Arnoud Holleman
Amsterdam, Sunday August 25, 2019
Immovably Centred
Everything just chucked away. Subsidy handed back. A total failure. Fine. Well done. I’d like to know when you’re not going to be a failure. If you’re not. And whether I’m going to witness it in this lifetime. So vain. So weak. So lacking in backbone. I have to keep the whole show on the road while you just sit upstairs crying at your desk, your tears staining what you’re only going to scrunch up again any second and toss into the corner. On that laptop of yours.
Driving Miss Palmen
I understand why you want to be a writer. It’s better to be mediocre and famous than just being mediocre. But the difference between you and me is that I’m able to create a character of myself in a story I choose to live in. And you, I’m sorry to say, are not. That makes me a writer and you just a character in someone elses plot. And as for my work: The big misunderstanding about my work is that critics keep comparing the fictious Connie Palmen with the real Connie Palmen, instead of comparing her to other great characters in litterature, like Madame Bovary, or Lolita...
De Gids
In elk kunstenaarschap wemelt het van de gemeenplaatsen. Repeterende anekdotes, topoi, die iedere kunstenaarsbiografie hetzelfde skelet geven: hij of zij, altijd alleen; echt talent ontrekt zich aan scholing; duizenden geroepen, slechts een handvol uitverkoren. Veel of weinig talent, allemaal stellen zij hun leven in dienst van iets dat het leven wil ontstijgen. Kunst gaat voor kroost, reikt voorbij de dood.