I find myself back at De Tweede Mijl, that homeless centre in the Amsterdam Jordaan run by misguided volunteers from the Dutch hinterland where protestant and/or catolic convictions run amok in the zealous minds of small village inhabitants...three sessions a week of God's holy work in the big evil city and your inmortal soul will be saved from hell and damnation, no hell for all time but sweet eternity at the feet of their sacred Saviour while the Sadam and Idi Amin Dada characters as well as countless like-minded roast their buts a charcoal black...
I find myself back at De Tweede Kwijl - slobber, slobber, dribble, dribble, drool, drool...foul tasting soup and stale bread donated by local supermarkets, responsible for a nasty but persistent nickname - drawing hoodlums and alcoholics, junkies with serious problems with Lady Heroine, King Crack and super Numero Uno customers of the American Marlboro company, their CEOs living it up on Thai beaches, local hookers being supported by their fat bellied Farang sugar dadies who couldn't care much about the dark as hell lungs of those all around me here in De Tweede Mijl, or was it Kwijl?
I draw them with conviction thinking about my neighbors' four year old son who in his infancy innocence calls my hobby of inmoralising the outcasts of the Amsterdam society "Boeven Tekenen", drawing the hoodlums...
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