Copyright: Nick Gabrichidze 2009
email: gabrichidze@gmail.com
Telephone: +32475506266
Adresse: Rue Melsens 6, 1000, Brussels, Belgium
Everyone who moves to Amsterdam, or who is visiting a city as a tourist, goes to the Red Light district at the first, or at least at the second day after arrival. Out of curiosity in most cases. Most people just stare at the girls in the red - lit windows, but the bravest or drunkest ones come to the scratch and hire the services of... Of Amsterdam's sex industry's employees, or prostitutes in the casual language; most do it just to find out "how it all works". . . However the almost automatic service which is unromantically called "fuck and suck" and is brutally limited to sharp 15 minutes, turns out to be a least romantic experience of any man's life.
Knowing the trap, local residents usually ignore the whole industry. Yet, I once went to the Red Light girl after a few years of living in the city. Why? It so happened that my relationship at the time (with an ordinary woman, not with a sex industry worker) had completed it's agony and passed off for good. My ex-partner was engaging herself with someone else with a high speed, while I was still in a dark lonely limbo. Every person, especially male, who went through this stage of separation surely knows the whole cocktail of painful senses one has to go through until the dying romance will become a history: the irritating unsatisfied desire, frustration, resentment, sore and solitude. After unsuccessfully trying to conceal myself with fitness, excursion to Paris in the company of middle aged farmers; by getting stoned, and by getting drunk at the techno dance party, I have decided that I needed more radical solution, and eventually visiting Red Lights suddenly became to seem as a reasonable option. As a matter of fact I thought about escort service first, but could not afford it from my artistic budget. However I strategically choose the "little red light district" instead of the tourist flooded major one; not many people know that apart from the World famous Red light district at the Central station area, Amsterdam got the smaller one, in much more local and boring « Pijp » neighborhood. Almost no tourists reach this area and generally the whole place is visited mostly by the retired single seniors. So I hoped that ...the whole thing will be less mechanical over there.
Of course the whole plan didn't work out. Guilt, restraint, the thoughts of my existing cracking relationship, the thick air in the chocking little room, fear of would be infection... To make a long story short I changed my mind before even taking a paints down. I have paid the girl of course; yet, for some irrational reason which I can not explain, it seemed weird to leave just like that, without saying a word. Possibly she felt the same, so somehow we had the tense and uncomfortable conversation, she sitting on her bad in the underwear and me, standing by the door and ready to leave.
She asked me where am I from, and after answering, I have returned the question. She was from Bulgaria and lived few years in USA; that's why she spoke a good English; she had to leave States after they have tightened a screw on immigration because she hadn't arranged her green card. So she ended up in Holland when friends helped to fix a European work permit somehow.
Back then Bulgarians still needed it.
"What is your job" she asked me then.
"I am an artist and also designer" I said "I own a small gallery here, trying to push my own concept through, if you understand what I mean."
"Really!" she suddenly animated" I can not believe it!"
"Why... what's so special about it?"
"I don't know... I have not met anyone who does any art for a long time. I mean for real, not fake."
"Wait a sec, I thought Amsterdam is full of artists?"
"This is what everyone says, but they all either do graffiti or just selling the crap for tourists in the Leidseplein. But you do a real thing, you saying?"
That was true to some extent, still I could not understand her sudden amusement.
"I studied in the art school myself you know" She said suddenly.Would she say she is an artist I would not pay attention, Amsterdam is full of artsy types claiming credit for being artists at every corner without producing a single brush stroke, but she said she studied art.
"Where?" I asked
"Back home in Bulgaria. I am not an artist though, I studied art history actually. And I am planning to continue my masters, either in Rietveld academy here in Amsterdam or in Rotterdam maybe, but I have no scholarship at the moment, that's why I have to make money here." she pointed at her bed. There was not a single hint of pain in her voice, just a professional person explaining details about her work.
"Nice" I said politely "But I think you are meeting lots of artists in your school?"
"Yes, but... First of all I am not accepted yet, I am just soliciting, plus I have to spend lot of time working. And you know,they are all so plan primitive... If you understand what I mean."
"You mean the professors?"
"Yes professors too... And students. No one can think out-of-the box. I don't believe any of them have any passion to what they are doing. I think most will go and work as lawyers or accountants after a while. There are also foreigners there, but most are just kids from the rich families, who enrolled for fun. But I almost never met any artists outside school. So I just was sort of happy to meet you."
"Well... I guess you have work here to much, and this is maybe a bad place to meet the colleagues... No offence."
I was about to exit, when she said suddenly"You know what? As a matter of fact there is one guy. He comes here just once in a while, especially for me. Another girls told me that he is walking around here looking for me and never enters if I am out. And he pays me just to sit with him on the bed and talk about art. We discuss many things "
"What?" I could not resist asking "Why would someone do it?"
It was a mistake, the girl became angry."Why not, you also had not fucked me and paid, didn't you? Sex is not only thing people want, normal people at least. This guy is from somewhere in Middle east, Iran or Syria I think, and he lives in a little town in Friesland up north. I think he asked for asylum or some thing like that and they put him up there... It is a small village, and people don't really appreciate strangers, so I think he does not have many people to talk with, you know.I don't believe he has any friends. It is not like Amsterdam there.."
I knew it. I have spent half of the summer in the Dutch village at the Northern side of the country few years ago, painting a house of Amsterdam club owner who suddenly got a taste for farming. The only time locals interacted with me was when someone called a police to find out why is there a « strange looking stranger » ( as they put it) walking at the street in front of their house.
Girl kept talking:"Plus he has his own ideas about everything and even about Dutch art; of Golden age, like he believes that Vermeer, Rembrandt and Halst actually had many women students, and that many smaller pieces of dutch Golden era which are considered to be made by unknown artists are painted by woman as a matter of fact; but the society was so male dominated back then, in 17th century, that it was impossible for woman to get through... So this guy needs someone to share his ideas, otherwise they will just eat him from inside. And it is hard for him to find anyone to listen. Dutch people don' accept that sort of challenges from the ... allochtone you know. Unless you 've got a local diploma at least"
Allochtone is how locals call not-so-well-integrated immigrants in Holland
"I think it is a weird idea-I mean that the pieces of classic Dutch art are made by unknown female artists" I said "That's why no one listens to him, and not because he is an allochtone. Anyway why don't he simply publish it at some web forum at least?"
"May be he needs to talk with someone? With a human being? To make sure someone listens." There was some tension in her voice now.
"Yes, he possibly is very lonely, unless he has a family or wife" I said "I don't think he has a local woman, if he so isolated like you say"
Girl hesitated a second then grabbed a joint and began to smoke. I was not invited, possibly my last remarks pissed her off. Every time when she was moving, her tunic was falling down from the shoulder, laying bare the piece of white breast with an upturned pink nipple. But I was through this part with her.
"I don't think he has a wife. " girl said "He first came here for sex like everyone else,but then word after word, we began talking more... I think he has a lover, or may be he goes to some other girl for sex, or he just does not need it, I don't know. But for me it was also so important, you know, to have someone discussing interesting ideas, like... Whatever. I hope you understand what I mean"
"So why are you charging him for visits then?" I could not resist asking "You could simply meet in the cafe after you finish here. You know Balie-cafe at the Leidseplein, they have sometimes discussions about art in the programme "
I noticed that girl was a bit shocked. Don't know why I was so aggressive all the sudden. Somehow her story irritated me
."Yeah... " she said a bit bewildered "I guess you are right...You know it is so strange, neither me or him ever though about it. May be...May be... it is so important for him to talk about things he loves, that he needs the conversation to be intimate... You know for some people who are alone, we... here.. are like... Substitute of wife a little bit. And may be... This conversations is something he can have only with a close people or so..."
She seemed confused now, and I began to feel guilty. This strange fragment of other peoples lives was was not supposed to be ruined by me I thought. It was time to leave this place for good.
"You know what" I told her before exiting "I guess it is a good idea we all meet, all three of us. Let's see may be we can meet in my gallery, and run the project together, or at least find a better format to have art debate then here? I don't have a business card on me-do you have something to write on, I will leave my email address and website?".
"Just bring a card next time you will come here" she answered
"Ok... Until next time then"
"Yeah... Until next time"
There was no next time of course. I never came back, and for a while I tried to avoid this spot every-time I was cycling around the city. Not like I was hiding from this Bulgarian girl, would I see her, I would of course talk to her...
But I am certain it would simply make us both feel uncomfortable, would I come back and ask when I can meet this mysterious art lower of hers. Besides I am sure she made the whole story up, just to increase her own self confidence and may be to impress me also, when she found out that I own the art gallery. Or may be it is one of the stories people make up to gain the lost self respect, at least in their own eyes. That's why she didn't wanted to accept the invitation and write down my address, I thought, because there was no lonely Middle Eastern art lover in reality. Can you imagine some troubled Middle eastern immigrant, sitting completely alone in his apartment unit at the small Friesland village, struggling through daily routine in the strange country, and then taking a train all way down to Amsterdam, walking through the rainy, empty streets to the small red light window at the backward area just to pay the girl for the conversation about an art history? This all - because he has no one else to talk with?
Even soap operas don't make up such sentimental nonsense any more...
After a while I began passing through this area again, minding my own business, but Bulgarian art history student was gone. I am sure she squeezed out enough money from her clients to pay for her masters degree and didn't need to be there any more, this washing her story away. Yet, ironically, few times when I was noticing the strange looking foreigners with some unexpected anxiety in their gaze passing through the mobs of beer drinking tourists anywhere close to Red light areas I had a stroke of spontaneous though: hey, may be this is the guy who pays the prostitutes for art conversation, because the world outside is so frigging cold, that there is not a single soul who would listen to their ideas?
Anyway I have never found out if this story was true, and I never will now. I believe it is false, and somehow it's better if it stays that way. It is better for my piece of mind and for remains of my confidence about the society in general. I can not change a world, I just live in it.Right?
(c) Nick Gabrichidze 2009 http://www.gabrichidze.com/
There was no next time of course. I never came back, and for a while I tried to avoid this spot every-time I was cycling around the city. Not like I was hiding from this Bulgarian girl, would I see her, I would of course talk to her...
But I am certain it would simply make us both feel uncomfortable, would I come back and ask when I can meet this mysterious art lower of hers. Besides I am sure she made the whole story up, just to increase her own self confidence and may be to impress me also, when she found out that I own the art gallery. Or may be it is one of the stories people make up to gain the lost self respect, at least in their own eyes. That's why she didn't wanted to accept the invitation and write down my address, I thought, because there was no lonely Middle Eastern art lover in reality. Can you imagine some troubled Middle eastern immigrant, sitting completely alone in his apartment unit at the small Friesland village, struggling through daily routine in the strange country, and then taking a train all way down to Amsterdam, walking through the rainy, empty streets to the small red light window at the backward area just to pay the girl for the conversation about an art history? This all - because he has no one else to talk with?
Even soap operas don't make up such sentimental nonsense any more...
After a while I began passing through this area again, minding my own business, but Bulgarian art history student was gone. I am sure she squeezed out enough money from her clients to pay for her masters degree and didn't need to be there any more, this washing her story away. Yet, ironically, few times when I was noticing the strange looking foreigners with some unexpected anxiety in their gaze passing through the mobs of beer drinking tourists anywhere close to Red light areas I had a stroke of spontaneous though: hey, may be this is the guy who pays the prostitutes for art conversation, because the world outside is so frigging cold, that there is not a single soul who would listen to their ideas?
Anyway I have never found out if this story was true, and I never will now. I believe it is false, and somehow it's better if it stays that way. It is better for my piece of mind and for remains of my confidence about the society in general. I can not change a world, I just live in it.Right?
(c) Nick Gabrichidze 2009 http://www.gabrichidze.com/
