I think back to 1979, when I was nineteen, living in a student's room in The Hague without classmates, friends nearby, or family. Only an old lady I took care of as job for the Catholic Family Care brought some connection to my days. Jobs were scarce in that time of unemployment, and although I was glad to have found something, it weighed heavily on me. She was as lonely as I was, but my pride prevented me from admitting it. Me, should I be dependent on a foolish old lady? Unthinkable! >>
>> One morning, she sent me out for half a kilo of Friso self-rising flour. It was so specific, so necessary for her in her small world. I remember how I returned with that pound of flour and how pleased she seemed. Afterwards, we drank coffee with breakfast cake (dutch: "ontbijtloek"), which she spread with a thick layer of real butter, a luxury for someone on a tight budget.
One day, I rode my bike to my supervisor in Scheveningen with a bunch of self-picked flowers. Along the way, I broke down crying. I cried while I kept biking. I felt totally lost. I knew that I was gradually going in the direction of madness. I left the flowers at the reception desk; with red eyes I quickly departed again. I couldn't show that I was even lonelier than the clients we helped, could I?
At home, I rarely had visitors in my room, but when someone came and I wanted to offer coffee, I had no sugar. Everything in the household I had arranged indicated that I hadn't anticipated any other human presence besides myself. The worst part was that I felt intense shame for that loneliness, like a failing individual. I felt as crazy as Vincent van Gogh and understood how loneliness gripped me. It was hard for me to interact 'normally' with people; I no longer knew what normal was, and doing normal didn't come naturally. I felt I had to hide my loneliness at all costs as a big secret.
At that time, I tried painting with oil paint for the first time. In February in the Netherlands, I bought the same bright primulas available everywhere. I had seen the bright primulas on the windowsill of my landlady; the fresh colours inspired me. They stood on a spotless windowsill in a house that hid a neat garden behind the ensuite-connected rooms. It was all so beautifully arranged, but everything in that room was bare and organized, alien to me.
I placed my primulas in a setting with a wooden chair made by my brother Hans, a skilled carpenter with the same love for stacking and rhythm as I still have—something I didn't know then. This first oil painting is still in my house. I know by heart: the intense blue and yellow, the wooden slats of the chair, and in the foreground, the wooden box made by my grandfather Jan P. Strijbos; maybe it was once his survival kit when he travelled for his documentary films, or he might have used it to put his photo gear in.
Even if I no longer had the physical oil-painted panel, it remains a precious door to the past, a silent witness to my quest for connection in my adolescent world that often seemed strange.
jezus erica, what a story. Maybe I am biased, but.. with a few sentences we are back in colors, history, atmosphere. And what a beautiful painting too.