo where the first Kentucky fried chicken outlet shouts out the failure of socialism, which is a real damn shame as the rich very obviously and conspicuously get richer and the poor get a lot poorer. And getting poorer when there is very little to get poorer about is no fun. Mozambique is definitely a place to monitor, good place to visit I think, there are some real opportunities now.
Also good fun was my visit to WK, I drove up early in the morning on a Saturday and the first thing I noticed was a little poster announcing the 20th year reunion soccer match led by Adrian de Koning....what chance eh!
I walked about the place a bit and was amused by how absolutely tiny and sordid the cubies were, and amazed at the size of the dining halls, which in my memory were huge and light halls with hundreds of massive tables.
I found the rancid messages me and Anita had scribbled in -then wet - putty.
The whole place has been painted in dirty pastel tints, replacing the cool crispy black and white of former days. It has become neater and more organized. Unfortunately I might add, as the path along the secret smoking trail to seven for instance is now paved and lit. Ma popes road too is paved and full of housing.
Swaziland itself is definitely a play Mobil country it is not for real, things are build and established along pre ordained concepts.......'sissy is a courthousi', and 'sissy is a shopping mall'.
Wk seemed small and insignificant, very isolated...what is it doing there?
the geriatric soccer team consisted of a lightly bearded Adrian, a chubbier version of sech Morojele, Euan keir with a characteristic mr. Bean aura, his wife Shiona and two others; Atul and Keith, some of you may remember from forms two or three. It was great to see these guys, all heading for forty, surrounded by kids, but hardly changed. Not being much of a soccer player myself I niftily managed to leave the task of being utterly defeated by a WK junior team up to them.
I'm off to Central America next week, life is definitely a bummer, and midlife crisis is really hitting in badly
Peter.
+ 17 - 15 | § ¶portret van Ijsland
Portrait of Iceland
I was riding this big jeep, full of GPS, GSM, ABS, dials, gadgets, gismo's and blinking lights, weighing more than 3000 kg and floating on massive balloon like tires with heavy threads. It would growl its way through the mud, snow and sludge. Occasionally sliding sideways, head first, into a sludge filled hole or crack through sheets of ice into a river crossing the eroded track. Using its 4WD and DIF LOCK it would howl and gnaw its way back onto the road or winch itself free using the other jeeps as anchor. The water which had seemed a gentle stream would bash against the floor of the car, become a roar, threaten to swallow the vehicle and carry it along the gorge towards the sea. To Scrape and grind the metal and plastic along the way against its icy sides. To reduce this wonder of technique to its barest parts and replant it into its bio-cycle.
Leaving the city behind, a sense of freedom floats around somewhere. There is a great sense of anticipation, I had seen it before. The tarmac ends, we hit the gravel and round a corner, there it is!
Endless kilometres of unbelievable mountains, grouching on all horizons in the wild broken clouds.
A giant orange sash in the gloom of the Northern skies over the icy desolation of the glacier.
A deep purple nimbus hovers over a dark palagonite ridge speckled with crimson patches.
Stratocumulus clouds streak feathers of icy crystals in the high blue sky.
I don't believe this !.
Against all meteorological odds some pink stratonimbus comes thundering across and through the steam emitted from a luminous yellow sulphurous precipitate where some mud bubbles happily.
This is a joke!
It is a complete orchestra!
Some Altostratus beams a friendly bright red smile at me.
This is Brahms meeting Cage with Wagner on drums.
I was asked to think about the position of Icelandic artists in an international context. About how a relatively small community of 250 000 can produce so many artist, many of which work abroad with great success.
I started some names dropping and note-taking on the Viking legacy and heritage system, where sons not inheriting land would go and seek their fortune in foreign lands, only to return laden with booty and success, and how this might reflect in the contemporary scolar, travelling abroad to return with valuable knowledge.
I looked out the window of my Reykjavic apartment, and there it was again; These crazy skies... clouds tripping insanely above the snow capped Esja ridge. This awesome brutal beauty looking over my shoulder.
The shadow of a cloud etched a face on the mountain slope, it grinned at me contemptuously. So I ripped up the notes.
Nature can mould people, the wind can chisel and hone them. The character of nature is reflected in its people.
From my window I see serenely wicked glaciers crouching over a brawling mass of mountains. Sweet fertile valleys spilling from a barren hinterland of lifeless rock.
Such a landscape breeds significance. Mountains give one a heightened sense of value. The wild and arrogant morning beauty induces a sense of quality.
Ones relative insignificance in the light of this natural grandeur must surely breed a fruitful base for art. One is left behind with the urgent need to survive ones death by leaving behind a reputation that will ensure immortality.
It makes you want to make the most beautiful thing ever, it makes you want to change your life.
But something went wrong somewhere.
A weekend night in downtown Reykjavic:
The pubs are filled to the brim at twelve, there are bands playing, the jolly spirit of slight abbreviation gives way to solid intoxication. Toward closing time there is a vibrant unease, last rounds are double ordered. Outside, sex-starved nymphets roam the streets in packs, whistling at men. While the men in drunken stupor stumble off erratically and fall over, erupting in sudden bursts of violence. At three O'clock all doors close and a stream of rawdy hot and steamy humans pours onto the main square.
There are thousands of bellowing people waiting desperately for something to happen.