I'ts the 25th of June 2018. The sky is grey and clouded but the sun shines. I think this type of weather can best be summed up as a wrestle match: on the one side it's too hot to wear a jumper but on the other side it's too cold not to. So you constantly have to fiddle around -arm in, arm out- until you give up and sit around helplessly, with one arm in, one out. Or worse your jumper has turned itself into a smothering hump around your neck, and god knows where the arms are now.

So I'm sitting around helplessly, trying to find the arms of my jumper so I can fiddle it into another position and, while I'm fiddling, I amuse myself thinking about how I could possibly turn this into a blogpost. Because although I write flares of possible blogposts in my notebook daily, I recently find it more and more impossible to turn those flares into fire. My mum says this is because I take everything too seriously, to which I snort and definsively say "no, no, no, no". But perhaps she's right. Question mark.

On a roll

The other day I aimlessly browsed Twitter when I stumbled upon a tweet that proudly exclaimed: 'Just scheduled blogposts up to February 2019! I'm on a roll!', or something among those lines (I'm quite sure 'I'm on a roll' wasn't in fact included as that doesn't sound very internetsy). After staring at it for some time, I scrolled further and spend many precious minutes looking at cute dog pictures. However that tweet burned a hole in my (sub)conscious and, like a cigarette burn, when I came close I still caught a whiff of its implications. What to make of this?

That tweet bothers me, I think, because it represents everything I do not do. It shows consistency and a certainty in that what one produces. A preconceived knowledge on what is good and whether that goodness will still exist when its consumption is postponed. I think I write more in the moment, therefore making the goodness or pleasure of its consumption also momentarily. For me at least. Like the jumper around my neck, of which I have now found the left (or right, not quite sure) arm, I'm -what feels like- forever struggling to manage its position. Never sure how the fabric acts in relation to my body temperature. Never sure where my blogpost lives within the blogosphere.

Secret admirer

I find it almost unthinkable to be as organised and as sure of my blogposts to reach out to a new year already. Is that what they call evergreen content? Content that is shareable whenever, wherever, as it rings true from start to finish regardless of change within the world or within yourself. All I can think of is the potential choking hazard; there's just so much fabric you can fiddle one way before turning blue.

And still I secretly admire and wonder how I could become that tweet. How that tweet could be typed by my fingers, send by my thumb and seen by my eyes knowing I've accomplished such a thing. Taking a step back: I look from my flared nonsensical notes to my last blogpost published almost a month ago to my scheduled posts of exactly none. I start to sweat. Also, admittedly, because the jumper is now half-fumbled over my head, half stuck underneath my chin.


As if having a fever dream, I see my mothers lips part and move in slow motion: 'you take everything too seriously'. But perhaps I'm not taking things serious enough, mum! While I'm in the middle of wrestle-mania, others are singing happy new year in -I imagine- classy 1980s business suits, twirling their moustaches, looking down at us mere June 2018 bloggers. While they are heartedly laughing at the future, I'm knees deep in the present with the rest of me stuck in the past. Even when my jumper finally pops over my head and I'm freed from its tight grip, I'm reminded of this never ending cycle, as I hastily throw the jumper back on (it's getting rather chilly again) and count myself lucky if I even make it to the 26th.

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Call Me By Your Name (CMBYN) probably hasn't slipped your radar. The 2017 film starring Timothée Chalamet and Armie Hammer was up for an Oscar and, as it explores a 'controversial topic' (a same-sex age-gapped relationship #saywhaaaat), everyone had a tweet ready to state their subsequent feelings; outrage, confusion and/or share their plans to permanently move to Italy. I mean, regardless of anyone's opinion on the film, I think we can all agree that the Italy in CMBYN is the kind of Italy no one minds to spend a lazy summer's day at (even without a wild Hammer or Chalamet frolicking around).

I recently took it upon myself to watch this highly acclaimed film and, before I go any further, please put your torches down and give me a chance to explain myself: I didn't love it. *takes a deep breath* Although I acknowledge the phenomenal acting (that last scene where Chalamet's character just sits crying in front of the fireplace... literal chills) and the undeniable tension of -I guess- desire eerily lingering through every scene, I just couldn't seem to actually enjoy it. Every quick flirting gaze from them was met with a stoic frown from me. Admittedly it already had quite an upheaval to overcome: my default *rolling eyes* for romantic movies (it's me, not you).

Take a deep breath

I think the main thing that 'irked' me about CMBYN is the lesser debated but-still-as-significant-as the peach scene, the sniffing trunks scene. I've mentally filled that scene as one of the most uncomfortable things I've ever watched. Which, indeed, illustrates I haven't seen much yet as well as my inability to fathom how crotch sniffing could install deep emotions that apparently thickens the plot for love and communicates this longing and beginning of romance to the audience. My mind just goes to farts. Sniffing all the farts. *takes a deep breath*

As illustrated by this scene, I think the film focusses more on physical attraction instead of investing in emotional bonding, while it tries to convince you it's an emotional rollercoaster; making fart sniffing substitute actual togetherness. And although the by-now famous speech by Chalamet's on-screen dad (played by Michael Stuhlbarg) made me tear-up, it didn't reflect the relationship I just witnessed. I'd say their togetherness was much more based on physicality instead of soulmating and is rather an exhibition of attraction than of connection. I mean, do they ever really have a proper conversation with one another? But perhaps that's just me not picking up on that what's said in between the dialogue (or, let's be honest, the lavish staring, dramatic sighing and frustrated pouting).

But-two-lovers

However I want to love CMBYN, if only to guilt-free enjoy compilations of funny press junket moments on Youtube. TURMOIL! I started doubting my inner film critic and decided to put my senses to the test: why not watch the complete opposite of CMBYN? Then, as if a sign of a higher almighty, the Avengers: Infinity War trailer popped up. "Perfect!", I exclaimed. From small, intimate, but-two-lovers to big, brash, more-than-you-can-count-on-two-hands galaxy-destroyers *ahum* I mean, galaxy-good-doers. I failed at this point, as I was too busy admiring my own resourcefulness, to foresee the implications that comes with this decision. I soon discovered that it's called the Marvel Cinematic Universe for a reason...

As I was scanning the endless list of Marvel movies, I promised myself to watch as many as possible and read up on the rest so I at least could recognise the actor/character gracing the big screen and had a faint idea about his/her/its arc. I've eventually managed to squeeze in six Marvel Movies into my busy schedule out of the ridiculous EIGHTEEN leading up to Infinity War. And it was a good thing I did, because when the movie begins it begins. No time for hinting, reminding, explaining or subtlety. This is a movie for those who know and for those who are charmed by the fantastical fanfare of screaming-on-top-of-your-lungs Americanism that runs like stars-and-stripes through every dialogue (or, let's be honest, action sequence).

Cold, cold heart

So there I went to our local cinema, accompanied by my sister, a daughter/father duo, a lone wolf and a group of what must be the most annoying twelve year old girls I've ever come across ever. I know to them I must seem like an ancient relic and I know I'm a bit old-fashioned when it comes to 'how to behave in public space', but the behaviour put on display before, during and after the movie by these youngsters just violently made long grey hair pop out of my skull while my eyes twitched and my finger, shakingly, pointed towards them huffing and puffing underneath my breath "be damned you disrespecting, foul speaking, LOUD speaking, dumb giggling, climbing over one another, mobile phone users! I'm trying to watch a movie wherein basically every single one dies! How. dare. you. Honestly! Show some respect to the movie dead!"

Although, admittedly, these monsters stirred more in me than all those biting the dust on screen. Even when my personal fave, after a in-my-opinion too short cameo, was pulverised into nothingness, I simply shrugged. And in that exact moment I realised I'm not cold-hearted (as was my conclusion for my indifference towards CMBYN), I don't have a heart to begin with! At this point we're not questioning my inner film critic, but my inability to feel anything at all. While they're dead on screen, I'm dead on the inside. Please check my pulse. *takes a deep breath*


CMBYN and Avengers: Infinity War are probaby indeed the complete opposite of one another; although, if you must believe Tumblr, there's much more going on underneath the initial heteronormative reading of the Marvel bunch. And perhaps they aren't really comparable without a hybrid version to mediate, the Malcolm in the middle if you like, to really see how the sensibility and finesse of the one can be appreciated in contrast/combination of the flashing lights of the other. Because it's undeniably an art to stage and capture disruption through stillness and action in such elaborate ways both movies respectively have done. And who knows, maybe it can revive this ol' corpse from a pile of moldy peaches and the ash of former heroes. *anxiously checks pulls again*  

Have you seen CMBYN and/or Avengers: Infinity War? Do you have any recommendations for a Malcolm in the middle film that you think mediates 'best of both worlds'? (Or a movie you've recently enjoyed watching?).

"Arms. Some got them, others want them. They come in all shapes and sizes. But these...", I hesitate and take a step forward, "...these are ridiculously small. No. Inhumanly small. There's no way someone could (voluntarily) squeeze their flesh through these tunnels." I'm standing, slightly leaned forward, in the Jan Taminiau Reflections exhibition at the Centraal Museum. In front of me hangs -what is meant to be- a sleeve perfectly still, attached to a dress embellished from head-to-toe in glass beads. It is not particularly only this dress with alien sleeves attached to it that's caught my eye. As I straighten my back and somewhat confusedly glance through the exhibition space, I can see a trend coming. Narrow sleeves, alienating narrow sleeves everywhere.

Although I've never particularly been a fan of my arms (they are arms, what do you want from them?), I suddenly become very aware of all the flesh I potentially have to push down through the minimal pieces of fabric that is the sleeve in front of me. A horror image appears in my head of seams bursting in slow-motion and glass beads, sewn on by some poor intern, in waves falling to the ground. Leaving us with an echoing sound of clatter and disappointment.

Miss Marple Mode

As I was attending the opening of the exhibition and irgendwie irgendwann irgendwo a wild Taminiau was walking around -I imagine proudly, slightly tipsy- looking over us mere human-armed peasants, I could've potentially asked the master himself why he again-and-again chooses these sleeves instead of normal un-narrow human-like sleeves. However we all know I'm not worthy enough to question the work of the master. So instead of bothering him with my doubts and fears, I decided to investigate this issue by myself. Weaponed with deductive skills picked up from watching every Agatha Christie adaption (except for the 2017 Murder On The Orient Express movie as I'm still bracing myself for that AWFUL moustache), I further ventured into the exhibition space trying to find the motive behind the narrow sleeve. #activateMissMarpleMode

Jan Taminiau -for those unfamiliar with these particular syllables- is a famous Dutch fashion designer best known for dressing the queen, but he has also dressed the likes such as Lady Gaga and Rihanna. This exhibition is meant as an overview and insiders look into Taminiau's work. Especially the different kinds and patterns of embroidery he develops in his lab is highlighted. The pieces on display are mainly (narrow-sleeved) dresses and, if I'm being frank, you basically see everything you need to know about his repertoire in the first room and this vision only gets repeated in different spheres, fabrics and glass beads in the rooms that follow. This is however not to say that the other rooms are unnecessary.

Whodunit?!

Although generally a whodunit plot is driven by finding out the who and why, I'm afraid the who is rather obvious and the why is some made-up excuse like 'because of aesthetics' or 'because it's my signature style'. Basically not that interesting. So instead I focused on the how: as we're dealing with a serial sleeve killer, I wondered if my worst fear -flesh seeping out of bursting seams- could come true. Now I was going to rob a mannequin of her dress and test-drive it right there and then, but the guard kept giving me funny looks and I chickened out. So I had to solidly rely on my observational skills. Just picture me creeping through the exhibition with an imaginary magnifying glass inspecting every sleeve while Can't Touch This by MC Hammer plays in the background.

One by one I inspected every sleeve that came my way once, twice and sometimes even three times until I found the one that possibly contains the answer to all my questions. "A concealed zipper!", I enthusiastically yell to no one in particularly (though I was once again treated with funny eyes from the guard). Unfortunately these are the only narrow sleeves I spotted with a concealed zipper to safely confine and keep the flesh in place. However on my way home I came up with three theories that might support the intrinsicality of the other sleeves: concealed concealed zippers, ALIENS (or models who have significantly thinner arms than me) and the plausible possibility that the other sleeves are sewn close when tried on by a model. As these type of clothing aren't worn on a day-to-day basis (it basically gets lucky when it touches the skin of a human being once in its lifetime), it could be that the narrow sleeves are made on measure when modelled. Sew me up Scotty!



You can see the exhibition Jan Taminiau Reflections at the Centraal Museum Utrecht until 26 August 2018. If you do visit, please check the sleeves and report back on your findings. We will crack this mystery and catch the serial sleeve killer together!

As human beings we continuously grow into our [metaphorical] skin. This skin is shrunken and stretched, trying to make it fit our guiding ideology. Although most of the literal shrinking and stretching is based on biology, there's a handful of social and cultural aspects that don't mind giving a hand. Especially 'teenagehood' presents an important period of transition, which in particular opens the road to self-exploration; which comes with its very own aesthetic. An aesthetic that can be as cliché as it sounds.

My teenage years were mainly spend dressed in black (with the occasional strong desire to go full Lolita). Or as my aunt said, I was going through my 'black period'. Turning to my mother as she saw me in head-to-toe black with my hair covering 2/3 of my face: "Oh I see, she's going through her black period." Then dramatically pausing with a sympathetic frown on her face, continuing in a reassuring voice how 'both my cousins went through a black period' and how 'both of them eventually grew out of it'. To which, as can be expected, I angrily stamped my feet stating with the brain capacity of a vain teenager that "this isn't just a phase, this is who I really am." Obviously it was just a phase.

My resume? Black wearer, James Dean discoverer... the usual

As my fellow-teens in the neighbourhood decided that black wasn't their colour, I began to look for a representational being that captivated the essentials of my teen experience. Like most teenagers I eventually uncovered the not-so-well-hidden secret of James Dean: our very own cultural icon of teenage disillusionment and social estrangement (or so Wikipedia claims). And as I was the only black-wearer/James-Dean-discoverer I could relate to, I soon forged the idea I was 'the chosen one' to carry this secret.

Although James Dean is remembered as a vivid red-jacket kinda guy, his legacy as a rebel keeps attracting black-wearers or otherwise self-implied 'edgy' youngsters all over the world. With only three films to his name and the tragic age of 24 forever beaming in neon lights above his head, James 'Jimmy' Dean is the perfect candidate to bestow our dreams upon his facade; either to be debunked or underscored after stalking his image on the internet. Although my Jimmy-days lay long behind me, I began 2018 with reading a biography on him. I bought this biography many light years ago but unfortunately never came round reading it as I was too busy internet-stalking and shrine-building, sighing to myself "no one understands me".

Dream facade

The biography James Dean, Little Boy Lost is written by Joe Hyams. Hyams is no stranger as biographer of Hollywood stars, however as someone who knew James Dean personally he was a bit more reluctant to write down the roller coaster ride of his friend. So he took his time and published this biography 37 years after Dean's death. In the preface of the book Hyams concludes that Dean's seemingly splintered character created unique relationships with the people who knew him. He was never the same person twice. And so as there's no coherent picture of him to represent. This is noticeable throughout the book and the main thing that keeps the story together is the ongoing fascination of 'James Dean' as the ultimate "no one understands me" token.

For someone who's rummaged every corner of the internet, Hyam doesn't reveal any shocking or new insights into the life and death of James Dean. It's nice though to get a more personal account on 'the good ol' days' and how Hyam experienced it in combination with what in hindsight was going on outside of his knowledge. I think the best way to sum up the sentiment of this book is through the 2007 summer hit Fascination by Danish pop band Alphabeat. Not only because they repeat the word fascination a thousand times which is what's keeping the James Dean brand alive. But also because it lingers on unexplained entitlement ('it's just the way we feel') and a glorification of youthfulness dipped in a sinister upbeat tempo. Also who doesn't immediately think of Rebel Without a Cause when they grinningly sing: 'Passion is our passion, in the moonlight on a joyride, easy living killed the young dudes in the high boots'. Also kudos to them for rhyming 'passion' with 'passion' and 'dudes' with 'boots'... #poetry

Did you rock the black period look when you were a teen? And why do you think James Dean still speaks to disillusioned youngsters?

Last year Modemuze -the online platform for Dutch fashion and costume heritage- organised an exhibition at the OBA and this year we're back! In correspondence with the theme of the ICOM Costume meeting 2018, anything and everything that's got to do with fashion and innovation will be on display. Together with a fun packed programme of which a few events I'll be your (terrified) host. *immediately starts to panic sweat*

Last year as 'the intern' at both Modemuze and one of their fifteen partners, I had the privilege experiencing all the different stages of building the exhibition and subsequently knew all the in's and out's of what was on display (as I put it there myself). This time however I was kept in the dark. Although, admittedly, I was one of the first people to see the marvellous campaign image by Carin Verbruggen and Ferry Drenthem Soesman. But nothing more than that. So when the exhibition was officially opened last Thursday, I was in for a surprise.

Layers of innovation

The 21st century is self-consciously an age of change and innovation, led by the so-manieth Apple-whatever, Facebook-scandal and Twitter-rant. Innovation however isn't always electronic or left to digital nothingness programmed by angry teenagers. It can be as big as the Industrial Revolution and as small as a simple popper; changing how we go through life and more importantly what we wear when staring directly into our webcam asking the FBI-agent on the other side if they know when your cousins birthday is. Thanks Tom!

As you can imagine, the words 'innovation' and 'museum' aren't often paired together. And even though I believe that museums have come a long way since the late 18th/early 19th century and (re)innovated themselves as reflections of the present instead of the greatest misconeption ever representing the unchanged past, not everyone sees it this way. Just looking at the frowned faces of my fellow-students, dramatically sighing and rolling their eyes as I once again stutter the word 'museum' in whatever context, following their misbehaviour up with a proud exclaim of "I never go to a museum" as if it's a badge of honour that physically fights the patriarchy. Yes, museums are undeniably a space for conservative old white men with an expensive hobby, but perhaps that's why it's even more important to show up and actively demonstrate that their unchallenged reign is over and therewith open up all the unexplored notions of what a museum could be. ANYWAY...

Challenging change

Although museums are perceived as dusty ol' patriarchal practitioners, there are currently many amendments made to this idea. As the Modemuze@OBA exhibition showcases, there are multiple developments -how banal it sometimes may seem- that got us where we are now. And it's thanks to these kinds of displays that show us these unnoticed layers underneath our imposed normative mobile-phone-driven existence. Museums, with all the 'useless' and 'boring' stuff they've gathered, can show just that. Poking through the seemingly fixed idea of the past, the present and the future as the notion of innovation changes with time. Just think again about the brilliance of a popper and how underappreciated its innovativeness is compared to the newest Iphone. #justiceforpoppers

The exhibition is similarly build-up as last year. When entering the space you're greeted with the campaign image and a brief introduction of what to expect. Because the space is on the small side, there's unfortunately no room for rotating mannequins doing cartwheels, however there IS room for fifteen museums and four private collectors to show off pieces of their extensive collection that in some way is innovative. This can literally go from a wrestling mask to glow-in-the-dark thread and my personal favourite: a two-in-one costume of the caterpillar on the mushroom from the 1976 production of Alice in Wonderland. This costume is what nightmares are made of.


Modemuze@OBA: Innovation will be at the OBA (Oosterdokskade 143, the one next to Amsterdam Cental Station) until 2 September 2018. As said at the beginning of this post, within the exhibition space multiple events will be held. You can find the whole programme on Modemuze and Facebook. Let me know if I'll see you there!