This document shall be the final installment in the literary aspect of the work I title “Hell (W)hole” and subtitle “The Worst Street in Holland.” It shall be contained, at least as I presently imagine, in a chapter, or possibly, an entire subsection called “Ever After” which should find itself in a much larger work called “Dreaming Myself to Death.” By writing about my current plans, I manage to include the process of writing in the writing itself. That is if I decide, in the final assessment to include it. A writer should know what to keep and what to throw away. A lot can happen between the first draft and the final published work. For me the prospect of beginning to write a novel is daunting. It is as though there’s a hazy puzzle in my mind for which I must first assemble the pieces before I can put it all together. At this point I am still assembling the pieces and I’ve but a vague picture of the whole.
I now consider the collection part of “Hell (W)hole” to be complete. I’ve assembled photographs, objects, visual artworks, police reports, written reports, psychiatric assessments, audio recordings, visual recordings (which now exist only in an abstract sense), mass produced objects, sales receipts (also lost) and, most importantly, I’ve made an impression on those involved. At the time I made sure to tell them that they were walking with me in a piece of art and these works shall confirm the truth of these statements however unlikely they sounded at the time. As I said, the Fuchsiastraat should have become a museum with 30c as its main attraction. In a way what I am now writing and my artistic efforts at the time manage to do just this. It was a modern version of auto destruct art. Part of the art was in the systematic destruction of the street and since a myriad of social concerns were involved, it is perfectly consistent that it was actively demolished instead of exalted. The Fuchsiastraat began as an emergency housing street after the war, then became a quaint and friendly workers’ street, fell into the hands of ruthless capitalists, turned into an embarrassment for the authorities, became a slum, then a fire trap, then public housing, after that part of a demolition project, a modern art museum, and now, a heap of rubble. Soon it will be nothing more than an abstract concept artistically explored in the work of an eccentric artist lost in the pages of oblivion. Or maybe not...
Modern art is like a game of chess with each player attempting to advance it and score points. In my view, Duchamp and the other Dadaists had been responsible for the most significant shift in the art of the 20th century. Duchamp had paved the way for conceptual art in 1914 with his readymades and continued the game of chess, literally and metaphorically, until his death at an old age. A lot of the primary aspects of the work, especially what I did in my apartment during the psychotic breakdown, had their roots in the original experiments of the Dadaists and the experiments they inspired. This could be as simple as a gesture or filming water flowing over the edge of a sink. The piece reached its most complex moments in the hours before my arrest. I’d borrowed from elements of installation art, religious art, conceptual art, photography, literature and many forms of visual art, audio, video, public art, performance art, shock art and, although its difficult to verify, multi dimensional art, graffiti and histrionics. I’d made references to writers, artists, film makers, historians, academics and regular people.
Besides the purely artistic aspects of the work, it also expressed political, social, and philosophical ideas. I’d turned clerks, cashiers, fast food workers, police officers, capitalists, junkies, construction workers, arsonists, thieves, politicians, Dutch society, a freaky Irish man, time travelers and vandals into artists. I hope that one day those who walk in my lines will have a chance to read about their role in the art piece. At this point I’m planning to send out a few questionnaires to the central figures but it remains to be seen if I follow through. At least I’ve revealed the writing process yet again. I enjoy setting up mirrors within the work if only to steer the interpretation. Perhaps this is why I am now writing this document. I am afraid that the richness of the work shall be lost. Forget it not, though, that this document is within the work and not a critical adjunct to it. Otherwise you’ll miss the richness that I’m trying to express and the point of this essay. It’s like watching a documentary and, when the final credits appear, you realize that you’ve been watching actors in a written drama. The director had hoodwinked you. I too like to spin webs.