It’s strange not seeing each other for a while. I know there isn’t any other way, but it’s strange. I hope I’ll still recognise you, after the renovation.

Of course I think of you, now that you’re away, but it’s hard to say exactly what it is I think of. I have no words for your scent, or for the freckles on your face. Of course I think of our slow dancing, but I’ve already forgotten to what music it was. I remind myself not to forget you. I keep reminding myself, without knowing what it actually is I’m not supposed to forget.

What you should know about me: I’m not very good with the past. I forget the weirdest things, sometimes before they’ve even happened. What I thought when I saw you for the first time, what we wore on our first dates, what your face actually looks like. Sometimes it’s as though I’ve forgotten how to remember something. It's a strange condition, I know. It would get in the way if you want to become prime minister, other than that you can live with it.

But I’m thinking of you, and I’m thinking of how memories hover in our thoughts like large, flat brass works of art. They move to the back sometimes, and then to the front again, right before your eyes. Sometimes because you want to retell something the best you can, sometimes because you're cycling behind someone smoking a cigar, which straight up teleports you back to grandpa's study, sometimes because a dog barks in the distance.

Some images we don’t want to get rid of, and others we are unable to get rid of.

Most of my childhood memories happen to have been photographed.

It was Kahneman who taught me that memories are not flawless, if I recall correctly. Or was it Brainard?

Memories - like works of art - aren't photocopies, but subjective interpretations of the truth. As such, we are all artists. And when interpretations are subsequently reinterpreted, when the memory resurfaces, we are spectators of our own works of art. There’s no point in trying to see absolute truth there, these are interpretations of interpretations. And besides, didn't you know that artists more often than not fail to understand their own work of art?

I hope you remember me too. You may remember I’m more comfortable with abstractions rather than images, and that I mainly appreciate works of art as depictions of something intangible. I remember what I remember of you: the beginning of time, the slowness of perseverance, the great absurdity, abundance and bullets. I remember how I feel when I miss you. Yes, this is what I remember every day you're not here.

I look forward to seeing you again, to be reminded once again of what it is I am missing.

In plaats van je naar me toe laten komen, volg ik je vandaag. Het valt me gelijk op, dat ik deze kant nog niet goed van je kende. Deze achterkant (wat is een achterkant?) bezaaid met holtes die lijken op kogelgaten, op hoop dat niet kon ontsnappen. Een landschap vol kuilen en iedereen weet dat kuilen herinneringen zijn, littekens. Alsof de rook pas net is opgetrokken.

Beseffen: het is altijd oorlog geweest, alleen is de oorlog opeens zo dichtbij.

Het is opeens zo stil hier, in dit stil leven dreigend stil. Als tussen twee bombardementen in. De stilte verklapt dat Guernica meer is dan een schilderij, herinnert je eraan dat het ooit weer los zal barsten. Iemand op tv zei dat hij niet van vrede hield, niet van de zekerheid dat het uiteindelijk een interbellum blijkt. Je weet dat het vuur komt, alleen niet wanneer, niet hoe.

Ik kijk naar ons en ik vraag me af of het alleen goed met ons gaat omdat ik niet weet hoe ik ruzie moet maken. Is stille liefde de mooiste liefde, of is het een gebrek? Een vergeten dat het hoe dan ook een keer moet stormen?

Zo loop ik achter de vier enorme messing platen aan. Hetzelfde messing waarvan op precies deze plek, in dit gebouw, deze hal, tientallen miljoenen kogels werden gemaakt. Navo, goede kogels, dat moet je er dan bij zeggen. Hoewel niemand weet of er zoiets bestaat. Wat een onverteerbaar feit trouwens ook dat kogels goudkleurige jassen dragen. Is dat de oorsprong van ‘zwijgen is goud’?

Ik vraag me af waarom ik nooit heb willen erkennen dat we elkaar steeds ontmoeten in deze dodenkathedraal. Heb ik al die tijd je donkerte genegeerd, je niet volledig willen zien? Wil je me alsjeblieft meer laten zien? Of werkt het niet zo, moet ík mij toelaten verder te kijken? Ben ík het die nu dingen ziet die ik eerder niet wilde, kon zien? Wist ik niet waar ik naar moest kijken?

Het is date vijf en ik zie het lelijke en ik zie alleen maar meer schoonheid. Mag ik je nog eens zien?

Niet dat je er iets van geleerd moet hebben. Niet dat elke verschrikking ook positieve kanten moet kennen. Want what doesn’t kill you may very well weaken you. Maar als we iets hebben moeten leren, is het dat sommige dingen niet en andere dingen wel essentieel zijn. En de vertraging, die kennen we nu ook allemaal: het eindeloze langzaamaan van gesmolten klokken.

‘Gaat het nu weer over de traagheid?’ vraagt ze. ‘Daar was je in date twee ook al zo weg van?’ Ja, maar de traagheid is veranderd, de wereld ziet er anders uit dan toen we nog dachten dat corona vooral een pisgeel biertje was, toen we zo veel nog voor lief namen. Uit overheidswege werden Still Life en ik uit elkaar gehouden. Als een verboden liefde, zij mijn Julia. Alsof die vierde date er niet mocht komen. Maar we hielden vol en hier zijn we. Haar ogen zijn ontegenzeggelijk dezelfde, de mijne niet en dus de hare ook niet.

De traag is anders omdat we haar hebben leren omarmen, omdat we verder niets omarmen mochten. De traag is niet langer die van een vreemde, maar is van ons geworden. We weten nu allemaal hoe het voelt als de dagen niet opschieten, dat wisten we natuurlijk allemaal al, maar nu weten we zeker dat we het van elkaar weten. We weten het: voor de traag is eigenlijk geen plek, het bestaat voor ons allemaal.

Het lukt me. Ik dwing mezelf om langer stil te staan bij de voorbijtrekkende platen die als platte containerschepen tergend langs de kolommen schuiven. Jezelf dwingen om niets te doen. Jezelf verleiden door de onrust heen te staan. Het gejaagde hoofd bedwingen met de gestaagheid van enorm, meditatief messing. Heen en weer, in en uit. Jezelf overgeven aan de traag. De traag worden, ’m zijn.

Je beseffen dat alleen in de traag overvloed kan bestaan. Want daar in de traag is niet alleen veelheid, maar ook diepte. Nuance. Eindeloze schakeringen, smaken, geuren, tinten van kleuren die je nooit eerder had gezien. Tel de sproeten op het gezicht van je geliefde. Want wat anderen ook zeggen: dát is de essentie. In opstand komen tegen de verschrikkelijke dominante wervelende saaiheid. Door stil te staan, door traag te zijn.

Sometimes you just don’t know. I’m standing in between Still Life, third date, but for a moment I just don’t know. Not what to feel, not what to think. What are we doing? What in God’s name are we doing?

I just don’t know. And that’s fine. I just don’t know and that’s fine. Fine to feel lost for a moment, fine to be lost for a moment. Reconcile. Don’t immediately reach for your phone, don’t immediately have your phone in reach. Distraction is just a distraction. Let the tiny torment rather be: the not knowing, the stillness of life, the lost. For a moment lost. To then have it remorselessly roaring, beating, streaming, bursting, clashing, crashing, shaking and roaring again. Let it happen (it’s gonna feel so good).

Four vast brass plates, a beautiful mankind metaphor. The plates move endlessly back and forth and I see mankind. Mankind who gets up everymorning to make the best of it. Back and forth. That’s what we’re doing. Back and forth and I see Sisyphus, who was punished by the Greek gods to roll a rock up a mountain, after which the rock would roll back down and he would have to roll the rock back up again. Back and forth. And so forth. Every day back, every day back forth.

According to writer Albert Camus we should imagine Sisyphus as a fortunate man. Fortunately. Because when he sees the rock rolling down again, when he sees his own torment, he sees the absurdity of his fate. And so the absurdity of life. Absurd. And here’s the thing: by accepting the absurdity, the darkness of the world dissolves. By accepting the absurdity of life we can manage to remain courageous in this unjust world. That’s what makes Sisyphus heroic. See the absurdity of life, don’t hope for something different, accept it, reconcile with it, appreciate it, let it roar.

I don’t know. I don’t know if he’s right. I don’t know if that’s the answer. We don’t know. We don’t know and that in itself is a fantastic given. I see Still Life and for a brief moment, briefly, I manage to reconcile with the absurd.

The slowness doesn’t mean you can hardly see it moving — because you can. But when it comes to speed, things are different: they whisk ahead. So, when something doesn’t go as fast as you’d like, it’s a good exercise in patience. You might ask yourself whether anything goes quickly enough. Because we love speed. It’s a contemporary virtue. Rushing. Always busy. It’s held in such high regard that we often forget the beauty of slowness.

It’s the second date, and I succumb to the seductive slo-mo of Still Life.

Like flattened carcasses in a no-frills slaughterhouse — as you’d expect such a place to be — four brass slabs await better times. Not because they aren’t good enough yet — they’re already wonderful. But because things mature with time. The hunks have a fleshy quality. As if the gold-coloured hardness was once living. We do not know whether life returns, which could be the case, but with patience, they will become more tender, better, deeper, fuller.

Inertia has a power that rapidity lacks. Speed has a swiftness. Order before ten o’clock for next-day delivery. It’s like a live blog. Or a blazing shot at the back of the net. It’s mouth-watering. Yet I will always choose the chip over the screamer. With its carefulness that rapidity can never have. Or a quiescent caterpillar in a chrysalis before metamorphosing into a butterfly. These things can never be rushed. That which gradually gains beauty doesn’t become so rich and ripe at lightning speed. Which is precisely why they say what they say about Rome. Ah, slowness, with your beautiful resolve.

And yes, there is such a thing as love at first sight (Kaboom! Impulsive! Ravishing!), but, to be honest, this has little to do with love. For love must grow, ripen and blossom into something bigger than you and the other. Like meat, like fruit. Maturing is requisite. A second date to start with, because no love is more profound than dawdling love. Because, then, time can do its work.

Faster isn’t always better. Perhaps never, actually. This is certainly true of the arts: those who take the time to look will see more. It offers a moment to reflect on all the movement. The plates move back and forth, unhurried. Never again shall I say that something goes too slowly.

And then, all of a sudden, wham, there it was. Like a small big bang. We’ll never know what came prior to this, but now before us are instantaneous forces, unleashed at the very moment of their creation. Pancake batter in an overheated pan. Blossom. Love at first sight. Petrified in a flash. Irrevocably. The onset: it’s here.

The result: four flat planets. Fusions of the sun’s golden glow and the untouched disarrayed surface of the moon. The best of each parent, children of the universe. A new constellation called into being. A magnificent quadruplet, avid to be seen and loved. Look at us, they say, and we can do nothing but oblige.

Here I am, stood in the brand new Het HEM, face to face with Still Life. Between the rows of columns, four colossal brass plates hang vertically from the ceiling. Owing to the vast space, from afar they look innocuous. As they draw closer, their presence suddenly becomes titanic and there’s no escaping them. Their momentous weight and dizzying mass of incidental organic details are nothing short of overwhelming.

From up close, I see four ‘Zaanse’ steppes, every square centimetre entirely unique. Expanses with tracks, nodules, hollow mountains and a smooth rim towards the edges. Landscapes to disappear into – even get lost in. It’s a shame that in getting lost the emphasis is on the thing that’s lost: the way. Why not emphasise what could be found, if only one would stop searching? In that light, these are giant golden treasure maps as well as the treasure itself.

Face to face with this brass force, I detect an insignificant presence. Myself. Confronted with these matt yet generous mirrors, I am nothing but a mortal being. These four celestial bodies don’t revolve around me, just as nothing revolves around me. They do what they do, even without my looking. I’m of zero consequence to them. And that’s not a frightening thought, on the contrary, it’s liberating. Just think of the massive burden I no longer have to bear.

Vast stretches of emptiness offering space to just be. I imagine myself in a golden heathland, nothing but this as far as the eye can see. That which came into existence in a flash, but now seems it will never change. Nothing more. Just as the moon will be the moon, and the sun will be the sun. And who I am, I shall simply be.