Belle tells me from the annual book week In The Netherlands. The focus is on the illustrations, the artist behind those marvelous drawings, pictures, the imaginary world of the word.
I have been asking Solange to come up with some of her drawings for our book, she thinks about it.
My father in law died twenty years ago, even a bit more. I hardly met with him. There were though some moments I had the pleasure to speak with him profoundly. We may had some shared interests. I was a freshman at college and studied for my bachelor in Art History. He was an autodidact... an art lover, pur sang.
He told me he once attended the famous Academy of Arts in Amsterdam, The Rietveldt Academy. Unfortunately he find out to be allergic for oil paint. He laughed at me and said to me: 'What kind of an artist am I, when I can't touch the oil paint... when I can't go back and experience those traces of the masters of the Golden Age.'
In stead of becoming an creating artist he developed a taste for collecting art. His preferred masters were Dutch and came from the Northern part of the Netherlands, a city called Meppel. I remember sitting in the living room and it seemed to be as a small museum. Everywhere I looked there were paintings hanging on the walls. The way you find it in galeries in Italy. He was a fabulous storyteller and every piece of art was illustrated by his words and I found in him a compatible mind. He was an adventurous person and to me it was as if his mind was not exactly fitting in his environment. While I look outside of my window I have my eyes captured at the sky. There is a long white and light blue banner with orange and coper dots. Those marvelous skies, those thoughts.
I have been asking Solange to come up with some of her drawings for our book, she thinks about it.
My father in law died twenty years ago, even a bit more. I hardly met with him. There were though some moments I had the pleasure to speak with him profoundly. We may had some shared interests. I was a freshman at college and studied for my bachelor in Art History. He was an autodidact... an art lover, pur sang.
He told me he once attended the famous Academy of Arts in Amsterdam, The Rietveldt Academy. Unfortunately he find out to be allergic for oil paint. He laughed at me and said to me: 'What kind of an artist am I, when I can't touch the oil paint... when I can't go back and experience those traces of the masters of the Golden Age.'
In stead of becoming an creating artist he developed a taste for collecting art. His preferred masters were Dutch and came from the Northern part of the Netherlands, a city called Meppel. I remember sitting in the living room and it seemed to be as a small museum. Everywhere I looked there were paintings hanging on the walls. The way you find it in galeries in Italy. He was a fabulous storyteller and every piece of art was illustrated by his words and I found in him a compatible mind. He was an adventurous person and to me it was as if his mind was not exactly fitting in his environment. While I look outside of my window I have my eyes captured at the sky. There is a long white and light blue banner with orange and coper dots. Those marvelous skies, those thoughts.