Friends, there are times-- yes, there are times--when it seems libido and thanatos measure out in flawless harmony and the crooked, absurd life-machine seems if only by an illusion to be in order; when you are made impetuous by the "mad-fit" of inspiration. The Russians for all their black humor have two things which are sacred and never mocked, mother and hope. I am relieved to say at that I have given up on neither.
Ok. So its been said here that Melkweg "SuperRauw" was presumably the night of nights in Amsterdam so far, but now a pareil if not exceeding case has manifested itself in the form of Museumnacht.
I didn't know about the event until a friend of mine, Wouter, mentioned it in passing. With something like 20,000 tickets dedicated to the night it still sells out every year. The idea is this; you pay 17.50 euro to go to any of the 43 museums in Amsterdam; this includes your Metro faires and a free-anytime ticket to any one of them. The kicker? They're open from 7pm to about 2 when a host of afterparties spring up all around the city until 5 and your ticket also discounts your entry to these venues.
Like Communism, it sounds cool on paper. The real test began at 8:30, when I stepped off the tram at Museumplein; as good a place as any to begin a Museum night, don't you think? I began with the Van Gogh gallery (which I've been to previously) a great space and the single-best museum of the Nuenen expatriate. Coat check was free and drinks were served at a bar on the first floor. The place was packed to the brim. I was dressed in quintiessential curator garb; collared floral-print shirt buttoned to the top, a wool Ivy-league sweater, some slacks and the piece d'resistance were some superfluous glasses I borrowed from a friend. This is actually my alter-ego, French art critic Henri, who has no taste for the ordinary strokes of Van Gogh or the dull, humanistic and kitsch-like offerings of impressionism. To him, everything is concerned with the sexual; he is a disciple not only of Foucault but of Barthes. He would sooner take a shit than waste a second of his life in front of a "masterpiece" such as "Bedroom at Arles" I Grabbed a beer and milled about pretensiously listening to the reverberating sounds of the rock/hip-hop band on the ground floor.
I met Wouter as well as about six other groups of friends in passing at this museum. What odd pretenses to meet someone, over a beer at the Van Gogh in the middle of the night. I'm still convinced I don't see most of my friends in the light of day or whilst sober.
Van Gogh was good and for Hania and her friend Gaurav who was in Amsterdam for the weekend, both had the guided tour from Henri, it must have been a hysterical time. Poor Van Gogh. To Henri, the slicing of an ear is only a self-righteous publicity stunt "Why would he need zeese... how do you call dis part of uh, ze body? oh ze eeir-- why would he need such an eeire; it is nawt as if he was... listening to de--de-- divine vord of bon au'rt," and Vincent's suicide stems only from a martyristic incapablity to sell any of his paintings.
Whilst method-acting, I got a sudden tap on the shoulder from some of Wouter's friends I had met earlier that week, Sophia, a fellow German. She was there with her cousin who was in town and some French girl whose name I can't remember... for the remaineder of the night I dropped Henri.
All of us left for the Rijksmuseum, sidetailed immediately by the Diamond Museum. Outside was a huge banner with what appeared to be an primeval human skull covered completely in diamonds, clearly a satire on Hirst. But I wanted to see it so we went in. It was phenomenally boring, the age of the crowd at least double that at Van Gogh. Instead of a bar, all kinds of little and velvet cakish delicacies--pink, baby blue-- were offered along with cocktails and margaritas. We didn't even see the damned skull. In the guest book I made clear my dissatisfaction, drawing a behemoth diamond with gore dripping from its edges; "The blood is on your hands.......literally," I wrote in bold with a picture of a ring nearby, then at Wouter's behest went on to critique the other entries in the guestbook with red pen, leaving comments such as "Underdeveloped... your thesis was not clear to me" "Misspelling" "Be more specific. Are you grateful to the museum or your family?" "Citation?" "Could use some more drafting. I think the intent is good but this is a long way from finished."
We scurry out toward the Rijksmuseum making our way through the night into the shadow of the towering facade of the Dutch Gilded Age. The line to this place is out the courtyard and then wrapping around a fence, maybe two hundred heads in all. We ask a man near the gate how long he's been waiting. Seven minutes. Not so bad, it's moving, so we drink a bottle of wine between us then join in. Chain smoking in line, I catch up with Sofia. The running joke is that every time we meet, someone brings up the show "How I Met Your Mother," which really, isn't even all that big in the states but all Europeans love it as a rule. While we're chatting she realizes that she's lost a glove. Its not in her bag, nor her coat so I go with her and her cousin back to near where she's parked her bike. Even with my cellphone flashlight its so dark that I can't discern the ground. Every fallen leaf looks remarkably like a glove.
"Maybe its in the Diamond museum."
"You're such a gentleman, Taylor," her cousin says and I'm surprised that she knows my name because as is clear, I still don't remember hers.
"I like to think chivalry isn't quite dead." No, its just sexist.
Its not in the museum but at least we're not in that wretched line, Wouter and gang holding our spots. There are of course the questions from her cousin about where I'm from, what I do. Neither of which is any easy answer. She's never been to Chicago so we're basically still at square one after the conversation.
Back in line I try to light a cigarette with a tiki torch, but quickly abandon the prospect after a failed, albeit heated effort. I don't know why we didn't drink the wine in line but you know of course what they say about hindsight. A fashion show may be in the works for us, its 10:30 now and goes to 11. A fashion show at the Rijksmuseum? We learn within moments from someone in line that it was cancelled. Then why are you standing in line?
Ik bericht, "Anyone here that is a tourist please remove yourself from the line and move along... we are trying to accomodate the natives on this lovely museum night."
The French girl laughs, "Shouldn't it be the other way around, the Dutch have all year to see it."
"...True. Anyone here that is a native please remove yourself from the line and go along your business. We are trying to accomodate those who don't have so many chances to see this lovely museum night."
Some glances, lowered brows but no reaction. Sofia asks me if I know any German and I admit that I don't. Only from librettos. I cite the infamous Erlkönig and all three of them know it by heart but it launches the debate about whether Schubert is German or Austrian. Not that it matters but I won this debate the day after.
This is already third museum and I have yet to go to one I haven't been to previously. But for some reason, I love that damn place, its so choice for lack of a better adjective. The Dutch Masters knew what was up. Even though this museum has been under notorious, comprehensive renovation the paintings that are there play like a greatest hits album. There's nothing not classic. Wouter points out to me a portrait of the illustrious PC Hooft, who we have so diligently studied in Dutch poetry. Numerous Steens, "Street View in Delft" by Vermeer and that picture of a goose as a shameless metaphor of the Dutch Republic are all there.
I walk up to Sofia and shamelessly try to brush her off,
"So... do you come here often?"
She laughs but is all-too content and bored with the museum, a true-life Henri.
"What's wrong with you? Obviously you come here often cos its like you've seen it all before... Oh, an original Rembrandt. Pfh. Bigggg deal."
I kid her in front of "The Night Watch" that she's simply too much of a refined intellectual for our tastes which she tries to play off.
We leave and make our way to FOAM (Fotografie Amsterdam). Every museum we arrive at different intervals. Wouter, Sofia and the gang all have bikes but Hania, Gaurav and I are on foot since I insisted on taking the ticket-covered trams. No matter, its a warmish night and there are so many pedestrians that you're never without company on the skinny canals. Strangely the foot crew beats everyone else getting there. Half a million bikes are locked to the bridge. The line for this place is the biggest yet and it reaffirms in me some hope for the human race because it resembles exactly the line for a night-club, even down to the bouncers. No ones getting refused, sure, but everyone here is here not for the drinks (though that might have some allure), not for the crowd but for the museum! A regular club-banger allnight of culture. Why don't have this in America?
The group slowly trickles, amoebically reassembling while waiting and by the time Wouter gets there we're literally at the door. Man, people were pissed about that. FOAM is using its own currency that night, I forget what they called it. But they made you give euros to get chips to get alcohol. I think this is so it doesn't seem like you're spending so much. Either that or they get your money as soon as you walk in on an otherwise free museum night. Charlotte Dumas has a great spread currently on the ground floor and as I'm walking up to admire a dog, I'm mobbed by a group of faux-Papparazi speaking to me in Dutch. Two of them rush behind me extending a collapsible white board and the other four are photographing, flashbulbs going off
incessantly yelling at me to look their way or strike a pose. The group and the museum looks on chuckling as I cooly, like it was the most natural thing in the world, slide into some modelistic poses. I still don't understand what they're saying entirely but one of them points up as if I could buy the pictures up there. Thanks. For that all too bittersweet taste of purchased fame.
A 1960s photo booth, a bar, a pitch black maze to navigate with a total stranger wearing a light on their head and of course all the photography-- conceptually this was by far the coolest museum. And it only got better. Sofia decided she didn't like her mojito so she gave it to me, the photo booth ended up being part of a piece of interactive art whereas not only are your photographed but there is a live feed projecting your stupid smiling face getting into position to people watching you from airline seats with video screens upstairs and those papparazi photos they snagged of me ended up being free, I just had to go talk to a member of the gallery about who they are and what's coming up. Smart advertising.
There were actually three or so exhibitions going on simultaneously at FOAM but we didn't get to see all of them, couldn't linger because there was a 1960s theme party going on at the Amsterdam Historische-- the fifth and final museum.
I must say as loud as they had that music, being DJed live, it was very interesting to hear these 1960s bands suddenly have the boost of sound on their original tracks that modern bands have the luxury of today. The basslines rattled the floor, the drums were deafening and chaotic and the guitar lines were crystal clear, anthemic. The place was packed and I think the real joy of an otherwise cheesy event was it made me imagine what it must have been like to see these bands live in their hey. Well, I won't rehash the whole night but here are some categorical champions.
Best Song: "Born to Be Wild" Steppenwolf- the dj transitioned into this one so well by replaying that intro drum fill perfectly over and over, I didn't pick up onto what the song was until the guitar line dropped but the crowd did.
Unlikely Hero: "California Dreaming" the Mamas and the Papas - that bassline is actually, somehow killer. and the whole crowd was singing, in guy and girl parts, along to every word.
Most Consistently Rocking Band: The Beatles - need I say more?
Good Song, Not so appropriate: "That'll Be The Day" Buddy Holly -it just didn't rock and roll, most people didn't pick up on it.
Honorable mentions: "You Really Got Me," "Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On" "Jailhouse Rock"
At some point I noticed Wouter was missing, wondering if he'd gone home I stammered out of the packed dancefloor and into the courtyard. A makeup artist is painting girls up like Twiggy. There's a bed on the grass made to resemble John and Yokos famous protest. Wouter is on a beanbag with another girl from our group, admiring a towering portrait of exquisitely dressed Dutch Marines. Its clear now that everyone's tired, no afterparty seems too appealing so we make our way to Spui Square and into a cozy Sinatra-bar whose denizens are rather older than us.
Testing Family Guy, we compare animal noises from around the world. Rooster, "Ree-kee-kee-kee." Dogs say "Bow wow," in German as well, it must be their equivalent of gezundheit. My favorite is bird song in French, "Qui-Qui," only the way a native speaker pronounces it does it far more justice, its like a soft little whisper-kiss on the Qs. We all poke fun at Sophia for ordering a fleisje, a joke of a miniscule beer, but she's nursing a headache by now which probably wasn't helped by the eardrum blowing volume of that 60s dj. The night winds down in easy conversation, How I Met Your Mother comes up, as if on cue. But its late, we've been on our feet all night-- you know the sensation of walking through even one museum, its so simple but so exhausting. When you've done five, with a dance party concluding, you're feeling it.
Bars closing anyways; there's goodbyes, maybe a bite to eat, then we're all off.
Poetically just enough; Wouter lent me his bike to go home and as he rode away with a friend, a junkie sold him another for 15 euro. That's instant karma. I've seen both and I think the new one is even nicer; missing a light though.
