Fernand Léger’s The Acrobat and His Partner — Circus of Modern Life

Fernand Léger, The Acrobat and His Partner (1948), seen at Tate Modern (London).

Painted in 1948, The Acrobat and His Partner distills Fernand Léger’s belief that art should mirror the vitality of everyday life. After years of exile in the United States during World War II, Léger returned to a Europe rebuilding itself. He sought imagery that spoke to collective renewal, and the circus—public, risky, joyfully democratic—became one of his most powerful metaphors.

The canvas is alive with cylindrical bodies and radiant color, a late development of Léger’s signature “tubism,” where figures and machines share the same sculptural energy. The acrobat stretches in a tense arc while his partner steadies a ladder, emblematic of movement and balance; around them geometric shapes pulse like urban neon.

Léger had long admired mass entertainment—from factory workers to city streets—and, as a committed leftist, he saw in the circus a universal stage for human resilience. The performers are monumental, not glamorous: they stand for ordinary people rebuilding lives after war, proving that heroism lies as much in daily labor and cooperation as in spectacle.

By merging avant-garde form with popular subject, Léger fulfilled his aim to make modern art accessible and socially meaningful. The Acrobat and His Partner is more than a circus scene; it is a vibrant emblem of post-war hope and of art’s power to turn collective struggle into enduring beauty.

Overreach: Inside the Delusion: What “Overreach” Reveals About Putin’s War

Matthews, Owen. Overreach: The Inside Story of Putin’s War Against Ukraine (2023). - Image by amazon.com.

I recently came across Overreach: The Inside Story of Putin’s War Against Ukraine by Owen Matthews — a book that reads with the fluency of frontline reporting and the authority of someone who has seen Russia from the inside. Matthews, a veteran Moscow correspondent, writes with speed and confidence, stitching together intelligence leaks, diplomatic whispers, and battlefield accounts into a sharp, coherent narrative.

At its best, Overreach captures the extraordinary convergence of misjudgments that led to the invasion: a leader sealed off from reality, an army unready for the war it was told to win in three days, and a West too entangled in its own cynicism to believe the warnings. Matthews reconstructs the atmosphere inside the Kremlin with the precision of a journalist who has cultivated his sources well. His portrait of Putin is chilling — not the omnipotent schemer of Western caricature, but an aging ruler trapped in his own mythology, convinced that history is waiting for his final act.

But this clarity comes at a price. Matthews’ narrative occasionally slides into neatness — a story too elegantly told for a conflict that remains chaotic, contradictory, and unresolved. The reader rarely encounters the moral murk, the grey zones of complicity and fatigue that define real war. Ordinary Russians appear mostly as footnotes to elite decision-making, and Ukraine’s agency, while acknowledged, is often framed as reaction rather than initiative. The analysis sometimes echoes the Western policy consensus more than it interrogates it.

Still, Overreach succeeds on its own terms: it’s a readable, intelligent account of how hubris, fear, and historical delusion collided in 2022. Matthews’ talent lies in connecting personalities to consequences, and his prose hums with restrained anger — the tone of someone who knows too well that none of this had to happen.

If the book has a lesson, it’s this: wars are rarely born of strategy alone, but of misread intentions and unchecked pride. Overreach reminds us that power, once convinced of its own inevitability, is already in decline.

Matthews, Owen. Overreach: The Inside Story of Putin’s War Against Ukraine (2023).

Russia, The Eternal Return of Suppression: 2022 and Beyond - The Great Break

The events of February 24, 2022, marked the most dramatic rupture between Russia and the West since the Cold War. In the early hours of the morning, Russian forces launched a full-scale invasion of Ukraine from multiple directions — pushing south from Belarus toward Kyiv, east from Russia into the Donbas, and north from Crimea into the southern regions of Kherson and Zaporizhzhia. The Kremlin framed it as a “special military operation,” but its scale and ambition made clear it was a war to redraw borders and reshape Europe’s security architecture.

The Failed Blitzkrieg
Moscow’s plan for a lightning strike — seizing Kyiv within days, decapitating Ukraine’s leadership, and installing a pro-Russian government — collapsed in the face of fierce and determined resistance. Ukrainian forces, bolstered by volunteers and armed with Western-supplied anti-tank and anti-aircraft weapons, halted the advance. The battles for Kyiv, Kharkiv, and Mykolaiv became early symbols of defiance. By April, Russian troops withdrew from the north, leaving behind evidence of atrocities in towns like Bucha, and concentrated their efforts on the eastern front.

A War of Attrition
With the initial gamble failed, the conflict shifted into a grinding war of attrition. Artillery duels, long-range missile strikes, and the increasing use of drones became defining features of the battlefield. The siege and destruction of Mariupol shocked the world, as tens of thousands of civilians endured bombardment, shortages of food and water, and forced evacuations. Millions of Ukrainians fled abroad, creating the largest refugee crisis in Europe since the Second World War. Meanwhile, Western sanctions hit Russia hard, freezing assets, severing banking connections, and limiting access to critical technologies — though high global energy prices kept Moscow’s war machine funded.

The Expanding Battlefield
By 2023 and 2024, the war’s intensity did not diminish. Both sides adapted technologically: Ukraine integrated Western air defenses and precision-guided munitions, while Russia ramped up drone and missile production with the help of Iran and North Korea. The Black Sea became another contested arena, with Ukraine striking Russian naval assets and supply lines to Crimea. Fighting spread to previously quieter sectors, and both armies dug deeper into fortified positions reminiscent of the First World War.

Global Realignment
Russia’s isolation from the West drove it into a tighter embrace with China, India, Iran, and North Korea, forming a loose but significant network of states willing to trade, share technology, and counterbalance Western influence. NATO, far from fractured, expanded to include Finland, with Sweden on the way — a strategic setback for Moscow. The European Union accelerated its energy diversification, ending decades of dependence on Russian gas. The war shattered the assumptions that had underpinned Europe’s post–Cold War order, reviving large-scale military spending and long-term security planning.

Shifting Political Currents
Across Europe and beyond, the war reshaped politics. Governments faced pressure over rising energy prices and defense budgets. Populist movements sought to exploit divisions over aid to Ukraine, while others rallied around the need to defend democratic states from authoritarian aggression. In Russia, dissent was met with harsh repression, new laws criminalized criticism of the war, and thousands of political opponents, journalists, and activists fled abroad.

An Uncertain Future
By 2025, the frontlines had shifted only marginally. Neither side could deliver a decisive blow. Ukraine remained steadfast in its goal of restoring its 1991 borders, while Russia showed no sign of relinquishing occupied territories. The costs — measured in lives lost, economies strained, and trust shattered — promised to shape the region for decades to come. Whether the conflict ends in a negotiated settlement, a frozen front, or continued escalation remains one of the central geopolitical questions of the 21st century.

Further Reading:

• Luke Harding – Invasion (2022)

• Serhii Plokhy – The Gates of Europe (2015)

• Mark Galeotti – Putin’s Wars (2022)

• Lawrence Freedman – Command (2022)

Freedom: America and Europe’s Two Stories

“Freedom” is one of those words that carries enormous weight but slips through your fingers as soon as you try to pin it down. It means one thing in the United States and another in Europe, and both versions are born out of very different histories. When Americans and Europeans talk about freedom, they often think they mean the same thing—until they realize they don’t.

The American Story of Freedom

In the United States, freedom is rooted in the frontier, the revolution against the British crown, and the Constitution’s Bill of Rights. It is highly individualistic: the right to speak one’s mind, to bear arms, to be left alone by government interference. In political debates, “freedom” is often shorthand for personal autonomy—the liberty to make choices, even risky ones, without too much collective oversight.

That’s why Americans can be suspicious of government welfare programs or public health mandates. To them, freedom often means not being told what to do. Even taxes, seatbelt laws, or universal healthcare can trigger fears of government “control.” The American myth of the self-reliant individual, carving out a life on the frontier, still runs strong.

The European Story of Freedom

In Europe, freedom carries a different legacy. The continent has seen centuries of monarchies, aristocracies, world wars, fascism, and communist regimes. Out of this history came another interpretation: freedom through security and solidarity.

Freedom here doesn’t only mean being left alone; it also means having access to healthcare, education, and housing. A person who cannot afford to see a doctor or send a child to school is not truly free in the European sense. That’s why welfare states are not seen as obstacles to liberty but as enablers of it.

In European political culture, “freedom” often has a collective dimension. It is about building a society in which people can live without fear of destitution, so they can pursue their ambitions and express themselves without anxiety.

When These Freedoms Collide

The American visitor in Europe may see bureaucracy and taxes as suffocating. The European visitor in the U.S. may see poverty, medical bankruptcy, and lack of social safety nets as limiting true freedom. Each side is puzzled by the other:

• How can “freedom” mean refusing a national health system in the U.S.?

• How can “freedom” mean paying high taxes and following strict labor rules in Europe?

The truth is, both models are incomplete without the other. A society that values only individual liberty risks leaving its most vulnerable behind. A society that values only collective protection risks drowning in regulation.

Why This Matters

In a globalized world, Americans and Europeans are bound to work together—but they will keep clashing over this word. Perhaps the deeper lesson is that freedom has never been a one-size-fits-all idea. It is always shaped by history, geography, and culture.

The United States tells a story of freedom as independence from authority. Europe tells a story of freedom as independence from fear. Both are powerful stories. Both are worth listening to.

Street Wisdom from Worms: Socrates on Alcohol and Donkeys

Der Winzerbrunnen, 1983, by Gustav Nonnenmacher (Worms, Germany).

In downtown Worms you might come across a statue bearing the inscription: “Die sich nur der Trinksucht hingeben sind Esel, sagt Sokrates.” (In English: “Those who give themselves only to drunkenness are donkeys, says Socrates.”)

The message is as brisk as a Rhineland winter. A life reduced to alcohol is a life misused. The donkey—patient yet stubborn—embodies the very opposite of the reason and moderation Socrates championed.

It is an ancient Greek ideal recast as street wisdom, perfectly at home in a wine-loving city that also prizes learning and debate. In short: let reason, not drink, hold the reins.

Rotterdam my City — De Bijenkorf (Rotterdam, The Netherlands)

A nighttime view of one of the entrances to De Bijenkorf in Rotterdam.

The story of De Bijenkorf — literally, The Beehive — began in 1870, when Simon Philip Goudsmit opened a small haberdashery on Amsterdam’s Nieuwendijk. It was a modest shop selling ribbons and sewing supplies, but it quickly grew into a department store that would come to define Dutch urban elegance. After Goudsmit’s death, his widow and family expanded the business, adding more departments and transforming it into a place where shopping itself became an experience.

Over the following decades, De Bijenkorf became a national institution — a symbol of craftsmanship, design and cosmopolitan style. Its stores were not just retail spaces, but architectural landmarks. In Rotterdam, the postwar store was designed by Marcel Breuer, one of the great modernists of the twentieth century. The branch in The Hague, built in 1926 by Piet Kramer, remains a showpiece of the Amsterdam School style, its façade full of rhythm and sculptural detail.

The company’s history also mirrors the country’s struggles and recoveries. During the Second World War, the Jewish-founded firm was seized by the occupying authorities; many employees suffered persecution. After liberation, the rightful owners rebuilt, and De Bijenkorf resumed its place at the heart of Dutch life — now as a symbol of resilience as much as refinement.

Today, De Bijenkorf is part of the international Selfridges Group, yet it retains its distinctly Dutch character. Its flagship store still stands proudly on Amsterdam’s Dam Square, while other branches serve major cities like Rotterdam, The Hague, Utrecht, Eindhoven, Amstelveen and Maastricht. Inside, the polished marble floors, designer brands and carefully staged displays continue to blend commerce with culture.

From a tiny haberdashery to a national emblem of luxury, De Bijenkorf has been buzzing for over 150 years — a beehive where history, design and daily life meet under one elegant roof.

Convivencia

Image from Cantigas de Santa Maria of European and Islamic musicians in 13th century playing stringed instruments. Canticle n°120. 13th century. Madrid, San Lorenzo de El Escorial library.

In the heart of shared existence, where souls entwine,
A tapestry of life, woven in a rhythm divine.
Convivencia, the dance of diversity's embrace,
A symphony of cultures, a harmonious grace.

Underneath the azure sky, a unity unfolds,
Colors blend like stories, in scripts yet untold.
Hand in hand, we stride through the market of time,
In the town square of convivencia, a paradigm.

Faces painted by the strokes of varied suns,
Languages intertwining, like melodies that run.
Bridges of understanding, spanning wide,
In the realm of togetherness, side by side.

Oh, convivencia, where differences reside,
Yet in shared humanity, we find our guide.
A feast of perspectives, a banquet of delight,
In the mosaic of coexistence, we take flight.

Through the labyrinth of traditions, we roam,
Weaving tales of acceptance, turning each page to foam.
No barricades of bias, no walls of disdain,
In the garden of convivencia, all flowers gain.

From the fragrant spice bazaars to the mosque's call,
In the cathedral's echo, and the temple's thrall.
We gather as one, in the courtyard of the heart,
Bound by the threads of convivencia, a work of art.

Let tolerance be the ink that scripts our fate,
As we dance on the tightrope of love, not hate.
In the grand celebration of shared existence,
Convivencia, our anthem, our resplendent insistence.

As clouds gather ...

Horses near Belloy-sur-Somme (France).

As clouds gather over the Somme at dusk,
horses graze in fading amber light,
manes stirring in the hush before rain—
a quiet strength holding the day’s beauty
while the first dark drops wait in the sky.

When Trust Turns to Dust: The Real Reason Empires Die

Is the USA next?

Based on the YouTube video The Empire Collapse Pattern: Rome, Spain, Britain… USA Is Next

Every empire begins with faith — faith in its gods, its laws, and its money. And every empire ends the same way: when that faith is broken.

From the shimmer of Roman silver to the paper promises of the modern dollar, the story repeats itself with unnerving precision. Civilizations rise on trust and fall on inflation. The coins change, the language changes, but the rhythm is the same — an ancient drumbeat of power, pride, and decay.

The Roman Lesson

The Roman denarius once gleamed with certainty: pure silver, pure trust. A soldier could march across continents and still spend it without question.

But as Rome’s ambitions grew, so did its hunger for coin. To pay its legions, emperors thinned the silver and thickened the lie. By the time of Galienus, the denarius was little more than a silver-plated illusion — 95% base metal, 100% pretense.

When prices rose and armies demanded payment in gold, the illusion cracked. Rome’s collapse was not a siege of walls, but of wallets. The empire did not fall to enemies; it suffocated in its own counterfeit breath.

Spain’s Treasure, Spain’s Curse

A thousand years later, Spain struck what looked like divine luck: the mountain of Potosí, the richest silver vein ever found. For a century the world’s money spilled from its mines, and Spain seemed untouchable.

But abundance can rot faster than scarcity. Silver flooded Europe, and prices rose like tides. The more Spain spent, the poorer it became. Factories never built, debts never repaid, wars never won. Within decades, the richest empire in the world was bankrupt — four times over. The treasure that promised eternity dissolved into debt and disillusion.

The British Mirage

Britain’s empire was built not on silver, but on paper. The pound sterling, steady as the tides, anchored trade across oceans. But credit is a more dangerous drug than silver.

Two world wars drained the veins of the empire, and by 1945 the pound was a promise it could no longer keep. As colonies gained independence, Britain tried to patch dignity with devaluation. The pound fell, and with it fell the illusion of permanence.

The empire had not been conquered; it had been spent.

The American Moment

The United States inherited the role of global caretaker, its dollar crowned as the world’s reserve currency. For decades it worked — until the wars, the debts, and the printing presses returned.

The golden window closed in 1971. The dollar floated free, untethered from reality. It has floated ever since, on oceans of confidence and credit. But confidence is a fragile thing. The debt now climbs past $36 trillion. Inflation whispers that the spell may be breaking.

And like Rome, Spain, and Britain before it, America believes it is different.

The Pattern That Doesn’t Lie

History does not repeat by accident; it repeats by arithmetic.
No nation can print wealth faster than it produces it. No currency can bear infinite promises.

The pattern is old and merciless:

• trust breeds prosperity,

• prosperity breeds arrogance,

• arrogance breeds debt,

• and debt devours trust.

Empires fall not when their enemies grow strong, but when their money grows weak.

The Roman coin turned to dust. The Spanish silver lost its shine. The British pound sank beneath its own weight. And now, the American dollar trembles on the same axis of faith and forgetting.

The Echo Ahead

Perhaps this time the collapse will be managed — a graceful decline into a smaller world, a gentler role. Or perhaps the pattern will bite harder, as it always does when mathematics outlives mythology.

Empires end quietly, at first. Not with invasions, but with the silence of empty vaults, and the hum of printing presses that no longer fool anyone.

The sound of history repeating is not a roar. It’s the soft hiss of devalued paper.

Further Reading

• Peter Heather, The Fall of the Roman Empire (Oxford University Press, 2005)

• Niall Ferguson, The Ascent of Money: A Financial History of the World (2008)

• Ray Dalio, Principles for Dealing with the Changing World Order (2021)

• Kenneth Clark, Civilisation (BBC Books, 1969) — especially on the fragility of cultural continuity

Russia, The Eternal Return of Suppression: From Georgia to Ukraine

The 21st century saw Russia reassert itself on the world stage — often through military force.

War in Georgia
In 2008, tensions in the Caucasus erupted. Georgia sought to reclaim the breakaway regions of South Ossetia and Abkhazia, which were backed by Moscow. Russia responded with a swift military intervention, routing Georgian forces and recognizing the two regions as independent — a signal that Moscow would not tolerate NATO’s eastward reach.

Ukraine’s Turning Point
In late 2013, Ukraine’s president, Viktor Yanukovych, abandoned a planned agreement with the European Union in favor of closer ties to Russia. This sparked mass protests — the Euromaidan movement — in Kyiv. The demonstrations swelled into a revolution, and Yanukovych fled the country in February 2014.

Annexation of Crimea and War in Donbas
Within weeks, Russian troops seized Crimea, citing the need to protect Russian speakers. A hastily organized referendum — unrecognized by most of the world — formalized its annexation. In eastern Ukraine, pro-Russian separatists declared “people’s republics” in Donetsk and Luhansk. Supported by Russian fighters and weapons, they fought the Ukrainian army in a grinding conflict that left thousands dead.

The Frozen Conflict
The Minsk agreements of 2014 and 2015 sought to end the war but failed to resolve the core dispute. For eight years, low-intensity fighting continued, setting the stage for something far larger.

Further Reading:

• Richard Sakwa – Frontline Ukraine (2015)

• Anne Applebaum – Red Famine (2017)

• Timothy Snyder – The Road to Unfreedom (2018)

• Serhii Plokhy – Lost Kingdom (2017)

Encounters at the Jan van Eyck Academie (Maastricht, The Netherlands)

Rafael Edem Kouto, Gwladys Gambie, and Rouzbey Shadpey in their studios at the Jan van Eyck Academie (October 2025, Maastricht, The Netherlands).

In the heart of Maastricht, the Jan van Eyck Academie stands as a quiet yet potent sanctuary for contemporary thought and creation. It is not an art school, nor a gallery, but something in between: a place where artists, designers, and thinkers from all over the world come together to reimagine what art can be when given time, trust, and tools.

Walking through the studios during the Open Studios days feels like entering parallel worlds. Each resident unfolds a vision that stretches beyond their discipline—woven through questions of history, identity, and repair. Among them this year: Rafael Edem Kouto, Gwladys Gambie, and Rouzbeh Shadpey — three distinct voices united by a shared urgency to heal and reimagine.

Rafael Edem Kouto

Rafael Kouto, a Swiss creative director and fashion designer of Togolese and Ghanaian origin, builds his practice on the ethics of reuse and cultural continuity. His work, deeply rooted in West-African material culture, embraces upcycling as both method and message. By transforming discarded textiles and objects, Kouto turns what was once waste into a vehicle of memory and renewal.

His ongoing project Artefacts & Notes from Altared Futures – Temporarily Closed for Healing examines portable artifacts that once travelled across the Atlantic with the slave trade — talismans, fabrics, small objects that survived displacement. Through these, Kouto forges an emotional connection between craft and spirituality, between what is lost and what can still be made sacred again.

Gwladys Gambie

From Martinique, still formally a French colony, Gwladys Gambie brings to Maastricht a dreamlike yet defiant visual universe. Her work explores the representation of Caribbean black bodies and the female condition under the long shadow of colonialism. Through drawing, painting, writing, and performance — and lately through embroidery — she builds an oneiric space where fantasy and critique meet.

In her project Metaphor of the Coconut Tree, Gambie confronts “doudouism,” the exoticized image of the Caribbean perpetuated by literature and tourism. Her hand-drawn portraits of trees and textile installations challenge the coconut’s lazy association with paradise, instead revealing the violence of history embedded in its trunk and leaves. Each stitch, each line, becomes an act of reclaiming narrative — turning ornament into testimony.

Rouzbeh Shadpey

Physician, writer, and artist Rouzbeh Shadpey brings the language of the clinic into dialogue with the language of poetry. His research unpacks the aesthetics of chronic fatigue and the colonial legacy of medical power. Through video, sound, and text, Shadpey transforms the experience of illness into a site of resistance — a way of thinking that honours those whose suffering has been dismissed as “medically contested.”

In his installation Musique Chronique, he stages a scenography that may or may not unfold into performance — an unfinished ritual about the transformation of pain into music. Elsewhere in the academy, a second intervention mirrors the first: not music as healing, but music as illness, a meditation on the dissonance between harmony and violence. His work resonates as both a lament and a call for empathy — an appeal for recognition of human vulnerability in times of devastation.

A house for multiplicity

Together, these artists exemplify what the Jan van Eyck Academie does best: it shelters voices that speak from fracture, from history, from the desire to mend. Here, discarded fabric becomes altar cloth; embroidery becomes resistance; sound becomes protest.

The academy’s studios are not quiet after all — they hum with the slow, persistent work of reimagining the world.

Jan van Eyck Academie

Jeanne d'Arc (Joan of Arc) at the Threshold of the house where she was born

Kneeling Joan of Arc—the statue of a prayerful Jeanne d’Arc that crowns her birthplace door—armor stilled, sword at rest: a warrior pausing before action.

Meet Jeanne d'Arc (Joan of Arc; 1412 - 1431) first, not astride a horse but on her knees. The statue shows a young fighter in prayer: gauntlets folded, sword quiet along the thigh, the plates of her armor stacked like the ribs of a bell. Her face is steady, hair falling in waves, a small ruff softening the steel. It’s a later homage to her memory, yet the essentials are pure Jeanne—courage and devotion sharing the same body.

Now place her where she belongs: above the door of the house where she was born, in Domrémy. The second image records that doorway—a modest entrance that once carried this very sentinel on its keystone. In a village of ordinary stone, the townspeople crowned an ordinary threshold with a praying soldier, as if to bless every departure that began there.

Print of the doorway of Joan of Arc’s birthplace, Domrémy-la-Pucelle (france): a tiny Gothic canopy with the royal fleurs-de-lis with flanking heraldic shields.

Look closely at the signs above the door. A tiny Gothic canopy frames three shields (escutcheons). The central one bears the three fleurs-de-lis of the French kings—the emblem of the crown whose cause Joan championed. The flanking shields each repeat a single fleur-de-lis, echoing loyalty to France. Beneath them runs a narrow motto band (blurred in the print), a ribbon of words that once made the message explicit: this house remembers the Maid and the monarchy she helped restore. The canopy’s pointed, chapel-like form borrows the language of churches, turning a domestic doorway into a small shrine.

Together, statue and portal tell the story better than any plaque. From this humble house stepped an extraordinary girl. And before the charge and the banners, there was this: a pause for prayer on the threshold—readiness gathered in stillness—then the open road.

Rotterdam my City — De Hef — A Bridge for Life Itself

The Koningshavenbrug (better known as “De Hef”) - Rotterdam, The Netherlands.

Across the northern edge of Rotterdam’s old harbor rises De Hef, the city’s iconic railway lift bridge — a monument of steel and symmetry. Built in 1927 to replace an older swing bridge destroyed in a ship collision, it was a marvel of its time: a vertical-lift bridge whose entire central span could rise to let ships pass beneath. For decades, trains thundered over it, carrying goods and passengers between north and south, its motion symbolizing the city’s pulse of progress.

When Rotterdam rebuilt after the Second World War, De Hef remained — scarred but standing, a survivor among ruins. It was finally decommissioned in 1993, after the construction of the rail tunnel that made it redundant. Yet public outcry saved it from demolition, and it became a protected monument, a silent figure in the skyline.

Then came a new dream. The Belgian architect Luc Deleu imagined giving De Hef an entirely different destiny — no longer a bridge for trains, but a bridge for life itself. In his visionary plan, the structure would become a civic platform suspended above the city: a place where every key event in human life — birth, marriage, death — would be officially declared. The bridge, with its 360-degree view over Rotterdam, would become a stage for existence, a place where the city could literally rise to mark its most intimate moments.

The plan was never realized, but its spirit endures. De Hef still towers over the water — a relic of movement, a monument to imagination, and a reminder that even in a city defined by rebuilding, some structures continue to lift not trains, but the human story itself.

Between Despair and Hope: The Sound of Ghanni Maastricht

Ghanni Maastricht performing at the Jan van Eyck Academie Open Studios Days (October 2025).

At the Jan van Eyck Academie, voices rose in harmony — soft at first, then firm, like a tide refusing to retreat. The choir Ghanni Maastricht, a collective of “Musicians for Palestine”, filled the air with Holm — Arabic for Dream.

The song, originally by the Tunisian artist Emel, speaks of imagining a world rebuilt from pain — a place where love and hope can grow again. Its words were written long before the present war, yet in the shadow of Gaza’s devastation they resonate with unbearable clarity:

If I could close my eyes and the dreams take me by the hand,
I would rise and fly in a new sky and forget my sorrows.

Since the attack by Hamas on October 7, 2023, and Israel’s two year devastating response, Gaza has become a symbol of suffering and endurance. Today, amid a fragile ceasefire, peace remains elusive — the future of the Palestinian people uncertain, suspended between grief and survival.

Ghanni’s performance did not pretend to offer solutions. Instead, it offered a space for compassion, a reminder that art can keep our humanity alive when politics fails. In their voices, sorrow turned into resistance, and music became a fragile bridge between despair and hope.

Ghanni Maastricht on Instagram

Tryater at Oerol 2017 — Who Survives the Godwit?

Tryater at Oerol 2017 — Who Survives the Godwit? (Wie overleeft de Grutto?)

Oerol Festival

Picasso Arrives in Paris

“Picasso llegando a París con Jaume Andreu Bonsons” (Paris, May 1901) - seen in Berlin.

In May 1901, a 19-year-old Pablo Picasso arrived for the second time in Paris — no longer the carefree prodigy who had first come the year before, but a young man changed by grief. Just months earlier, his close friend Carles Casagemas had taken his own life, an event that would haunt Picasso for years and give birth to his Blue Period.

This moment of return is captured in his drawing “Picasso llegando a París con Jaume Andreu Bonsons”, executed in colored wax crayons on card. The work shows Picasso beside his friend Jaume Andreu Bonsons, another Catalan painter, as they enter the city that would shape modern art. Their faces carry both determination and fatigue — the look of two young men stepping into a new chapter, carrying memory as baggage.

Only weeks after this arrival, Picasso held his first major exhibition at Ambroise Vollard’s gallery, marking the start of his Paris years and his rapid transformation from promise to legend.

Seen today, “Picasso llegando a París” feels like a hinge between innocence and maturity — a fragile record of friendship, resilience, and the moment when the artist’s personal sorrow began to turn into art.

Russia, The Eternal Return of Suppression: From Chaos to Putin

Boris Yeltsin and Vladimir Putin.

The 1990s in Russia were chaotic, hopeful, and brutal all at once. The Soviet collapse brought political freedom, but also economic ruin. Millions saw their savings vanish as inflation soared. State assets were sold off in rigged auctions, creating a new class of billionaires — the oligarchs — while ordinary Russians slid into poverty.

The Yeltsin Years
Boris Yeltsin presided over a turbulent democracy. Parliament clashed with the president; in 1993, tanks shelled the Russian White House during a political crisis. Chechnya declared independence, leading to a bloody war that humiliated the Russian army and deepened public discontent.

The Rise of Putin
In 1999, Yeltsin unexpectedly resigned, naming former KGB officer Vladimir Putin as acting president. Promising order after a decade of chaos, Putin won election in 2000. His early years coincided with a surge in oil prices, fueling economic growth and restoring a sense of stability.

Consolidation of Power
Putin moved quickly to centralize authority. Independent television networks were taken over by the state; regional governors lost their autonomy; political opponents were sidelined or prosecuted. The second war in Chechnya was waged with brutal efficiency, crushing separatism but leaving a legacy of repression.

Further Reading:

• Anna Politkovskaya – Putin’s Russia (2004)

• Masha Gessen – The Man Without a Face (2012)

• Fiona Hill & Clifford Gaddy – Mr. Putin (2013)

• David E. Hoffman – The Oligarchs (2002)

Rotterdam's Old Harbor

Rotterdam’s Old Harbor (Oude Haven).

At the edge of the modern city, the Oude Haven still feels like Rotterdam’s heartbeat. Historic barges float quietly in the water, their polished wood and ropes recalling the time when this was a working port, filled with the smell of tar and salt.

Beside them rises Het Witte Huis, once Europe’s first skyscraper — elegant, white, and proud, a survivor of the old city that was lost in 1940. Behind it, the Willemsbrug ties the past to the present, its steel lines echoing the masts below.

Far in the distance, you can just make out De Hef, the old railway lift bridge — a reminder that Rotterdam’s story has always been about transport.

Today the Oude Haven is a place to linger: cafés along the quay, reflections on the water, and the sense that here, in this small harbor, the whole spirit of Rotterdam still comes home.

The Siege of Dijon (1513)

Siege of Dijon by the Swiss on 1513, Musee des Beaux Arts de Dijon.

Step close to the tapestry and let your eyes travel from left to right. It reads like a film strip: many moments stitched into a single scene. The label calls it Le Siège de Dijon en 1513—a Flemish work from the early 16th century. What it shows is not one picture but a sequence: the arrival of the Swiss and Comtois allies of the Empire, the city’s desperate answer, and the deal that ended the crisis.

Left edge — the enemy gathers

A sloping meadow swells toward Dijon’s walls, thick with soldiers and gear. You can count the pikes and halberds like a comb. Drummers beat time beside a forest of lances and standards—look for cantonal banners, including the bear of Bern—and a ring of tents marks the commanders’ camp.
At the foot of the walls, early field guns squat on wooden carriages; gunners touch fuses while others haul gabions and mantlets into place. A breach opens where the batteries bite at the masonry. It’s busy, brutal work, but the tapestry keeps its poise: even the fallen are arranged like notes on a staff.

Center — faith on the ramparts

Now the mood pivots. Two slender architectural posts frame the drama on the walls: a procession pouring along the battlements. Clergy in embroidered copes, acolytes with thuribles and processional crosses, city magistrates in long gowns—everyone moves as one. At their heart is the talisman Dijon trusted when the cannons spoke: the statue of Notre-Dame de Bon-Espoir (Our Lady of Good Hope), carried high as if the rampart itself had become a church aisle.
This is the moment the city remembered most. On 12 September 1513 the statue was borne around the defenses; the tapestry freezes that turn of the story, letting incense and prayer counterweigh powder and shot.

Look up at the skyline behind them: Dijon becomes a dense stage set of towers, steeples, and tiled roofs—not a map-accurate view but a civic self-portrait. Heraldic cartouches and small shields float in the sky like captions, reminding you that this is not just any city under siege; it is Dijon, capital of a wounded but defiant Burgundy.

Right edge — words stop the war

The procession flows toward a gate scene crowded with officials and envoys. Here comes the second turning point. On 13 September, before the Porte-Neuve, the governor Louis II de La Trémoille negotiated an accord with the besiegers. The tapestry shows the choreography of a settlement: hands extended, a parchment displayed, soldiers leaning in while the artillery still points outward. To either side, skirmishes sputter on—ladders raised, muskets leveled—because peace rarely arrives all at once. But the center of gravity has shifted from weapons to words.

How the tapestry tells the tale

• It uses continuous narrative: the same wall carries the viewer through days of history without a cut.

• The palette—cool blues, pale straw, and rose—is typical of South Netherlandish weaving, with silk highlights that once flashed like armor in the sun.

• The millefleurs ground (sprinkled with small plants) domesticates the battlefield, as if to insist that this is still the Burgundian countryside, even under threat.

• Everywhere, contrasts: tents vs. towers, drums vs. bells, gun smoke vs. incense. Steel doesn’t dominate; it competes with ritual, and ritual holds its ground.

What to look for up close

• The bear standard among the Swiss—small but unmistakable.

• Gunners ramming charges and lighting fuses; wheelbarrows and carts stacked with shot.

• The reliquary-like canopies above parts of the procession, turning the wall-walk into a sacred route.

• Faces peering from windows and rooflines, tiny witnesses woven into the cityscape.

• The border’s fruit and foliage, a reminder that life continues at the very edge of war.

In a single woven breath, this tapestry carries you from assault to supplication to agreement. It is less a snapshot than a civic memory palace: Dijon under siege, Dijon in prayer, Dijon making peace—three rooms of the same house, unlocked as you walk along the wall.

From the Archive: La Dama at the Lange Voorhout with Zoë Wijnsouw (The Hague, The Netherlands)

Zoë Wijnsouw with ‘La Dama’ from Manolo Valdés (2001) in The Hague, 2010, by Barend Jan de Jong.

In the summer of 2010, the stately trees of the Lange Voorhout in The Hague looked down on a remarkable guest: La Dama (2001), a three-metre-high bronze sculpture by Spanish artist Manolo Valdés. With her majestic circular headdress and calm, archaic face, she evoked one of Spain’s greatest archaeological treasures — the mysterious Dama de Elche, a limestone bust dating back to the 4th century BC.

Valdés did not attempt to copy the ancient figure. Instead, he reimagined her presence: monumental yet human, classical yet modern. The bronze surface captured the shifting Dutch light, turning gold in the morning sun and deep green by evening. Between the linden trees of the Voorhout, she seemed both visitor and guardian — a piece of Mediterranean memory grounded in northern soil.