I’ve
visited Amsterdam many times. One time I went with a work colleague in his
fifties who had heard of its dual personality but never witnessed it. For three
days we crossed the line between its biscuit-tin prettiness and dark
underbelly. I prefer the creak and squeak of bicycles, trundling trams and puff
of river boats as much as the smoky cafes, street-corner drug dealers and
red-light-decked alleys lined with beckoning prostitutes.
When
my friend said (on the flight over), “What happens in Amsterdam stays in
Amsterdam” I should have known he was in pursuit of the odd misadventure. I
knew he wasn’t the faithful type as I’d been shopping once and was walking up a
side street back to my car I bumped into him with a strange woman (he was in
his mid-fifties and looked as ridiculous in a denim suit as he looked sheepish
to see me.)
Anyway
he was undemanding company so I went with him to Amsterdam. I can’t describe
the detail but one night we stalked the outer ring of streets were he found a
woman half his age and an eighth the size of his wife. She stood behind a barn
door with the bottom half closed and agreed a price. These women petrify me so
when another one appeared behind the barn door and said, “You coming in too? You
could screw us together yes!” I was out of there faster than sound. I told my
friend (Mr X) that I’d meet him at a large cafe where we’d had some food off
Dam Square. It was not late only about nine pm.
Earlier
the café had been buzzing with families but now it had taken on a noir
complexion and was a dimly-lit bar. There was a cavernous feeling but there
were a few couples in it having snacks and drinks. The tables were bolted to
the floor though the chairs weren’t. There were gingham tablecloths like we had
at home once.
Suddenly
the volume of the music increased and two women appeared from a doorway near
the bar. They wore skimpy silken dresses with sequined tassels offering a light
curtain of modesty. They were like mountain goats the way they mounted the
tables and started dancing. They seemed to be in a world of their own with
glazed-over expressions as though not to meet the eye of anyone in the place.
The occupants didn’t seem to take much notice and just went on eating and
smoking.
“Oh
my word,” I thought, “I’ve got to get out of here.” I didn’t know where to look
or put myself....well, I did, I put myself outside. I lasted about ten minutes,
drained the glass (I can remember the slice of lemon almost sticking in the
back of my throat) and got myself outside. Is it any wonder the tables were
screwed into the floor. It was all a bit of a blur but I made sure I was stood
outside when a sweaty red-faced Mr X appeared.
Anyway,
here is painting of a table dancer with tassels twirling. The viewpoint is
looking up as this is how it had been in the café. One of the women had a pony
tail which she used to good affect so I’ve shown it here.
For
some reason I didn’t take any photos of this painting in the early stages. I
just got on with it and got carried away. As there’re no faces or fingers I
painted it quickly in about three hours.
I’ve
made a mistake though. Tassels weighted with sequins are quite robust whereas
the onces I’ve painted here are light and give the
effect of a Caribbean ra ra
skirt.
The
blurry background is in keeping with the blurry memory.