Portrait

Portraiture often raises the philosophical question to which extent a (good) portrait says something about the person (in the sense of ‘soul’) of the portrayed, or just of the appearance, the outside, the mask. An appearance that is subject to change, highly determined by the moment and context (and the ideas that the viewer gets while seeing the picture) – and often even deliberately feinted too. The question to which extent it is even possible for a photographer to bring that ‘soul’ to the surface. Isn’t he - by means of pose, decor and light - at best not manipulating that appearance to his ideas (and hence his ‘soul’), and therefore having the portrait reveal more about himself than of the model?

How relevant would that question (and the ‘right’ answer) be? I believe that in the end it is more important that the outcome is a good portrait in its own right. For me this means that it provides an authentic image of a person, which gives the viewer the convincing feeling of looking into the soul of the portrayed, feeling a connection.

I come to these thoughts because of an assignment to make portraits of someone whose head is ‘extended’ with an object that tells something about this person. Well, that gives a certain element of playfulness because normally people don’t have something on their head and therefore have to dress up. As a model I took Jantina – my beloved who usually volunteers gladly for these occasions (a while later I played model for her too).

It is surprising how this element of play works out. It makes the session (but also the preparation: the choosing of attributes, the thinking up of poses) fun and relaxed. Playing – even of someone else – apparently brings people closer to themselves - and makes the resulting image more authentic. Judge for yourself. Whether these images give an in-depth view in Jantina’s soul I cannot answer – but it is for sure the Jantina I know and love.

The Attic

In the latter days of the old year I started on a new project: "The Attic". Towards Sylvester people tend to look back, and so did I, and this time even further back, over the years. I have more and more to count, and although that is a blessing, it also makes me feel as if I am getting further away from quasi the planet on which I grew up. The “Major Tom to Ground Control” feeling.

Once, when I was dreaming of becoming a poet, I expected to end before my fortieth birthday - like my heroes Hölderlin, Nietzsche and Slauerhoff, - in premature death or insanity. Comparable to how men in the Middle Ages assumed to drop off the earth when leaving the continent too far behind.

Hence I look back from this ‘afterlife’ upon myself and how I got here - and peel off layer by layer of my self-image until I reach deep into the dark side of my imagination. An experiment for which I restrict myself to a single object (myself), a small and sober space (the attic – metaphor for my mind), a single strobe of (northern) light, and a single non-color (black&white). Still, the resulting images express various moods or states of mind which I take on me, fitting them like coats to sense how they suit me, and foremost: what they do with me. While doing so, engaged in his evil game, my elder self returns to life, shimmering through shades of madness. À la recherche du temps perdu.