Meek Moments:
An ongoing analogue project that aims to zoom in on the small things and tell a story through a thick fog of nostalgia .
‘ Trails ’
Cropped from a Dutch-Kurdish wedding invitation that I was commissioned.
After looking through their vacation archives from Fayoum, they made it clear that a lot of the compositions they had taken, focused on this combination of old traditional timeless views and the trappings of modern day pragmatism (or, for lack of a better word, ‘trashiness’).
I feel like gazing into the eternal blue and a plane cuts through, leaving behind it’s trails could be the ultimate example of this juxtaposition.
‘ Sometimes You Get Thirsty ’
People often say ‘you had to be there’ after realising their conversation didn't get the response they anticipated…. I will preface this anecdote with this one.
One evening sitting at a terrace after a day of sipping beers in the sun, the energy was low and conversation was hitting a lull. We’d communally been on the topic of Dutch healthcare and complaining about ‘own risk’ and the ol’ ‘paracetamol prescription’ for quite some time now.
In a childish but honest attempt to rouse up some will to stay seated at the table I turned to my friend and asked him about his ‘yearly subscription’ of Zetpils that he is required to take daily “How was it when you found out you will need to take these forever, do you ever get used to putting something up your bum so frequently?”
“You know, it’s kind of like just drinking a glass of water in the morning…”
He paused, with what seemed like professional comedic timing, turned his head, made eye contact, raised his eyebrows and said:
“...sometimes you get thirsty.”
‘Cloudy sunset’
An ode to one of my favorite illustrations; Seb Agresti’s book cover for ‘Hear the wind sing’ by Haruki Murakami.
You should google it, it’s really nice!
‘ Gone Fishin ’
I’ve never actually gone fishing, however, my years living on the (relatively fish-less) Boergoensevliet in Oud Charlois have taught me that going fishing is not really about the fishing.
‘ Pandora's socks ’
We all have that (or are that) friend who keeps their belongings in a cryptic chaos. Sorry Ellen that I could never find your Allen keys when you needed them the most.
‘ Çakmak ’
Can Berkay, my favourite moustache in Istanbul, has been known to speedrun this city of 15 million people in about 48 hours with time for a few cheeky lahmacun breaks in between.
Çakmak, my friend!
‘ Comida De Perro ’
This still life marked eleven years since Dylan and I set off to ‘the continent’ with €25 a day for the three nececities: accommodation, food and alcohol. Often when arriving in a city the first thing to do was to walk around for a couple of hours asking for hostels.
(no smartphone or credit on our phones to give us an upper hand
over every other aimless interrailer roaming the sunny cities).
In San Sebastián we struck gold, the hostel we booked had sold our beds, but the cleaning lady happened to have a cousin with a secret hotel... a windowless living room, with three quarter sized beds propped on sofas, positioned perfectly for making eye contact with the portraits of the family members that most likely frequented said sofa the other three seasons of the year.
There is no sense of time and EVERYTHING is turquoise.
Realising we needed some fresh air, we headed out to the beach to rent some surfboards for the day and decided that since this activity alone was way over our daily budget, ‘future us’ will cut some corners and earn it back. Considering the cost we couldn’t bring our pale selves to get out of the water as the surfing-metre is ticking and received a deserved burning and side serving of sunstroke.
With our swollen faces we scoured the supermarket for the cheapest ‘meal’ we could think of: Pâté on Melba toast! We of course can’t read any Spanish and aren’t in the sharpest state. After not too long we found what we recognized to be overly processed meat, it withstood the shake test…
“I guess Spanish pate is a little different?”…...
...... “you can’t argue with 59 cents, that’s like a hundred grams each!”.
We headed back home. Upon opening it up and happily spreading the excess of jelly onto the dry, porous bread shaped crackers noticing the copious amount of meat chunks… a pleasant but surprising discovery.
“Wow, They really do make pâté differently here”….
In walks a Orhan, a german man, that unluckily ended up in the same turquoise fever dream of a situation, looks at two boys eating from a plate on the floor:
“Ahh man, it really stinks of dog food in here?”
‘ Angle Grindr ’
Koen, the most fabulous bike thief.
‘ Bitter-sweet-bal ’
This piece was an apology.
When moving to the Netherlands one of the first Dutch delicacies you have thrusted upon you is a portion of eight breaded balls of meaty roux. This drunken moment, late at night in the friture shop is essential and that last bitterbal should be savored in your working memory and escort you home until you hit the sack and let the dreams take you from there on out.
After 5 years of friendship I’d come to realise that Vitto was a latecomer to this ritual and I had in fact, unbeknownst to me, in a state that I could never remember (or be mature enough to actually apologise for… although I know fully well this probably happened) stole her first-ever-last-bitterbal.
Whoops.
‘ Not now, sweetcorn ’
I visited a friend in Berlin whilst passing through on a trip last summer. At the same they were in their peak graduation stress. It was a fleeting visit, a bit last minute and a bit too hot. At some point we were judging fussy food eaters and I realised the only thing I don’t really like in my food is sweetcorn. Sweetcorn itself is fine, with some butter on the grill, as a snack on the side. But it always seems to end up in the wrong place.
I was a bit like sweetcorn on that bit of the trip.
‘ Natte worst ’
A friend of mine told me a story that I can never seem to get out of my head. I will be eternally jealous of any CCTV operator that had the chance to witness the event.
Once upon a time… a long time ago when products weren’t suffocated in packaging and left in string nets vulnerable to the elements…. and the seven and eight year old children. Upon their weekly arrival at the Nettorama them and their brother, filled with uncontrollable excitement, would race down the aisle out of their mothers sight and pull the salty, preserved hanging fruit of the butcher down to their mouths and lick them until the description ‘dry sausage’ was rendered redundant, and move onto the next until their time was up.
Rianne is now a strict vegetarian, has zero interest in sausages and works on campaigns for environmental improvement. I can vouch that they have never been a fan of the rise in plastic packaging in the consumer sector.