On residency at Mediamatic, Amsterdam
2010
Amsterdam Noord is a city of bicycles, but I spend most of my time here walking. I walk to get to know the city, and as I walk I collect the traces
of the lives that are going on around me…the traces of memories, of conversations, of relationships. I collect the detritus on the streets for
the same reason that I observe people’s conversations, and ask them questions about their lives: to collect and preserve the memories of a
place that I don’t belong to.
Story 1: Crossing the Water
I flew into Amsterdam Noord from Copenhagen in the middle of the night on July 3rd. Someone from Mediamatic picked me up from the train station and took me to the flat where I would be staying. Amsterdam being the Venice of the North, it is crisscrossed with canals and rivers, and to get to the north side of the city, we had to take a ferry.
I hate water and, by extension, anything related to water, including boats and ferries. I can’t swim and don’t want to learn how. My companion told me that to get to the center of the city, I would have to take this ferry each time. I had visions of myself stuck forever in my new flat. There was no way I would be able to take this boat again.
But it turned out that I would be taking the ferry again within a matter
of minutes. After dropping my things off at the new flat, I accompanied my colleague home and went to the city center to pick up a few things and get a feel for the city. The energy was electric; everything was open, young
kids were wandering around stoned and drunk; it was exhilarating and overwhelming at once.
Exhausted by the trip and my new surroundings, I took the ferry back
to “my” part of the city, only to realize that I couldn’t remember what street the house was on. I didn’t have anyone to call to help, but I remembered that there was a couch outside on the street in front of the flat, and that
our apartment building had a box of rat poison at the doorstep. I was able to navigate my way home by way of these ephemeral landmarks.
I realized on this first day that these small elements of detritus are more than just the discarded remnants of something that used to be important,
or something that used to serve a purpose, but doesn’t any longer. They continue to serve as subtle signposts, markers of great significance for those who know how to read them. Signposts that can help you get across what at first appears to be un-navigable waters.
Story 3: Biking and the Kindness of Strangers
Story 4: Cultural Misunderstanding
