Amsterdam,

As always when I am in my personal Buddhist prayer cell, that incomprehensible part of my Farang mind where my sub-conscious wanders to, dragging the conscious part of my being along, while I am freaking around with my paint, my brushes and markers, someting is taking shape on my paper, or wooden board, my mind going back to the past while

A ban on the Burka

                                                      Amsterdam,

Finally the Dutch politician yellow bellied sh*ts got their act together, goodbey to the infamous Dutch Knuffel Kultuur and a serious ban on the Nikaap, the Burka and likewise all bodily covering Islamic garments, that female unfriendly attire that hides the beauty of the female shapes, the carefully groomed hair and mascara faces from the public eye...

Hey beautifull lady, where have you been all of my life?

Welcome to the real world!!!

Boeven Tekenen at De Tweede Kwijl

                                                   Amsterdam,

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...  

Mrs Drupdoos

                                            Amsterdam,

Another drooling day, the Gods drooling from their sacred mouths, boredom to the max for those devine beings up their in their heavenly cloudy realm, drooling down on us mere human beings...

My mood has been rumoured to be in better conditions I presume while I watch the approach of Mrs Drupdoos - a Dutch nickname I have given to an old bag lady who often comes over to the petting zoo where I do my volunteer job, Mrs Drupdoos who hopes from a free cup of coffee, maybe a hand-out and a Gratis sigarette from one of my volunteer employes...

Mrs Drupdoos who gratulated me with my 49 th birthday last month before starting her litany about her Incontinent Problemen..."I loose my urine down there in small drops all day, Hans"....s*t, three times in a row, I really don't need that, not with this heavenly piss coming down all day, with all the horse manure and cow dung shovelling I still have to do...

Sh*t, three times in a row, wish I was back in Thailand surrounded by my female models, my Tv blaring away the latest Thai love songs, my tubes of acrylics, my artwork standing around at random in my New Star Guest House in Soi 11...

A thousand female voices

                                                    Amsterdam,

The very depths of desolation are no stranger to me, I have seen it in the heavily exaggerated mascara eyes of Third world sex workers with no local currency in the pockets and empty bellies, their guardian spirits on a life time strike, whispering softly from dank and dark alleys, promises of a sexual undertone to passing strangers from foreign lands...

I guess I have to follow the rules of this weird unfair world, having painted the heterosexual division of the world sex trade most of my adult life, having heart stories of what drunk first world males can do to undereducated third world prostitutes, from a thousand female throats...

I guess I will have to follow the complex rules of this new world where the Euro is on a fast track to becoming obsolete, a penetrable mystery that is beyond my Farang imagination where the assasination of the dough of an economic powerhouse could well mean the end of my self sought mental suffering...no more wintering stints in countries famous for their unfair sexual exploitation of Western males...or was it the other way around?

I still hear their stories while I paint them here in my house in Amsterdam, vividly remembering while I am in my personal Buddhist prayer cell, painting, panting and yet more painting, naked third world models, portraits in acrylics while their voices fill my Western head...   

The wish of an admirer

                                                    Amsterdam,

I did a sketch of this particular lady last year in one of my sketchbooks before starting on this massive two meter by 70 cm. wooden baord, uploading the sketch but never the original painting...

With an admirer on http://www.flick.com/ wishing to see the original painting the sketch was based on, I felt compelled to upload it as well...

This massive wooden board with my crazy acrylic based artwork hangs on the wall of the staircase of my house here in Amsterdam, for my neighbors and all my friends to admire before entering my appartment but most of all to inspire me to freak around with my paint every time I return to my house...

Thanks Andrés for liking my work, it is apriciated!!!

The Mad Art Of A Chaotic Mind

                                                 Amsterdam,

The title of this blog story seems - at least to me - perfectly fitting to my personality, adequately named for the way I am, the state of my house a living destimony to my day to day affairs...

Never knowing exactly what the outcome will be when I start my freaking around with my plastic jars of acrylic paint, my brushes chosen at absolute random, the details totally unimportant to me while I move into my lttle mental Buddhist prayer cell, my acoholic contacts from the Amsterdam streets and parks sitting around me while I stand in front of  a canvas, wooden board or drawing paper, they drink my cold to the touch beers stolen from my Frigo, exchanging their latest street cr*p while skinning up another joint, telling me about De Neger who lost his house after eight months of Pas DE Payer his rent, his dole money going into a bottom less pit called Chasing The Chinese Devil, smoking Lady Heroine more important than paying his Alquiler...

I don't listen to their weird sh*t but paint and paint wishing on a sub-conscious mental level they weren't here...the outcome you see in this picture, I guess they are there too though I seem unable to detect them in this piece of chaotic art.