The first ones you love.

It's an old story, not often told. Maybe this is because history, when committed to paper, is dominant and, tied to coersive goals to forge various lifehistories to one single story, polemizes about what is true or false, with a constant emphasis on the logic of all that is going on in the world. This story, (despite the dominance as mentioned above), which was carried by some few, has nothing to do with the logic of the written document whatsoever. Nothing at all. Still, it is not based on irrational or mysterious events, nothing puzzling which baffles the human mind. It has nothing to do with the psychological desire to understand the social life which should enable us to dominate eachother's actions or thoughts, now and in the future. So the story is a history almost forgotten, in which all events are blurred and faded to curious unrecognizable images of what once went on between people. It is shaped by the desire to watch the sun rise, by fantasizing about a different life, by longing for happiness, shaped by the difficulties of tracing the philosophy of life, by superficial thoughts about someone living somewhere, by philosophical thoughts about the world, shaped by images of whatever is possible here and now. Just ordinary things that accompany the very weird chain of events called reality. This story, however, is not real yet very realistic. The character concerned, serves to give shape to a reality which is force-fed to everyone as being the truth, and which, for convenience’ sake, has been accepted as reality; the shape put upon the stage doesn’t tell what the essence really is. And this is exactly why reality, as shown in this story, remains baffling.

A woman looks aside and l, the spectator, identify myself with this woman. As I stare at her I ask myself the question, what is she doing here, whom does she want beside her? Obviously I am conscious of the fact that I am confronted with an imaginary reality, one that does not exist. I imagine a woman that looks aside in a possible reality. In the story that l make up, I have to complete many code and sign systems that will allow the imaginary reality to walk in analogy with my experience. Thus history is discovered, an illusion l can not do without because l need the illusion to formulate my observation of the world to which l attach the word reality.

It is the story about a woman whom everyone recognizes. Therefore, it is not necessary to describe the way in which she appears to others: she is somebody and anyone can be this woman. The story begins, as so many other stories begin, with a description of a house, a room, a table, a chair... and she appears, amidst of all that is important and yet often forgotten. At a distance, she keeps clear of the world, in an inimitable way has she placed herself in that distance where details and peculiarities mix with the dark contours of life. And in that distant presence it is as if her existence does not depend on time: her life is not influenced by the changing circumstances of the moment because she is the entourage, the background and the foreground all in one. She is absorbed in herself so, as a matter of course, she does not have to look for answers to the countless, useful questions posed from the outside. But while listening, she is completely aware of all that is happening around her: while listening she knows the effect of words. Sound moves the soul, she is very aware of that. The church-bells strike twelve and the solid, iron ball rolls over the stone floor with an earsplitting noise. The people who hear it stand still for a moment.

The woman protects herself against the looks of others, for she has decided to follow a certain path, shown to her as in a vision. Accompanied by the sound of voices, shuffling feet, the rustling of clothes, and the soft ticking of cups that are put, accurately, with utmost precision, on the small circle in the centre of a saucer. These are the sounds that tell her what the world lacks and what it is that possesses her. She knows the desert and the naked roaming, yet she is no saint and does not want to be one. It is NOT the symbol of reality that is important... neither is the essence of which philosophers like to speak so much. Then, what is important? A question, all the same. There is nothing that is not important. She now starts humming. She carefully loosens the scarf wrapped around her head. She stares in front of her as if there is something to see on the horizon and looks for signs, in the higher skies of the dutch landscape, that can confirm her suspicions about a bigger existence. She prefers seascapes and river views because of the movement and reflection of the water. The sparkling. Her eyes fill and the scream that bursts out of her fills the room; nothing changes the motionless silence that predecessors left behind. She shivers, walks on and without saying anything, throws little balls over the floor which roll simultaneously, yet with a different speed, in all directions. After a while all balls lay still, spread in the room.

The journalist asked her what she really wanted (he couldn't think of a more appropriate question because he suspected that this life was strange to him) and in one breath, as if directed by a voice from outside, she answered him the following:

When an individual rises against a system (assuming that not everyone is forced to do so) it is necessary to create the position of the outsider which clears the way for possibilities of a personal, expressive language surpressed by conventions. Back to the source by means of a technical intervention, in order to trace the aggressive and visionary qualities that are not bound by rules, as the arts initially show. I am an artist (this came about by a concurrence of circumstances), I am a woman who tells a story and I portray everything that struck me, yet I can not use the language to distinguish between the different meanings. J am stuck to images that come to me through the eyes of others which is why it is impossible for me to appeal to language. I want to succeed in reconstructing links between isolated images of the arts of the twentieth century and in order to achieve this I developed a technical, stylistic technique to place myself in someone else's position which allows me to see the world in the same way as it appears to others. From technique to myth.

Then, for a long while, she remained silent. So did the journalist. She began to talk in a clear voice about a dark people, that lives in the hearts of passionate human beings; about dreams she had in which everything is real and where there is no desire to discriminate between what can be and what cannot be described; about the storm raging across the land which will turn to music when a new day breaks; about white feet in the sand. To live in the wild, moving as in a vision... All this was said with conviction. The journalist was silent, unable to grasp the myth she was talking about; he couldn't make sense of it in his familiar definitions and critical adjurations that shaped his displeasure with the world and dealt with a reality which assured that a choice between good and bad was unavoidable. Yet, why was he intimidated by the dream? Was he afraid of it? If the woman, who became an artist by a concurrence of circumstances, could permit herself to dream, then why couldn't the man, who probably also became a joumalist by a concurrence of circumstances? Wasn't he sensitive to the rhythms and lilts in the behaviour of the human being to (re)trace the actual mechanism of the human spirit? Why did he keep on breaking off his argumentation? Both were conscious of their position; she the outsider, focused on freedom and liberation, he the intruder and activist, focused on justice. When there was nothing left to say, they went.

She decides not to go home yet, convinced of the fact that the irrational, dreamlike and barbaric elements of art have not yet entered into the rational consciousness and are - on the contrary - exploited by the expressive culture as unconscious factors to shock and seduce.

A NEW DAY BREAKS

Her hand rests gently on the hot sand of the desert, which covers the dark layers that are not yet touched by the sun. The wind blows softly over the sand and the sand grains fly along, causing a disturbance where all is usually as still as death. She notices that her hand leaves marks in the sand which, after a while, disappear as quickly as they carne. The woman smiles and looks at her hands which she holds up motionless. There is peace all around her. Then, as so often, the room around her turns dark and now her hands appear to her as white nocturnal animals that, in a graceful manner, have to grope their way, not knowing what caused their movements nor what is ahead of them. They move in silence (the sound seems to have faded away) and very slowly they choose a different position as if they barely remember their existence. Continuously forgetting, being behind themselves, loosened of the past that gave them a destination to find that future moment that will, once more, set them going.

She asked herself the following; does art have to be contented with unarticulated expressions that always have to have effect and be concrete and therefore can never represent a symbolical value on an abstract and philosophical level? Or is there a system of significant images that traces ways of living that affect life? One thing is very clear to her now; images that are included in art proceed from an everyday and (therefore) unconscious observation of the surroundings which can not be objective and are mixed with memories and dreams. Due to their short appearance these images lack any historical background and are constantly subjected to changes in meaning. She now concludes that art possesses qualities that basically belong to a dreamworld because images are archetypal and do not know any historical reality (for there is no system of images that can be used as an archive); The actual looking at the chaotic and dumb world of things derives from the basic nature of an image which is still subjected to changes, and this makes way for the development of an imaginary communication between a human being and the world that appears to her. She now decides to go back home, reassured about what she knows for herself. Once more she looks at the plain and then she leaves.

First of all, the woman buys herself a pair of strong shoes and walks back home on the asphalted road. She feels people staring at her and keeps her eyes focused on the horizon. She goes as in a vision... She knows this and she also knows that she has to keep her eyes focused on that never changing line in the distance. She enters her room that looks as if she just left it fifteen minutes earlier. From this moment on she works on an iron construction, forgetting about time; not knowing whether one second or a year have passed. She works through day and night. The construction reaches from the floor till the attic-window, high above her. The pipes point in all directions and together they form a sort of geometrical spirit that is very rational and also almost spiritual. Spatial and temporary relations become visible between the woman, who is trapped in the iron construction like a prisoner, and the floor, the walls, the roof, the air which can be seen through the window, the objects in the room, the grass of which the smell penetrates through the open door, the plain, the horizon. In this full void, the face and body of the woman become a closed bulk, a rhythmic, mercurial space that comes to life whenever it takes on a different, concrete shape with in its background the immutable elements; the horizon, the plain and the air. The actual time gets mixed with an immense time. A moment, a lifetime, a century, a millennium. The relations that could have been made between those different spaces, remain unfinished and unsolved. This is disturbing. Someday the house will be demolished in order to move the iron construction to the big square in town, where people will come to see it, driven by an invisible force, not knowing whether they will look at a monster or a marvelous vision.

The woman looks aside, not at the plain, but at something or someone beside her. An imaginary figure who remains on the outside because she has a predilection for everything that has remained on the outside until now.

Irene Veenstra,Jebruari 1996, Eindhoven

Translation: Willia van Houdt, Nijmegen