No, this is not intended as a send-up of contemporary art.
Any resemblance to existing artistic communications is purely coincidental.
| I'm sure all of you are familiar with the little nuisances of life in the
big city, the minor irritations which you would firmly keep at bay in more
sensible times but which keep cropping up with such niggling frequency that
you end up getting carried away and start fantasising about writing letters
to the editor (perish the thought), participating in forum debates or, what
the heck, heading a political party, but it doesn't do any good, it's
useless to waste time on it and there's no way you are going to escape it:
dog's do on the pavement, telephone surveys, jolly investment tips, mail
shots announcing first prizes. The latter category in particular are
announced in capital letters, and it's only a matter of time before the
envelope will do just that: strike up an argument with you thanks to its
integrated voice chip. Is there no end to intrusiveness? Until now I always
found myself able to tear such envelopes featuring my name in block print
and announcing mega prizes to which it said I couldn't be more welcome in
half with the routine flick of my wrist, and that was that. Earlier this evening on my return home, I couldn't help but notice a golden plastic envelope the size of a small bin liner, which proclaimed me to be a millionaire. I do quite a bit of tinkering in my capacity as gallery holder, and I saw instantly that my usual offhand tearing routine would not have the envisaged result. Of course I did not allow these thoughts to permeate my level of consciousness, and so, in much the same vein as I tend when eating late to place my plate and dish with a sort of literary flourish on the VPRO guide 1) or the somewhat greyer and less illustrated front page of the economy section of NRC Handelsblad 2) (by the way, did you know that the black photographs on the front page of Het Parool 3) soak up heat?), by way of a placemat, having instantly appreciated the thermal insulation properties of the sparkling metal foil of the first prize envelope, I eagerly placed the dish with potatoes and cheese-sprinkled broccoli on top. Unfortunately I do not have the technological resources at my disposal to verify whether my assumption had been correct and the heat was indeed retained longer than it would have been had I used newsprint, but this was something that only came to mind later. The moment of triumph arrived when I needed to cram some refuse into a bin already close to overflowing. I was not in the mood to deal with any substances dropping off sideways and so, with burgeoning awareness, I grabbed the scissors, cut open the golden bin liner along one side and with a sense of relief stuffed my leftovers in it, to keep the letter proclaiming me to be a millionaire company. I then left the golden bag sitting on the counter for at least another quarter of an hour, for good measure. Occupational health and safety services, regional mental welfare institution units, ambulances for hurt animals: if they knew of the perilous moral circumstances in which gallery holders are wont to work, they would instantly launch an appeal to public opinion with stern warnings of threatened overload, not to mention the risk that they could reshape their acceptance standards along the lines of the model applied by contemporary young artists. |
Translater's notes 1) A sort of Radio Times (only smaller and in black and white), for viewers and listeners with intellectual ambitions. 2) The broadsheet equivalent of the VPRO guide. 2) A predominantly Amsterdam-based broadsheet. |