My mother had aspired to become a painter, though it never quite materialized. Yet her originality and intense gaze were evident. On Sundays, she would assist my brother and me with painting, each of us on opposite sides of the table.
The training for art teachers, located in the gardens of the Rijksmuseum, was timeless. It was the second half of the 1950s, as if nothing was happening at all. It exuded contentment. We studied Dufy, memorized the floor plans of cathedrals, and took trips to Paris. In our art appreciation class, Mark Kolthoff taught us to observe the classics. After school, we would paint each other or hire a model. It was a thorough education, emanating a sense of calm. In the world of visual arts, it seemed as though nothing was happening. No Documenta or major American artists were making waves here. At the Stedelijk Museum, there was Tinguely, another example of complacency. Art had yet to become a mass-produced commodity. Of course, this peace and solidity were a strong foundation for the profession, but it took a long time to break free from them. For years, I continued to make beautiful etchings – on a shoemaker’s press from the Waterlooplein – with the feeling that I had all the time in the world.
My first exhibition was in 1963 at the Anne Frank House, organized by friends as encouragement after a long illness. The opening speech by Dick Hillenius was about dowsers, who reminded him of artists, myself included. What is made visible is different from what is seen. The artist sees more than others – ultraviolet, infrared, or inaudible knocking signals. At the end of the speech, there were sounds of whales in the sea.
Fortunately, the romantic image back then – that the artist sees more than others, pleasing as it may be for everyone – is now a thing of the past.
From an autobiographical note (1989).
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