A Tasty, Tasty Treat

Amsterdam is a city in which the old and the new constantly interact. Traditional Dutch-styled homes stand next to sleek, modern buildings while wooden rowboats float alongside luxury yachts in the city’s canals. For my final review, I explore how this duality manifests in Amsterdam’s dining scene by comparing the city’s frozen dessert options. Aside from the fact that both locations serve frozen dessert, the Haagen Daas ice cream store in Rembrantplein and the Ijssalon Tofani gelato shop in Nieuwmarkt have little in common. While I ultimately prefer one to the other, both stores succeed in creating a dining experience that appeals to their intended audiences.

            Judging from the locations and exteriors of Haagen Daas and Ijssalon Tofani, one can gather that the two stores attract very different customers. Located in the middle of a popular tourist destination filled with clubs and bars, Haagen Daas immediately positions itself as a commercial endeavor targeting groups of young travelers. Because there is nothing particularly local or Dutch about the international ice cream chain, the store’s appeal is in its familiarity. Travelers from all over the world recognize the Haagen Daas brand, and it is this legitimacy that draws tourists into the store. Ijssalon Tofani, on the other hand, has a much more demure setting. Founded in 1942 by a local Italian family, Ijssalon Tofani has been on the same street for the past 70 years. Unlike the Haagen Daas storefront, which has fluorescent signs and large umbrellas embroidered with the company logo, there is a quiet simplicity to the Ijssalon Tofani exterior. A single awning and Italian sign hint at the store’s presence, but the exterior blends in so well with the surrounding shops that only local residents would know to look for such an establishment.

            While an outside view is enough to understand that the two stores have different goals in mind, Haagen Daas and Ijssalon Tofani differ most drastically in the layouts and designs of their interior. Resembling the inside of a dance club, the Haagen Daas interior creates an environment in which young people can party and socialize. While there are no distinct VIP lounges, chain metal curtains and strategic positioning create private areas where customers can enjoy their friends’ company without disturbing other customers. Dim, colored lighting and pop-techno music create an upbeat and energetic vibe while sleek furniture and contemporary paneling give the store a sense of sophistication and class. Even before the ice cream arrives, the customer is so entranced by his/her surroundings that dessert almost seems secondary to his/her experience of the store.

            While Haagen Daas focuses more on show and presentation, the Ijssalon Tofani interior basks in its hominess. Small cracks are showing in the tiled walls, and the metal chairs wobble when sat upon, but where these qualities might suggest unkemptness to some customers, I found them more endearing than distracting. These “imperfections” enhance Ijssalon Tofani’s image as a wholesome, family-run business and give it a personal touch. Hanging haphazardly along the walls, faded black-and-white photographs show the store’s founders and their lives back in Italy, and a single whiteboard displays the dessert options in dry erase marker. Such simple and unpretentious touches create an environment that I found much more casual and inviting than that of Haagen Daas.

            Ultimately, my main purpose in visiting these two stores was to evaluate the quality of their frozen desserts. In order to establish some sort of consistency, I sampled one scoop of coffee flavored ice cream at Haagen Daas and one scoop of the coffee gelato at Ijssalon Tofani. On all counts, the quality of the gelato far surpassed that of the ice cream. The Haagen Daas ice cream was not as terrible as, say, generic gas station ice cream, but the dessert clearly lacked the flavor and richness typical of high quality ice cream. A generic creaminess overpowered any hint of coffee flavor, and the ice cream’s texture was so fine that a single spoonful melted before I had a chance to capture the essence of the dessert. The ice cream also had little ice shards that gave the ice cream a mass-produced, over-preserved quality. In contrast, Ijssalon’s coffee gelato provided my taste buds with an orgasmic experience. The coffee flavor had enough boldness to stand out, but not so strong that it overshadowed the creaminess of the ingredients. The stronger, heavier coffee taste contrasted pleasantly with the gelato’s light, fluffy creaminess. Most noticeably, the gelato possessed a textural richness that caused it to melt slowly in my mouth, thereby allowing me to savor and enjoy the gelato’s rich, lingering flavors. When talking to the server at Ijssalon Tofani, I discovered that the employees make the gelato one day in advance so that their products are as fresh as possible, and I certainly found that the workers’ care and diligence showed in the gelato’s overall quality.

            While I found the environment and taste of Ijssalon Tofani more suitable for my personal preference, I want to stop short of saying that Ijssalon Tofani is a better restaurant than Haagen Daas. When I went to Haagen Daas with two other classmates, I, like many other tourists, had a delightful time chatting with company in our private area and admiring the chic layout and decorations of the interior. However, for a traveler seeking a more local, authentic Amsterdam experience or for a dessert connoisseur, Ijssalon provides a peaceful, inviting escape where one can go with one’s thoughts and enjoy a delicious (and affordable!) order of gelato. From experience, I can tell you that the coffee flavor is a must. 

To Neverland and Back: Magneet Festival

skyline of the Magneet Festival

Attending the Magneet Festival is the closest I have ever come to experiencing a dream while awake. For a month, every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday from 3pm to midnight, myriad Dutch gather on a man-made sand island and celebrate life, in the form of music, food, sculpture, dance, and good company. The organizers of each tent operated independently, resulting in a patchwork feel. Magneet’s website elucidates that Magneet represents “the first crowdsourced festival of its kind in Europe”, going on to explain that it contains “no spectators, only participators”. I had absolutely no idea what this meant, but after seeing Magneet, it made perfect sense. This festival focused on the experience itself; every attendee would have a uniquely beautiful adventure, and this was precisely the point.

We arrived around mid-afternoon after a 15-minute tram ride and subsequent walk of the same distance. A series of colorful archways welcomed us, a view already worth the measly 10 Euros we exchanged for entrance to the grounds. The skyline included various tents, sculptures (including a huge whale’s tail and lifesized, whimsical wooden house), huts, a boat, and a huge teepee scattered randomly throughout the sand.

Camera in hand, I attempted to capture the colors exploding in all directions and forms around us, but soon realized the impossibility of this task. I found the passerby as fascinating as the scenery—a man in a giant costume passed by, as did a crew of about 15 men carrying a canoe over their heads. More people than not displayed face paint. We meandered past a vintage clothing store, a huge garden for the “kinders”, a bar tent entitled “Willy Wodka” and complete with cartoon Willy Wonka image, and a open air structure covered in flags, where the dancers included a barefoot twenty-something girl clad in a orange bikini, hula hooping in time to the music. We finally came to rest next to a huge rooster sculpture made out of wood reminiscent of popsicle sticks and perched atop a large sand dune that overlooked the entire festival. Our view—and matching audio—included a stage made out of old boxcars and scantily clad singer crooning out angry lyrics at the whim of a stick-sized guitarist. In every direction were interesting combinations of objects, colors and sounds, all clamoring for my attention.

Part of the set for the guitar show

After soaking up the view, we decided to explore all of the structures before the sun set completely. Absorbed in the ethereal set of a Jack-Johnson-esque guitar performer’s stage, I turned around to realize my companions had completely disappeared. After unsuccessfully peering inside the teepee for my friends, I heard my name. It came from the inside of a hut straight from the fairy tale about Baba Yaga—I wouldn’t have been surprised if this structure, just like the one in the story, suddenly revealed that it had a mind of its own and decided to stand up and walk away. I climbed up a set of rickety wooden stairs and snagged the last available plush chair inside, and quickly realized I had just claimed myself a front seat to a live cooking show—performed entirely in Dutch! We pretended to understand as orange bikini girl explained to us the precise order and methodology of mixing pre-measured ingredients. Mostly, we just waited for the moment at the end when she passed around a tin of the final product: a tasty frozen cocoa-powder fudge of sorts garnished with walnuts. 

We climbed down and ambled past a techno tent and a huge collection of porter potties, exaggerated by the accompanying sign with “STANK” written on it, pausing at a tiny tree decorated with green and orange strips of paper and tiny pairs of wooden Dutch shoes. A man standing beside it encouraged us to write down a thought or message and tie it to the tree, perhaps to inspire later passerby. After thinking for a while, I summed up this month’s state of mind, scrawled it out on a message and tied it to the tree, feeling more complete than I had for a while.

The sun had started to set, but the energy of the crowd continued to grow, perhaps inspired by the music of all genres drifting through the air from the various tents. I looked up and found myself in front of a station dedicated to the art of hula hooping. Experts and novices alike tried their hands at this graceful task. I picked up an abandoned hoop and swayed in time to the chill-wave music playing from the neighboring cabana. The motion instantly sent me back in time to middle school recess, and I marveled how these two versions of myself, separated by 10 years, could feel the same exact delight from something so simple. I felt like a child: utterly intrigued by every aspect of the world around me.

Time lapse of the fire-dancers

Bonfires had started in the distance; people huddled around them for warmth. Enticed by the image, we gravitated towards it. After gazing at the sparks, we grabbed some snacks and headed back towards the rooster, whose neighboring tent now displayed a performer waving around two fiery chains in time with inviting, upbeat music. It had just gotten dark enough that the fire stood out brilliantly against a starry backdrop. Two more entertainers quickly joined in, waving brightly colored flashing lights, also on chains. The quick circular rhythm of their movements created mesmerizing patterns that stayed constant for just long enough for me to acclimate before they would shift in color or switch performers.

By now most of the tents had shifted to musical themes. We soon arrived at a techno performance and laughed upon realizing the stark contrast it presented with the guitar show we had seen that afternoon on the same spot. Each round we made of the grounds, we now knew, revealed new structures, sounds, and sights, each as interesting as what we had seen before. I started dancing in the most uninhibited way I knew how, just letting the music flow through my body in the most natural way possible. As weird as I probably looked, this form of dancing felt much purer than the usual socially-restrained shuffle found at most clubs or parties, and I noticed quickly that, judging by the crowd’s motions, everyone else probably had similar thought processes. The most notable sound emanating from the music was an extended “ziiiiiiiiiiip” noise unlike any I’d heard before.

festival-goers, conversing on the dune 

Scattered between my experiences at each tent were conversations with other festival-goers. I quickly registered that as a foreigner, I formed most of a practically nonexistent minority. Perhaps because of this, the Dutch eagerly conversed with my friends and I, on topics ranging from the festival itself to spirit animals. Conversation flowed as it often does between groups of people sharing a special experience. When I commented that everyone at Magneet seemed happy, the tall man I was talking to proposed “show me the grumpy guy! Please!” and we both laughed at the absurdity of that idea.  

 Magneet reminded me of the beauty present in everyday life. Anything can be beautiful simply if I choose to look at in that way. Growing up does not mean that I have to lose the magic present in childhood; life should be marveled at and celebrated the entire way.

Magneet Festival: Kick Your Shoes Off and Enjoy

             When one thinks of Amsterdam, the first images that come to mind are narrow canals, windmills, and waffles – certainly not an artificial sand valley filled with life-size wooden castles, dragons, and cruise ships built out of found objects. At Magneet Festival 2012, however, these and many more surprises await. A month-long event in East Amsterdam, Magneet is an art, music, and food extravaganza where people from Amsterdam, Utrecht, and other neighboring cities flock on weekends. In its second year, Magneet (August 24^th – September 16^th) has blossomed this year in size and popularity. Reminiscent of Burning Man in the United States, it is a virtual playground for adults, offering an opportunity to retreat from city life and relax, dance, eat, appreciate art, and enjoy good company.

With a part spiritual, part hipster vibe, Magneet features various “tents” set up around the sand valley, each with a distinct flavor and schedule of events. The concept of the “crowdsourced” festival is that people can go online to an internet platform and pitch ideas for a creative initiative – this could be a sculpture, an activity, a performance, a musical set, a cooking class, etc. Ideas garner votes, and Magneet works with the artist to help create those with the most votes. The diversity of these events is incredible. While I was there, I hoola-hooped in the “Hoop Jam,” sat in on a baking class on organic raw cocoa chunks, and watched a flash mob of people dressed in safari outfits dancing around an inflatable raft.

In addition to activities and performances, the visual art is stunning. It is clear that each artwork comes from an individual vision, together making up a hodgepodge of personal artistic flair. All of the tents are decorated with the greatest care and creative thought; there is a teepee, a life-size barge constructed from old wooden planks, a vintage Volkswagon bus selling fruit shakes that is completely painted over with murals, and a massive dragon with a stand selling dim sum constructed out of the mouth. A half dome-shaped iron structure, draped with linen and fishing nets and with paper sunflower stalks nailed to the exterior, shelters a miscellany of sofas and carved wooden benches for people to sit around a fire pit inside. Sprinkled among the tents are numerous art pieces as well; these include a tower with pieces of paper for people to write and pin up notes to loved ones, a whale’s tail constructed from sheet metal, and a 20-foot tall parrot made of popsicle sticks perched on the rim of the sand valley. Apart from the art pieces, every aspect of the festival is visually exciting and features an artist’s point-of-view; the ticketing area is constructed of wooden planks stacked in a Jenga-like style and covered in colorful graffiti, the recycling bins are heart-shaped frames wrapped loosely with chicken wire, and even the entryway to the portable restrooms is decorated with vibrant fabrics, flowers, a tasseled lampshade, and block letters reading “STANK.”

At night, the musical venues are diverse. Last Sunday evening, some tents featured acoustic singer-songwriters in a coffee shop setup, while others blasted electronic and techno music. There was even an immensely popular band with a lead singer in drag. Even within any one tent did the musical topography frenetically vary. A circus-inspired tent on stilts, lined with tapestries and patterned sofas, featured short improv performances during the day, but transformed into a dance floor at night with music ranging from funk to Viennese accordion music. Because of the proximity of the tents, people can easily mill about and hop between tents, depending on the desired ambiance or what music each tent is playing. This creates a wonderful lightheartedness, as people never stay in one place for long and can take frequent breaks to seek out a different genre of music, sit around a bonfire, or have an organic cocktail.

The happy and carefree feeling at Magneet is palpable; it offers a total artistic experience, a feast for the eyes, ears, and spirit. One of Magneet’s greatest attractions is the people in attendance. Last Sunday’s crowd consisted mainly of people ages 18-30, but there were also a fair number of aging hippies and young families with toddlers. Each person had his or her own style of dress and dance, and nearly everyone seemed open to meeting new people and bonding over shared artistic or musical interests. Many people I talked with mentioned that they had been to Magneet multiple times throughout the month, and it is easy to understand why. Magneet offers the unusual experience of kicking your shoes off, playing in the sand under the sun, partaking in activities you haven’t done since childhood, dancing late into the night, and enjoying the last days of summer’s warmth.

Roof of the NEMO Science Center: An (Almost) Perfect Afternoon

By: Andrew Martin

            One boring afternoon, Brandon Ly and I were sitting on the boat trying to decide on where to eat lunch, when we looked up and realized that the NEMO Science Center probably had some food.  After making the long trek up the large (disabled unfriendly) stairs to the roof, we were greeted with a sunny, warm, and breezy afternoon.  We made our way up to the very top where there was a small café to buy food, as well as a reentrance point for those with NEMO tickets.  After buying some food, we found ourselves one of the many seats available and enjoyed the beautiful afternoon while eating lunch.  Overall, I believe that the goals of the NEMO Science Center’s roof is to provide a high quality space for families, both tourist and local, to bring their children for a lazy afternoon, as well as to sell food to tourists who are visiting NEMO.  NEMO’s roof accomplishes this goal through activities and spaces for adults as well as children, helping keep both parties happy and satisfied.

            For adults, NEMO provides an enjoyable space to sit, relax, and enjoy the panoramic views of the city.  Once you manage to make the trek up to the roof, you are greeted by tiered levels of seating all the way up to the café.  There are about 100 seats located throughout the rooftop, a more than ample amount to ensure that everyone can find somewhere to sit.  The tiered system, while necessary due to the architecture of the building, also allows families to have a certain amount of privacy when sitting, giving each family their own little space to relax.  After finding your seat, you’ll notice that there are hundreds of potted plants throughout the entire rooftop, helping add to the relaxing nature of the space.  However, the biggest draw for families are of course the spectacular panoramic views of the city of Amsterdam.  On a sunny day, you can see miles in any direction.  NEMO’s rooftop is certainly one of the best places to see the city of Amsterdam from above.  Due to that aspect alone, I would recommend that any visitor to Amsterdam make the trek up to NEMO.

            While the rooftop is a great place to relax for adults and parents, NEMO has also provided a wide range of activities to keep children of all ages interested and happy.  After you reach the top of the stairs to the rooftop, immediately to your right begin informational boards with massive pictures and text explaining interesting visual phenomena such as depth and perspective.  Brandon and I noticed many parents reading these boards with their children.  As you make your way further up the roof, you’ll start to run into one of several water features built into the rooftop.  These range from regular fountains to interesting canals being fed water through pipes hanging from the ceiling.  I noticed lots of smaller children playing around in the water of the fountains while I was there.  For the older generations of children, there are several oversized versions of classic games throughout the roof including chess and Connect 4.  These games were so popular that there were actually long lines of teenage children waiting to play with the three-foot large chess pieces.  The games also served as another interesting visual to look at, as I noticed at least 20 people of all ages observing the chess game being played. 

            Although many aspects of the NEMO rooftop experience are thoroughly enjoyable, they could certainly use some improvement on their café.  In general, the food sold at the NEMO rooftop was overpriced and bland.  I ordered myself a Caesar salad and what I thought would be an Icee smoothie.  The Caesar salad’s croutons were miniature and hard as rocks, while the Icee smoothie had far too much sugar, yet still tasted like cough syrup.  For 12 euros, this forgettable meal was definitely overpriced.  You could buy the same meal at Albert Heijn for 5 euros.

            Although the food was subpar, I would still highly recommend any tourist to make the trek up to the top of the NEMO Science Center, especially if you have a family and kids.  The panoramic views alone are worth the trip, but NEMO has also done a great job of creating a relaxing and fun place to spend an afternoon.  However, if you do decide to go, I recommend bringing your own food and having a picnic at the top.  There were not any employees walking around the rooftop, so you do not need to worry about being told off for bringing your own food. 

Lomographic Memory

Brandon Ly

The Lomography Gallery Store, situated in an unassuming white building on the corner of Herengracht, is an ode to the beauty of analogue photography. Their camera products, all visible moving parts and plastic construction, are a nice departure from modern technology. With so many touch-screen devices and miniature electronics permeating our world, something about Lomography’s physical buttons and wind-up film reels generate a nostalgia that outweighs modern sensations of taps and swipes.

            Upon entering the store, one is immediately struck by the juxtaposition of plastic and metal. Lomography’s many lines of cameras, from pinhole to fisheye to multiframe to color-corrected, are moulded from plastic casings and faux leather textures, a far cry from the aluminum unibodies of our digital cameras. However, these seeming antiques are displayed on pristine wood and metal stands with spot lighting; this gives the store a whole sense of modern luxury, but with a touch of heritage reminiscent of a museum display. I found it oddly similar to a modern Louis Vuitton retailer, whose leather-bound trunks impart a weathered history of both leisure and adventure, but are contrastingly displayed in glass cases to be ogled like specimens.  In fact, the dreamy, oversaturated and even blurry photos that the Lomo cameras capture elicit memories of old photo albums. Even looking at example photographs on display give a viewer a private glimpse into a life apart from our online presence and ubiquity of social photosharing networks.  These are film prints likely to have been made only once, that can only be held by one person at one time, which is a genuine effect that only can be imparted by film photography.

            This voyeuristic nature brings me now to the gallery aspect of the space. Aside from the shimmering and almost fetishistic displays of the cameras—which come in all colors and sizes—what also stands out immediately is the spiral staircase in the center of the store, whose adjoining wall is utterly plastered with the Lomographic prints.  This mosaic of identically sized photos captures family members, girlfriends, dogs, old homes, and more.  Are these from the life of one person? Or from the employees? Or contributions from passersby and Lomography fans?  --These are questions that the great wall evokes.  But it is the fact that these photos come with no explanation that reflects perfectly the mood of Lomography—blurry, mysterious, yet imparting a sense of familiarity and nostalgia that few products can do similarly.

            A further exploration of the building reveals a startling addition—that the shop is actually a converted home.  Travelling up the spiral staircase, I stumbled upon a living room that had been converted into a private gallery.  The store ‘s effort to maintain a theme of home works successfully in this area complete with sofas, coffee table books, and a fireplace.  The walls, decorated as if by a homeowner filling their house with photographs of their family and vacations, are lined with Lomographic prints donated from customers around the world, each with their own backstory.  It’s a quiet resting place to peruse other people’s lives while reflecting on one’s own, which was only accentuated by the fact that no one else entered the space while I was there.

            A house and a home are utterly different things, yet Lomography’s interior design as well as product line blur the boundary between what one can consider a familiar space.  Likewise, cameras are only a tool to capture our life’s moments, but the prints’ ability to touch a sensitive emotion place—home and family, are what make their cameras almost intrinsically like family heirlooms.  By projecting nostalgia through their photographs and minimalist presentation of their cameras, the store invites a viewer to contemplate their own history and seek a nostalgia of their own.

The Field and Fantastic Mr. Fox at Transnatural Festival 2012 by Kevin Chow

     

The opening weekend of the Transnatural festival at Nemo featured The Field and Fantastic Mr. Fox, two electronic musicians with very different approaches to live performance.  Within a larger idiom of dance, both artists were concerned with mobilizing the minds and bodies of the audience.  The Field’s performance on Friday night was a looping, meditative experience that incorporated both live instrumentation and pre-recorded samples, while on Saturday night Fantastic Mr. Fox played a set of stuttering house and techno tracks that included many of his own R&B-infused productions.  Overall, the weekend’s musical entertainment provided moments of extreme payoff, and I am still attempting to understand how both artists were able to achieve such gratifying results using very different sets of tools.

With moments of slow build-up and release, The Field’s performance was an intensely rewarding experience of moving gradually from one idea to the next.  A song would begin with the introduction of a single loop.  Then, the drummer and bass guitarist would then build on top of the groove for several minutes, slowly increasing the tension.  The song would expand with the addition of manipulated loops or articulated phrases.  After what felt like an eternity of build-up, the song would begin to sound like a wall of sound, grounded solely upon the forward inertia of the original pulse.  In these moments, the Field managed to create a dream-like sense of bliss, not unlike the sound of shoegaze or noise rock groups like My Bloody Valentine.  To puncture the moment of high drama, the band would contract the song, achieved through alignment of an arrhythmic looped phrase with the drummer’s live playing (and in one case, a fleeting moment of silence).  The gradual transition into the next song would proceed with a series of subtractions, followed by the introduction of the next loop, which might at first sound at odds with the previous loop.  The steady alignment of these elements, along with the subtle interplay between sampled and live elements, resulted in an intensely engaging experience of being completely absorbed into the gradual processes of waxing and waning.  Erasing all senses of time, the 75-minute set felt like three hours of focused contemplation.

Whereas the rush of The Field’s performance hinged upon the slow evolution of one groove into the next, the strength of Fantastic Mr. Fox’s set lied in its deliberate disjointedness.  A rich collage of beats and textures, the performance consisted of cut and pasted tracks that overlapped and intersected in interesting ways.  A four-to-the-floor track would collide with one of the artist’s own angular productions in a way that demanded a physical response.  The deep sound of the bass, combined with the compressed squelch of the highs, created a tactile experience that succeeded on the dance floor in an unexpected way.  The music, which might come off as overly mathematical and metronomic, achieves a remarkably sensual quality.  The only vocal samples used during the set had been processed and fragmented to such a degree that they were completely incoherent, which felt counterintuitive given the current obsession with the nostalgic diva vocals of 90s-era Detroit and Chicago style house shared by many of Fantastic Mr. Fox’s contemporaries in the UK.  The de-emphasizing of vocals shifted the focus of each track onto its rhythmic and textural elements, which intensified the physicality of the dance experience.  Consistent with this decision, Fantastic Mr. Fox also included some tracks sampling Brazilian drum music, which possessed an interesting metallic timbre.  My only regret from this performance was the duration of some of the regions of overlap.  There were a couple moments of enjoyment that felt too abrupt.  He would construct an interesting layering of beats like a teetering edifice, only to tear it down as soon as it found a stable footing.  The set felt a bit heavy with the denial of gratification, but perhaps this was an intentional decision to create a certain edge, which made the moments of resolution that much more potent or memorable.

            In the larger context of the Transnatural Fesitval, which showcases art and design innovations that are related to energy applications and smart materials, the choice to feature The Field and Fantastic Mr. Fox seems even more appropriate.  Fantastic Mr. Fox’s manipulation of sound found a direct physical analogy in the recycled and sustainable plastics on exhibit, which allowed visitors to feel the interesting textures and surfaces forged from composite materials.  The propulsive feel of The Field’s set seemed to embody the forward-looking, innovative spirit of the festival, which sought to erase pre-existing boundaries between art and technology, between aesthetic expression and engineering pragmatism.  On the dance floor, these considerations were irrelevant in the immediate context of music as a celebratory act.  However, as an artistic endeavor worthy of contemplation, dance music, perhaps more than other genres of electronic music, represents the creative desire to render mathematical abstraction into a palpable reality.  These two artists, through drastically different methods, highlighted the exciting possibilities available through the act of translating electronic information into a collective physical experience.

IN LOVE, AT LAST: THE NINE STREETS & BOEKIE WOEKIE

JENNIFER M. SCHAFFER

Amsterdam is a bizarre city. It has so many veins, yet it is hard to take its pulse. It is hard to make up your mind. You wait to fall in love with the city or else fall into indifference. You wait for things to click. You think about the moment things have clicked in other cities. For this reviewer, it was Dog-eared Books in San Francisco, where a quiet-pink tome of Lydia Davis waited like a sign; in Vilnius, it was Mint Vinetu, with its small cups of linden-tree tea, fresh apple cake, and a small but varied collection of English books, printed friends in a foreign land; and in Amsterdam, after over two weeks waiting for the verdict of my inner compass, it was Boekie Woekie.

Without an impulse or imperative to do otherwise, it is easy for the visitor to Amsterdam to find herself stuck in the hectic, polluted streets of central Amsterdam, the half-dead neon lights of Chinatown, the Red Light District’s rows of butts laid bare by hardly-there G-strings, the chaos and pigeons of Dam Square, the maze of cheap Argentinean steakhouses and shoarma shops. This reviewer, a  paradoxical ‘city-person’ with a homebody streak, had found refuge on the seminar houseboat, Waterland, floating under the big Oosterdock sky; but otherwise found Amsterdam an intriguing but ultimately jarring city, too much crunched together and lit up for the sake of tourism. That is, before the click. Before this reviewer fell head over boots for one part of Amsterdam. Before Boekie Woekie.

Picture yourself, alone with the sole mission of getting lost. Your first free day after a whirlwind of art-making and art-reviewing that has brought you little sleep but several friends and revelations. You set out from Oosterdock intending to take a tram to some far corner of the city, maybe Vondlepark. Instead, you find yourself walking, walking, past Dam Square, past all of ‘that’ version of Amsterdam you’ve been privy to thus far. It is a hot and windy Sunday. Many blonde families are out in their bathing suits, going to or from the water. The bicyclists shed their sweaters in exchange for thinner linens. You watch them pass, still walking. The air seems clearer, cleaner, brighter. 

You do not know where you are, you have been making 90-degree turns with little forethought. The atmosphere of Amsterdam seems fundamentally changed, though there remain the same canals and bridges and tall gabled houses with their curtainless windows. You realize you are at the Nine Streets, a more residential, less neon part of town. All of the shops (Cats and Things, etc.) are closed and a few block parties are happening (beautiful Dutch men and women are sipping wine from water glasses, on their stoops; beautiful Dutch men and women are dancing and eating burgers fresh from the grill; and somewhere, in the distance, a live electronic band is playing a rendition of “Country Roads”). You wander until the witching hour and then set on the path home, which necessitates a stroll through the thickening crowds of the Red Light and the killer bicyclist mobs of certain street crossings and the swarms of fat pigeons threatening at any moment to poop-and-aim. Perhaps you would, as this reviewer did, long to return to the Nine Streets. Perhaps you would return the next day to the first corner of Amsterdam this reviewer truly loved, and find a reason to love it even more. Perhaps you’d find your ‘click’ moment, as this reviewer found hers: in a small, surreal bookstore at Berenstraat 16: Boekie Woekie. 

At the entrance to Boekie Woekie: a carousel of absurd postcards depicting fish, cats, patterns in acid-trip technicolour; a piece of weathered paper that reads “FOR IT NOT TO BE WORTH THE PAPER IT IS PRINTED ON IT HAS TO BE PRINTED”; an arrow pointing “BOOKS HERE”; a display window packed with big bold unrecognizable titles, each the only one of their kind. Upon stepping inside, you are greeted by what this reviewer estimates to be Amsterdam’s fattest and luckiest cat: a blubber-esque oblong ball of black fur dotted with two sarcastic eyes. The walls to your front and side are covered with bookshelves, each layered with books that never repeat. At the centre of the shop stands a thick island: more books atop books atop books. In the far corner sits the shopkeeper, a woman in rectangle glasses and cropped hair, typing slowly at an old laptop. 

Stop and pick up one of the books, Paradoxymoron, expecting – well, not knowing what to expect. Find a labyrinth of philosophy that wraps into itself. Intelligent, bizarre art. Set the book down, pick up another. Rinse and repeat and watch as a few hours pass. One of this reviewer’s favourites is OTHER EXERCISES by Kurt Johansson, a small white square of a book, filled with small white square pages that contain only a nibble of text per page in crisp black typeface. “Try to remember what went through your mind when you learned that the shortest path between two points in the universe is a curved line.” “Draw a border from your ear to your mouth. Do not speak to anyone. Erase the border at night.” “Try to imagine God while watching your laundry spin.” etc. 

Place  OTHER EXERCISES down and walk around the store. Notice the walls: a small frame that reads “Peanut of the Month” and holds a shelled peanut nailed inside;  two long lines of tiny faces cut out of photographs and magazines; odd-angled paintings of cats; a drawing of a slice of cake, captioned “THISISNOTART.” On one of the bookshelves sits a big plastic tub of nails, with a yellowing sheet of paper detailing instructions. (Essentially, pour salt water into the tub every day for a month, then drain.) Next to the plastic tub is a strange, crusty, oval statue: the result of the instructions, a rusty-nail masterpiece. DIY art.

In the second and final room of the shop, a wall of long, thin books including FOR IT NOT TO BE WORTH THE PAPER IT IS PRINTED ON IT HAS TO BE PRINTED, Boys and girls who could be models, Everything Looks Familiar. Some of these contain only images; others are built out of pieces from other, older texts; a few are collections of absurdist poetry; some pages are just one word, others are one word repeated ad infinitum. Facing these books is a counter, displaying famous figures heads fashioned into colourful 3D lollipops. On the next wall is a collection of postcards made from newspaper cut-outs, magazine advertisements, juice cartons, spaghetti boxes, recipe books, some created in 1994 and still unsold, still on display.

Boekie Woekie displays books created by artists, books that emphasize the rare and the sensual over the popular and reproducible. Argue what Kindle will, give this reviewer your economics lectures and doomsday predictions: no electronic can reproduce the aesthetic of a physical book, least of all a Boekie Woekie book, often bound by hand. No one book is displayed with another copy, so that each feels like the only edition on Earth. Some certainly are. It is a museum where you can touch all of the art and then, if you’d like, buy it and take it home. The prices are high – OTHER EXERCISES, no larger than a beer coaster, costs 15€ - but soon become relative; after holding a 350€ text, that 15€ begins to feel like a bargain. You realize that you are paying not only for the book or even for the art, but for the shop itself, for what the shop represents, something rare, approaching its perhaps inevitable extinction: the thoughtfully-, lovingly-printed word and image. The capital-B Book, which cannot exist in a form that places an ‘e’ before its title. 

More than that tired truth is something else, something greater, that makes Boekie Woekie such a magical place, where two hours can pass like twenty minutes but drain your emotional energy like a full day. The existence of Boekie Woekie gives credit, even permission, to the creative individual disinterested in commercial considerations. Not opposed, simply disinterested; creating from another part of the body, somewhere between the heart and the hands, for a motive other than cocktail parties. (Though this reviewer would love to have Kurt Johansson at any cocktail party of her own.) The small scraps of paper turned into postcards, the books made up of notes kept over the course of five years, the photography collections of unapologetically commonplace images: they all seem to say, “Go do your thing. Now. It matters.” In Boekie Woekie it feels as if conviction is everything, in art and in life. 

Emerging onto the streets of Amsterdam after an indefinite period of time spent touching, reading, hating, loving books, books, books, it becomes easier to cross the streets and the high sky seems lower, wider. Amsterdam is a city for artists. It is a city that denies no permissions. It is a city whose only requirement is that you want what you want enough to wear it on your sleeve or handlebars every single day. 

Everyone must find their own Amsterdam, but if you find yourself seeking yours to no avail, this reviewer suggests that you need only escape the very-centre and go a bit further, to the Nine Streets, to one small, still-surviving bookshop whose very existence feels like a nod of subtle encouragement. Carry on.