PERPETUAL
PRECEDENTS
ÆON FLUX — PAUL GEELEN
FOUR
BY THREE
PERPETUAL PRECEDENTS, FOUR BY THREE
In 2014, P/////AKT invited Kunstlicht, a journal for art,
visual culture and architecture, to moderate their
exhibition series Perpetual Precedents. On that account,
three artists and writers, Artun Alaska Arasli,
Marianna Maruyama and Bart Verbunt, were asked to
write a text on all four exhibitions in the series.
Varying from literary and experimental pieces to art
critical essays, Kunstlicht aims to offer an independent
and critical reflection, and articulate a productive
framework for P/////AKT’s exhibition series.
Furthermore, in choosing this serial approach - four
times three texts - we allow for the writers to shape
their own approach in art writing, to experiment with
different modes, and to take a stance toward the
exhibition series. In October 2014, the texts will be
compiled in a publication.
The three texts presented here are on Paul Geelen’s
exhibition Æon Flux. We hope you’ll enjoy reading
them.
MARIANNA MARUYAMA (California, 1980) is
an artist based in the Netherlands. Through writing,
audio recording, drawing and play, she looks for
ways that sound and movement facilitate an understanding of position. Orientation and voice, specifically
loss of position as it relates to loss of voice are
dominant themes in her practice. She studied at
Oberlin College (USA) and the Dutch Art Institute
and moved to the Netherlands from Japan. ARTUN ALASKA ARASLI (Ankara, 1987) is an
artist, curator and writer based in Amsterdam (NL).
He graduated from the Gerrit Rietveld Academy in
2011 and won the Rietveld Prize with his graduation
project I Am Hungry. He had exhibitions in e.g.
Stedelijk Museum Bureau Amsterdam, Kunstverein
Harburger Bahnhof in Hamburg and 1m3 in
Lausanne. He currently studies in the class of
Dutch artist Willem de Rooij at the Städelschule
in Frankfurt am Main and runs the artist-run
contemporary art space Amstel 41 in Amsterdam.
BART VERBUNT (Oosterhout, 1983) is a writer
based in Amsterdam (NL). He is one of the
editors for the online magazine hard//hoofd and
co-founder of De Ruimte, a bar and cultural podium
in Amsterdam-Noord.
THE ART BECOMES A MACHINE THAT
MAKES THE IDEA
ARTUN ALASKA ARASLI
Despite its conceptual clarity and its “formulation of a concretized system”1 Æon Flux is highly polarizing in
its final emergence as an artistic product. Is the installation interested in an awareness of an outside of the
space of aesthetic contemplation, a surrounding of it? Is it interested in representing its object of choice – water
(ideally colourless, odourless, transparent) – in various concrete forms and observable conditions? In the light
of it taking place in a city adorned with canals, how site-specific is it?
A visual inspection of the installation shows Geelen’s construction of a controlled system that extracts and
releases water from the nearby canal in to a number of tanks with the help of pipes and a pumping system.
This controlled system seems to bring forth something uncontrolled: a mirage-like image of smudge that
is mutable. On the other hand, as the water branches out through the pipes into different containers with
different depths, the stark contrast seems to be this minimalistic cyclical process’ large amount of questions
that branch out in their own root-like structures in the viewer’s head.
“The idea becomes a machine that makes the art”, Sol Lewitt writes in Paragraphs on Conceptual Art.
It “eliminates the arbitrary, capricious, and subjective as much as possible.”2 I basically interpret Æon Flux
as feeding off on the premise of this statement on conceptual art and turning it around by making a taskabiding machine. And just as I write this, another question joins the already existing set: could this installation
be considered a machine?
The real question that interests me, however, is whether the installation could have stayed in its inception
phase and existed as a pure proposal, akin to, let’s say, a Lawrence Weiner instruction piece (immediately on
my mind: One Hole in the Ground Approximately 1 ‘ x 1 ‘ x 1 ‘. One Gallon Water Based White Paint Poured
into this Hole). I feel like Æon Flux is equally valid communicated verbally as it is materially. But, of course,
it is a highly subjective view and is an almost invalid ‘non-criticism’. I cannot help but keep my views on the
exhibition painfully short, having already struggled writing about it for over weeks now. Not because I haven’t
enjoyed it, but because the installation poses a lot of questions on the idea of circulation, the white cube
as a space for contemplation and the nature of conceptual art, but all these questions seem to me to remain
relatively rhetorical, leaving little space for other perspectives, despite the thought-based nature of the
installation.
1 Adrian Piper, ‘A defense of the ‘conceptual’ process in art’, 1967. It was first published in: OUT OF ORDER, OUT OF SIGHT Volume II: Selected Writings in Art
Criticism 1967–1992. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1996, pp. 3–4
2 Sol Lewitt, ‘Paragraphs on Conceptual Art’, in: Artforum 5, no. 10, June 1967, pp. 79–83
MOVE THROUGH IT
MARIANNA MARUYAMA
Water as words: what else can transport and deliver a message and at the same time be the message itself?
No need to reinvent, no need to colour in or fill up spaces, Paul Geelen’s installation Æon Flux surpasses
expectations by giving the most humble of materials our undivided attention. Refreshingly, Geelen’s work
doesn’t express a forced need to construct ‘new’ materials or disguise familiar ones. The strength of his work
is that his chosen material is almost painfully modest and at the same time metaphorically rich. His work is
clearly rooted in a conceptual tradition and has strong connections with Italian Arte Povera and Land Art.
These are just bridges to things that came before, but this is part of the appeal of Geelen’s work. It feels and
looks new, but his material is as old as the earth.
Canal water, filtered just enough to prevent fish from entering, is piped into the gallery, and circulates and
travels throughout the space. Routed through a system of ordinary household construction materials, it
follows a labyrinthine path, climbing and falling, but never dramatically, never urgently. It moves consistently
through plastic pipes placed on knee-height table props, and fills the room with slight gurgling sounds.
Propped-up grey pipes rest in an angled formation on grey-painted wood. Two low-lying, grey plastic-lined
pools hold the water temporarily before it continues on its circuit, moving towards a large elevated aquarium.
There is nothing spectacular, nothing colourful or glowing, and the strongest sensory experience is just
listening to the sound of flowing water. One can’t help but be reminded of a similar kind of drift at work in
Ryan Gander’s ‘breeze piece’, Airflow-velocity study for I Need Some Meaning I Can Memorise (The Invisible
Pull), 2012. In this work, Gander constructed a mechanism to generate a gentle breeze flowing through the
entire ground floor of the Fridericianum at dOCUMENTA (13). The value of the space itself is put into question
because it doesn’t appear to contain anything or function in a profitable way. But just like the chemical
iodine-contrasting medium used in x-rays to enhance the visibility of specific parts or paths, the best way to
see something is to let something else flow through it. In Geelen’s case, that material is water.
By making ordinary architectural structures — a water supply system — visible and turning the ‘plumbing’
inside-out, Geelen’s installation asks us to pay attention to our surroundings, our living and working spaces,
and even the condition of our cities. Water and electricity are always coursing throughout the floors below and
walls beside us, and radio waves and satellite signals permeate our beings constantly. Giving respect to the
mechanics of the system, Geelen gives us the necessary perspectives (from above, below, seeing-through)
to make sense of the workings, but without forcing the point. He offers these views in an unobtrusive and
undemanding way, letting us observe in our own time. Following the flow of water takes us from the front
of the gallery to a narrow passage behind a moveable wall and through a pipe that fits neatly into a hole cut
into the far back wall. Still, for all its transparency and modesty (the background greys, the clean gallery
environment) the installation is not in the least bit hygienic or controlled. As with Land Art or any work
relating to accumulation or deterioration, the sense of entropy prevails, so it’s not surprising to find small leaks
here and there. In the final days of the exhibition, algae have accumulated along the walls of the pools and
throughout the aquarium. Somehow touchingly, a tiny rusted pipe fitting has left traces on the gallery floor.
And here we can’t ignore yet another fundamental material in Æon Flux, the element of time. The title of
the show refers to a particular fundamental and cosmic flow: æons, in gnosticism are the source of all beings,
while Æon Flux is better known as the animated television series broadcast in the 90–s or as the movie of the
same name. Time itself moves in and out of the room, measurable by the growth of algae, and observable in
the slowing down of the water as it moves through superfluous kinks in the pipes, little hooks and curves that
serve only to cause delays. What remains of the work after de-installation is equivalent to what was there
from the beginning. Water flows in and out, just like the viewers or the breeze, and the attention given to this
temporal intervention will also come and go. Some people will leave foot-scuffs or a lingering scent, but not
much more. Geelen has left a small pile of inktwisser pens by the window. Might we also use them to erase
the traces we may have left?
Geelen’s constructions made of wood, plastic, and glass are simply carriers of the material message of water,
and the neutral greys and utilitarian design of the holding tanks and props further emphasize that the
construction is secondary to the canal water. So what is the value of water as a material? If we can manage to
attend to the flux of the water in the canals around us (the illustration Geelen makes) in the same way that we
follow the news, the weather, the status of a building being torn down across the street, or currency exchange
rates — a personal fixation of mine — we might better understand the spaces we are a part of.
To further conceptualize the use of material as a way to heighten awareness of a space, consider yet one
more example. Water, as a material is fluid, elemental, substantial and it recycles itself. In this text, words,
like water, are substances with a given value. They flow throughout, belong to, and are at the same time
independent of the exhibition space. These words that circulate in and around the space are not new materials
(type, text, print, paper) and they too form part of the economy of the show. Working for and with the artist
and gallery, like the water, they flow in and out of the work itself. As they inform and bring attention to each
other, this collaboration is between the words and the water. In a most elegant way, with Æon Flux, Geelen
releases his grip on the materials he has employed, and lets the water work as a dynamic and natural element.
THUIS
BART VERBUNT
Ik bel aan. ‘Doe jij open schat?’ Een gedempte vrouwenstem. Deuren die open en dicht gaan, gestommel, een
gestalte verschijnt achter het raampje. De voordeur zwaait open, het is Floyd. Zijn haar is nog altijd lang, maar
het ziet er verzorgd uit.
‘Hey Gerlof,’ zegt hij. Een schattende blik. Ik zie er keurig uit, dat weet ik. Hij ziet ook mijn koffertje.
‘Hey Floyd. Ik dacht ik kom eens buurten.’
Zijn ogen zijn matglas. Hij is niet blij om me te zien. Natuurlijk niet.
‘Kom binnen.’
Ik loop achter hem aan door de half donkere gang. We passeren twee deuren, de kapstok.
‘Hoe heb je me gevonden?’
‘Beetje rondgevraagd.’
Hij opent de deur aan het eind van de gang. Licht. Zonlicht. Tuin op het zuiden. Ik stap de huiskamer
in, knipper met mijn ogen. Lichtbruin parket, een grote boekenkast, oude banken die er comfortabel uitzien.
Een ruime L-vormige living. Open keuken. Open wenteltrap. De tuin is weelderig, het gras lang niet gemaaid,
Maya is koffie aan het zetten.
‘Hallo Gerlof, dat is lang geleden.’ Ze glimlacht, haar ogen doen mee.
Ik glimlach ook, maak een kleine buiging. Vroeger hield ik van Maya omdat ze goed was voor Floyd en
van Floyd omdat hij goed was voor Maya.
‘Jullie zien er gezond uit. En jullie huis is mooi en groot.’
‘Dankje,’ zegt Maya. ‘Wil je ook koffie?’
‘Graag.’
Floyd loopt naar haar toe, kust haar voorhoofd, legt even zijn hand op haar heup. Hij doet keukenkastjes
open en dicht. Kopjes, koekjes, suiker, melk.
‘Kom je logeren?’, vraagt hij met zijn rug naar me toe.
‘Dat zou wel fijn zijn, ik zit even tussen twee huizen in.’
‘Hoe lang?’
‘Een week? Als het uitkomt.’
Hij is even stil, kijkt naar Maya, die haalt haar schouders op. ‘Het is anders dan vroeger Gerlof,’ zegt hij.
‘Ik weet het. Het gaat goed met jullie. En ik heb gehoord dat jullie een dochter hebben. Ik ben blij voor
jullie.’
Floyd draait zich naar me toe. Weer een schattende blik. Ik kijk terug. Moe. Ik ben moe.
‘Ik ben niet meer op zoek naar avontuur,’ zeg ik.
Maya kijkt Floyd aan, dan mij. ‘Dan zit je hier goed,’ zegt ze. ‘Natuurlijk kun je komen logeren.’
Mededogen. Vriendschap. Liever de achterdocht van Floyd.
‘Dankje.’
Ze schenkt de koffie in, we gaan zitten. Ik zet mijn koffertje bij mijn voeten.
‘Hoe gaat het met je?’, vraagt Maya.
‘Wat heb je de afgelopen jaren gedaan?’, vraagt Floyd.
‘Hoe heet jullie dochter?’, vraag ik.
‘Het gaat best goed met me, ik ben gezond,’ zeg ik.
‘Ik heb gereisd,’ zeg ik.
‘Ze heet Sophie, ze is acht,’ zegt Floyd.
‘Je ziet er ongelukkig uit,’ zegt Maya.
‘Heb je gevonden waar je naar zocht?’, vraagt Floyd.
‘Houden jullie van jullie dochter?’, vraag ik.
‘Dat klopt,’ zeg ik.
‘Nee,’ zeg ik.
‘Ja, ze is het liefste kind van de wereld,’ zegt Floyd.
De koffie is heerlijk. Het is belangrijk dat er in een huis goede koffie of thee wordt geschonken.
‘Ik ga Sophie ophalen bij haar vriendinnetje,’ zegt Maya. ‘Laat jij Gerlof zien waar hij kan slapen?’
Floyd knikt.
‘Er staat nog bier in de schuur van mijn verjaardag, als jullie zin hebben.’
‘Ik drink bijna niet meer,’ zeg ik.
‘Joh,’ zegt Floyd.
‘Nou ja, kijk maar.’ Ze geeft hem een kus en gaat weg.
‘Kom dan laat ik je je kamer zien.’
Ik sta op en pak mijn koffertje. We lopen de gang in. Floyd opent de laatste deur, ik stap naar binnen.
Achter het raam straat, gracht. Binnen groen tapijt, tweepersoons bed, kindertekening aan de muur. Gezellig.
‘Mooie kamer,’ zeg ik.
‘Niks mis mee.’
‘Zou ik ergens kunnen douchen?’
‘De badkamer is boven, ik zal een handdoek voor je pakken.’
‘Dat is niet nodig.’ Ik open mijn koffer, pak het handdoekje, sokken, broek, onderbroek, shirt. Floyd
kijkt naar mijn spullen. Ze zijn schoon.
‘Alles wat je nodig hebt?’
‘Wijsheid, geluk en een schone onderbroek.’
Floyd grinnikt. ‘Die schone onderbroek gaf je vroeger niet veel om.’
Hij kijkt lang naar me. Zijn blik wordt zachter, hij denkt aan vroeger.
‘Wil je wat geld lenen?’
‘Nee bedankt, ik hou niet meer van schulden.’
‘Ik ook niet. Je hoeft het niet per se terug te betalen.’
‘Ik red me wel.’
Hij knikt. ‘Kom dan wijs ik je waar de badkamer is.’
We lopen terug naar de kamer, gaan in cirkels de trap op naar de eerste verdieping. De badkamer is
ruim, het bovenraam staat open. Tegels in verschillende kleuren. Badkuip op koperen pootjes. Louis nog wat.
Natuurstenen wastafel.
‘Als je wilt kun je je kleren in de wasmachine gooien in de kamer hiernaast. Ik zet ‘m straks aan.’ Hij
trekt de deur achter zich dicht.
Ik doe de stop in het bad, draai de kraan open. Er komt bruin water uit, ik hou mijn hand eronder, de
temperatuur is goed. Ik kleed me uit, plas, poep, wacht op de wc tot het bad vol is. Het water ziet er uit als
grachtwater. Ik steek er één been in. Mijn voet is nauwelijks zichtbaar. Ik laat mijn lijf langzaam in de warmte
zakken. Ik lig, ik kijk door het bovenraam naar de lucht. Ik denk aan niets.
Sophie zit al aan tafel. Ze staat op om me een hand te geven. Ze is dun en lang voor haar leeftijd. Al acht jaar is
ze. Wil ze met me praten? Zou Maya hebben verteld dat ik geen huis heb? Ze vindt me vast vreemd.
‘Hallo, ik ben Sophie.’
‘Ik ben Gerlof.’ Ik schud haar hand. Sommige volwassen mannen geven een slappere hand.
‘Houd je ook van spaghetti?’, vraagt ze.
‘Ik lust alles.’
‘Ik ook. Hoe lang blijf je logeren?’
‘Een week.’
‘Leuk. Dat is jouw stoel.’ Ze wijst naar de stoel naast haar stoel. ‘Wil je wat drinken?’
‘Een glas water alsjeblieft.’ Ik ga zitten.
Ze gaat naar de keuken en schenkt water voor me in. ‘Volgens mama is het heel lang geleden dat ze je
hebben gezien. Nog voor ik ben geboren.’
‘Dat klopt.’
Ze zet het glas voor me neer, gaat zitten, kijkt naar mijn gezicht.
‘Papa zei dat je een litteken op je gezicht hebt omdat je hem en mama hebt geholpen toen mensen hen
pijn wilden doen. Is dat het?’
Ze legt het topje van haar wijsvinger onder mijn linkeroog. Ze raakt me aan. Het litteken onder mijn oog
is een dun lijntje geworden.
‘Ja dat is het. Dat heb je goed gezien.’
‘Maar papa zei ook dat je veel meer kon dan alleen vechten. Wat dan?’
‘Jij hebt de mond van je moeder en de ogen van je vader.’
‘Echt?’ Ze trekt haar neus op. Het ziet er grappig uit.
Maya stapt de kamer in met een boodschappentas. ‘Je vader heeft hele mooie ogen,’ zegt ze.
‘Dankje.’ Floyd komt achter haar aan met nog een boodschappentas. ‘Kom eens helpen met uitpakken
schatje.’
Ze lopen naar de keuken. Sophie springt op en rent naar het aanrecht om de boodschappen te sorteren.
Sommige spullen gaan in de koelkast, andere legt ze volgens instructies van Floyd klaar.
‘Kan ik ook wat doen?’, vraag ik.
‘Nee we houden het simpel vandaag,’ zegt Floyd.
‘Vinden jullie het vervelend als ik kom kijken?’
‘Nee hoor,’ zegt Maya.
Floyds moeder is Italiaans. Hij heeft van haar leren koken. Ik ga bij het aanrecht staan. Zijn bewegingen
zijn doelgericht. Bloem, ei, beetje olie. Mengen, kneden, in de koelkast. Basilicum en knoflook hakken, kaas
raspen. Hij maakt de pesto met de hand, van de mixer wordt de olijfolie bitter. Maya roostert pijnboompitten,
wast de sla, maakt een dressing met eigeel, olie, ansjovis. Ze bewegen om elkaar heen zonder elkaar aan te
stoten, af en toe legt Maya een hand op Floyds zij, raakt hij haar heup aan. Sophie zit weer aan tafel.
Hij schenkt zonder het te vragen witte wijn voor ons in. We proosten. Ik neem één slok, zet mijn glas op
de richel boven het aanrecht. Vol, soepel, overweldigend.
Hij pakt het deeg uit de koelkast, haalt het door de pastamachine. Nog een keer, nog een keer, steeds
dunner. Nu zijn de gluten genoeg ontwikkeld. Het glanst. Hij rolt het door de snijder. Geen spaghetti,
tagliatelle.
Ik eet te veel, drink mijn glas wijn leeg, drink er nog één. Ik kijk naar Floyd, Maya, Sophie, zeg weinig. Floyd
zegt dat de salade lekker is. Maya zegt dat de tagliatelle lekker is. Ze kijken elkaar aan. Sophie stelt mij af en
toe een vraag.
‘Waar ben je allemaal geweest?’
‘Hoe zijn de mensen in Mexico?’
‘Heb jij de ogen van je vader of van je moeder?’
Floyd en Maya vragen hoe het was op school. Sophie vertelt over haar dag. Ik ben moe van de wijn,
ik kijk graag naar hen.
Op mijn kamer pak ik het kookboek onder de wollen trui in mijn koffertje. Ik doe het raam open, kleed me uit,
kijk in bed naar de plaatjes van de maaltijden. Ik lees een paar recepten. Kennis van de ingrediënten is
belangrijk. De geluiden van de straat maken me slaperig.
Wakker. Kwart voor vijf zegt de wekkerradio. Het is stil buiten. Ik doe mijn broek en shirt aan, loop naar de
woonkamer. Het is anders hier in het licht van de maan en de sterren. Het huis wacht tot Maya, Sophie en
Floyd wakker zijn. Het huis is geduldig.
De afwas is opgeruimd, op de hoek van het aanrecht staat de lege fles wijn. Ik open de koelkast. De pesto
die over is van het avondeten zit in een kom met plastic folie eroverheen. Over een paar uur zet Floyd of
Maya koffie, doen ze het stokbrood dat ze gisteravond hebben gekocht in de oven. We ontbijten met z’n vieren.
Sophie drinkt thee.
Ik ga op de bank zitten. Tien jaar geleden waren we op dit tijdstip nog samen wakker. De groep was
groot, we waren een familie. Floyd en Maya hebben geld nu, een groot huis, een dochter. Toch zijn zij weinig
veranderd. Ik ben blij voor hen.
In de slaapkamer doe ik mijn kookboek, mijn handdoek, de kleren die Floyd voor me heeft gewassen in
mijn koffertje. Mijn trui trek ik aan. Ik doe het licht uit, loop de gang op, doe de voordeur open. Niemand op
straat.
Ik stap naar buiten, trek de deur zachtjes achter me dicht.
HOME
BART VERBUNT
I ring the bell. ‘Can you get it honey?’ A muffled woman’s voice. The sound of doors opening and closing,
shuffling, a figure appears behind the window. The front door swings open, it’s Floyd. He still wears his hair
long, but it looks healthy.
‘Hi Gerlof,’ he says. An appraising look. I know that I look decent enough. He also spots my little
suitcase.
‘Hi Floyd. I figured I’d drop by.’
His eyes are milky. He’s not pleased to see me. Of course he isn’t.
‘Come in.’
I follow him through the dimly lit hall. We pass two doors, the coat rack.
‘How did you find me?’
‘Asked around.’
He opens the door at the end of the hall. Light. Sunlight. South-facing garden. I step into the living
room, blink. Light brown parquet floor, large bookcase, old, comfortable looking sofas. Spacious L-shaped
living room. Open kitchen. Open spiral stairs. The garden is luscious, the grass hasn’t been mowed in a while,
Maya is making coffee.
‘Hello Gerlof, it’s been a while.’ She smiles, her eyes do, too.
I also smile, take a small bow. I used to love Maya because she was good for Floyd and Floyd because he
was good for Maya.
‘You look good. And your house is pretty and big.’
‘Thank you,’ Maya says. ‘Care for some coffee?’
‘Please.’
Floyd walks over to her, kisses her on her forehead, briefly places his hand on her hip. He opens and
closes kitchen cabinets. Cups, biscuits, sugar, milk.
‘Are you staying over?’, he asks with his back to me.
‘If it’s no trouble. I’m between houses.’
‘How long?’
‘A week? I don’t want to be a nuisance.’
He doesn’t reply, looks at Maya, she shrugs. ‘It’s not like before, Gerlof,’ he says.
‘I know. You’re doing well. And I heard you have a daughter. I’m happy for both of you.’
Floyd turns toward me. Another appraising look. I look back. Tired. I’m tired.
‘I’m not looking for adventure anymore,’ I say.
Maya looks at Floyd, then at me. ‘Then you came to the right place,’ she says. ‘Of course you can stay
here.’
Compassion. Friendship. I can cope better with Floyd’s wariness.
‘Thank you.’
She pours coffee, we sit down. I put my luggage down beside my feet.
‘How are you?’, Maya asks.
‘What have you been up to these past years?’, Floyd asks.
‘What’s your daughter’s name?’, I ask.
‘I’m doing ok, in good health,’ I say.
‘I traveled,’ I say.
‘Her name is Sophie, she’s eight,’ Floyd says.
‘You look unhappy,’ Maya says.
‘Have you found what you were looking for?’, Floyd asks.
‘Do you love your daughter?’, I ask.
‘I am,’ I say.
‘No,’ I say.
‘Yes, she’s the sweetest kid in the whole world,’ Floyd says.
The coffee is delicious. It’s important that a house serves good coffee and tea.
‘I’m going to pick Sophie up from her friend’s house,’ Maya says. ‘Will you show Gerlof his room?’
Floyd nods.
‘There’s still some leftover beer from my birthday in the shed, if you want.’
‘I hardly drink anymore,’ I say.
‘Huh,’ Floyd says.
‘Well, suit yourself.’ She kisses him and leaves.
‘Come on, let me show you your room.’
I get up, pick up my suitcase. We walk through the hall. Floyd opens the last door, I take a step inside.
Behind the window street, canal. Inside green carpet, double bed, a child’s drawing on the wall. Cozy.
‘Nice room,’ I say.
‘Sufficient.’
‘Would it be ok to take a shower?’
‘The bathroom is upstairs, I’ll grab you a towel.’
‘That’s ok.’ I open my suitcase, take out a towel, socks, trousers, pants, shirt. Floyd looks at my things.
They’re clean.
‘Everything you need?’
‘Wisdom, luck and a clean pair of pants.’
Floyd grins. ‘You didn’t use to care much about that clean pair.’
He looks at me for a long time. His eyes soften, he’s thinking about the past.
‘Do you want to borrow some money?’
‘No thanks, I don’t like debts anymore.’
‘Me neither. You don’t necessarily have to pay it back.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
He nods. ‘Then let me show you the bathroom.’
We walk back to the room, walk in circles up the stairs to the first floor. The bathroom is spacious, the
hopper window is cracked open. Tiles in different colors. Bathtub on copper feet. Louis something. Stone wash
basin.
‘If you want you can throw your clothes in the washing machine next door. I’m doing a load of laundry
later.’ He closes the door behind him.
I put the plug in the bath, open the faucet. Brown water pours out, I hold my hand in the stream, it’s a
good temperature. I undress, pee, poop, wait on the toilet until the bath is full. The water looks like water from
the canal. I stick one leg in. I can hardly see my foot. I slowly lower my body into the warmth. I lie, I look at the
sky through the hopper window. I think about nothing.
Sophie is already at the table. She gets up to shake my hand. She is thin and tall for her age. She’s already eight.
Does she want to talk to me? Did Maya tell her I don’t have a home? She probably thinks I’m strange.
‘Hello, my name is Sophie.’
‘I’m Gerlof.’ I shake her hand. Some grown men have a softer handshake.
‘Do you also like spaghetti?’, she asks.
‘I like everything.’
‘Me too. How long are you staying here?’
‘A week.’
‘Good. That’s your chair.’ She points to the chair next to hers. ‘Do you want something to drink?’
‘A glass of water, thank you.’ I sit down.
She goes to the kitchen and pours me a glass of water. ‘Mommy says it’s been a really long time since
they last saw you. Even before I was born.’
‘That’s right.’
She sets the glass down on the table in front of me, looks at my face.
‘Daddy said you have a scar on your face because you helped him and mommy when people wanted to
hurt them. Is that it?’
She brings the tip of her index finder to my face, right under my left eye. She touches me. The scar under
my eye has become a fine line.
‘Yes, that’s it. You have good eyes.’
‘But daddy also said you could do a lot more than fight. Like what?’
‘You have your mother’s mouth and your father’s eyes.’
‘Really?’ She scrunches up her nose. It looks funny.
Maya enters the room with a bag of groceries. ‘Your father has very pretty eyes,’ she says.
‘Thank you.’ Floyd is right behind her with a second bag. ‘Come help me unpack, sweetie.’
They walk to the kitchen. Sophie jumps up and spurts to the counter to sort the groceries. Some things go in
the fridge, others she lays out according to Floyd’s instructions.
‘Can I help?’, I ask.
‘No, we’re keeping it simple today,’ Floyd says.
‘Do you mind if I watch?’
‘Not at all,’ Maya says.
Floyd’s mother is Italian. She taught him how to cook. I install myself at the kitchen counter. He moves
systematically. Flour, egg, some oil. Mix, knead, in the fridge. Chop basil and garlic, grate cheese. He makes
the pesto by hand, a mixer would turn the olive oil bitter. Maya toasts pine nuts, washes the lettuce, makes a
dressing from egg yolks, oil, anchovies. They move swiftly around each other without colliding, occasionally
Maya will place her hand on Floyd’s side, he’ll touch her hip. Sophie is back at the table.
Without asking, he pours us a glass of white wine. We toast. I take one sip, put my glass down on the ledge
above the counter. Round, supple, overwhelming.
He takes the dough from the fridge, runs it through the pasta maker. Again, again, thinner each time. Now the
gluten has developed enough. The dough has a real shine to it. He runs it through the double cutter. Not
spaghetti, Tagliatelle.
I eat too much, empty my glass of wine, have another. I watch Floyd, Maya, Sophie, say little. Floyd says he
likes the salad. Maya says she like the Tagliatelle. They look at each other. Occasionally Sophie asks me a
question.
‘What places have you been to?’
‘What are the people in Mexico like?’
‘Do you have your father’s or your mother’s eyes?’
Floyd and Maya ask how school was. Sophie tells them about her day. The wine has made me tired, I like
watching them.
In my room I remove the cookbook from under the wool sweater in my suitcase. I open the window, undress,
look at the pictures of the dishes in bed. I read a few recipes. Knowledge of ingredients is important. The
sounds from the street make me sleepy.
Awake. The alarm clock reads four forty-five. It’s quiet out. I put on my trousers and shirt, walk to the living
room. The light from the moon and the stars makes the room look different. The house is waiting for Maya,
Sophie and Floyd to wake up. The house is patient.
The dishes have been cleared away, the empty bottle of wine has been left on the corner of the kitchen
counter. I open the refrigerator. The pesto that was left over from dinner is stored in a bowl covered with cling
film. In a few hours Floyd or Maya will make coffee, they’ll heat up the French bread they bought yesterday in
the oven. The four of us will have breakfast. Sophie will drink tea.
I sit down on the sofa. Ten years ago we’d often still be up at this hour. It was a large group, we were
family. Floyd and Maya have money now, a big house, a daughter. Still, they haven’t changed much. I’m happy
for them.
In the bedroom I pack my cookbook, my towel, the clothes that Floyd washed for me. I put on my
sweater. I turn off the light, walk into the hallway, open the front door. The street is empty.
I step outside, close the door softly behind me.
(translated by Evelyn Austin)
Photography: Charlott Markus