Graduation?

Lisa, Victoria, and Heidi backstage

I haven’t changed my mind. Calling a ceremony for fifth graders “graduation” is not right. But, before I get all worked up and say stuff as only guys from Essex can, let me clarify.

with Helena, the stage manager

Like many other schools worldwide, ISA celebrates the accomplishments of its fifth graders with a ceremony attended by parents, grandparents, friends, and the rising fourth graders. They call it their "graduation". Therein lies the problem.

with Lisa in the wings

Like any graduation, the ceremony features processionals, music, speeches, tears, and the awarding of “diplomas” (although to their credit, no one called the rather officious looking certificates that).

some of the "graduates" of 5JT

A rather famous Brit once said that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. I am willing to get down from my high-horse long enough to admit that the whole affair was awesome. Part of me thinks that for the amount of money parents pay in tuition, ostentatious displays are part and parcel. But the emotional old-man in me appreciated the very unique opportunity to publicly reward every one of my children for all their effort and achievement.

A object-lesson...

Graduation is what happens upon completion of one’s education. It is not what milestones should be labeled. That said, I was pretty darn proud of them.

...in metaphor

What I’ll Take Away

At The International School of Amsterdam, the school where I work, there are some really talented people, none more so than Steve York. I first met Steve because his daughter, Anna, is in my class. We were introduced…nice guy, the usual. I was told that he was an art teacher at ISA. What I was soon to learn was that Steve is an artist who teaches at ISA; there’s a difference.

Did you ever meet someone and know, somewhere way down inside, that you were meeting a truly singular person? Seriously, there is something about people like Steve. There’s energy surrounded by serenity. Stephen York is one such person. There’s something indescribable about Steve. Steve’s art captures Dutch culture. Steve’s art expresses Amsterdam.

Steve York

In Amsterdam art is prevalent. The shops, the markets, the galleries, the sidewalks—art seems to be everywhere. Heck, in Amsterdam there’s plenty of inspiration. The canals, the bridges, the buildings…no kidding, every street is scenic. The place drips culture. But living here is a series of trade-offs. It’s gloomy most of the time but when its not the sunshine is brilliant. No one even looks your way on the street until they think you are obstructing them but that’s not always bad. Vice is a part of the tourist trade but no one forces it on you. See? Trade-offs. Here’s the most prevalent one of all: for all the crap you deal with here, you still get to live in one of the most exciting cities in the world, and the foremost exciting part is the culture of art.

For the last six months I have been immersed in Dutch culture. Living here is different than living in little ole Wake Forest. The differences are significant, most of which involve weather, transportation, social behaviors, food, beer, and heritage and history. I am on record regarding all of them: better have a decent umbrella and bicycle, don’t expect people to look you in the eye or even be nice, the cuisine and the suds are darn tasty, and the sense of history is a thousand years in the making.

Rembrandt's stool at easel

Omaha Beach

Ronan once asked me a simple question with an impossibly complex answer. He asked: What will you take away (from Holland when you leave)? I can’t remember what I answered, but I haven’t stopped thinking about the question. In my life I have stood on the very same spot where years before (at different times) Abraham Lincoln and Jefferson Davis stood. I have been in the exact space once occupied by Generals Lee and Grant. I have stood on the sand where thousands of young men were slaughtered in June 1944. Now I can say I stood at the easel of Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn. At the Mauritshuis in Den Haag, I stood gazing at Vermeer’s A View of Delft in the same place where Vincent Van Gogh once stood doing the same thing. As silly as these things might sound, they mean a lot to me. In Holland I can go, and I have gone to see the art of Rembrandt, 

Rembrandt van Rijn

A View of Delft

Vermeer, Fabritius, Van Gogh, Hals, Reubens, and van Dyck and many, many more—a list too numerous to include here. Europe, namely Holland, particularly Amsterdam, is a metaphorical candy shop—it is virtually impossible to get enough, no matter how many times you visit or how long you stay.

Some time ago I was contacted by a parent of one of my students who (thankfully) alerted me that my kids wanted some class time to show me something they made for me and some parents wanted permission to attend so they could see it also. I’m thick but I aine dull; so I knew what that meant. Sure enough, the whole affair was quite emotional. I hung on; and hung on; and hung on. Then several parents spoke. Man…yeah…OK so much for hanging on.

They gave me classic Dutch footwear.

They gave me some bubbly…and then they gave me this:

Not long ago I went on record claiming that since I’ve been in Holland I had met two Dutch artists, and I owned originals by both. Steve, please forgive me. I should have said “three.”

Months ago I realized that the amazing paintings I saw in various places throughout the school were done by Stephen York. The more I learned about Steve as an artist, the more I admired the man. He’ll be incredulous at the implication and possibly quite dismissive, but how can I not make the connection? In this place, this very special place, I have met yet another Dutch master. No words can describe how I feel knowing I own a York original.

Good Times and Riches

I have a weird inclination to attribute significance to silly coincidences. Hey, after my new chums gave me a painting by one of only two local artists I have met and admired, I’m sticking with my tendency.

Every morning I wake at 5:45 to my iPod playing songs. I have to laugh at how often I make connections between the random selections and whatever is happening for me. I know it’s a stretch but I am getting quite used to it.

Before I leave Amsterdam for good, I made a short list of things I still want to see. On Sunday I toured the Amsterdam Heritage Museum and shopped for my grandson on Kalverstraat before walking to the Leidseplein for a few beers and a chance to use my pen. I sat down, made my order, and dug in my man-bag for my iPod Touch.

Here’s what I heard:

If it suddenly ended tomorrow

I could somehow adjust to the fall.

Good times and riches

And sonofabitches

I’ve seen more than I can recall.

                                         --Jimmy Buffett

Is it me? OK, probably, but you have to admit…

I Was Wondering the Same Thing

Shortly after figuring out where most things are in Amsterdam in relation to everything else (and how to get “home”) I found the Spui (pronounced spow—rhymes with how now brown cow.) The Spui is cool. It’s a plein—a square, a pedestrian courtyard. That’s where I first saw the American Book Center (a bookstore with Amsterdam’s largest collection written in English). I say that’s where I first “saw” the American Book Center because I see loads of stuff but finding anything the second time is the trick. Anywho, I surely found the ABC and the Spui again and many other times, including one day when I learned that on Sundays the Spui features an art market. I’ve been back many times, mostly trying to talk myself into buying something.

See, these are serious artists and their art is by no means cheap. As a friend of my wife likes to say, “They like their stuff!” That said, on several occasions I returned to the Spui to see the art—especially that of Gerard Carbo (pictured below).

Carbo paints plein air, meaning outdoors in view of his subjects. In his art, you see what he saw. I absolutely love his work. He tends to use multiple canvases—you know, he paints an extended scene by placing two or more canvases side-by-side and creating a panorama. His art is what I sometimes think my paintings should be. For as much as I want one and for as much as I tried, I never did pull the trigger.

Then, get this…last week my colleagues informed me that as a “team” we were going to lunch at a local restaurant. I went. Why not? For as clever as I pretend to be, I didn’t see it coming; the lunch was held in my honor, if you will. I was really surprised when they presented me with a gift. (You followin’ me here?)

I started to unwrap it, and I knew right away it was a canvas—actually two, back-to-back. My first thought was of my artist buddy, Sonya, but as soon as I saw the images, I knew. “Did you buy these on the Spui?” I asked. They asked me how I knew.

I was wondering the same thing about them.

left panel

right panel

That's a Boat Ride?

When Sonya, my Jamaican-heritage, British-born, Dutch-marrying, artist friend asked me if I wanted to take a boat ride with her and her husband, Wik, I said sure. As it turned out, I didn’t understand the question. What she really asked me was if I wanted to add one of the best experiences anyone could possibly have as a short-term visitor to Holland. Let me tell you…

I realize that the names of the waterways won’t mean much to you, and to be candid, without Sonya’s help I couldn’t remember them anyway; but let me describe what I saw. Wik and Sonya live on the Ijburg, a man-made island that faces the Markermeer, the open water of the IJ (the bay). Wik’s boat is a thoroughbred and the trip across the bay was the home stretch of the Kentucky Derby!

The pace slowed considerably as we traveled along the scenic River Vecht toward the town of Muiden. The long wait for the lockmaster to open the gates allowed us to explore the shops and taverns along the banks. (They even had beer; imagine that!) Once through, we traveled along the Amsterdam Rijn Kaanal toward Driemond and onward to the River Gein where we passed through the tiny, tiny village of Abcoude. The canals were so small that we meandered intimately past back porches as friendly on-lookers sipped favorite afternoon beverages. The waterways reminded me of roadwork back home because we waited in single file while the long line of opposite-facing boaters squeezed past before taking our turn.

If I wasn’t real sure where I was relative to Amsterdam centrum, I quickly reoriented when we reached the Amstel River at Ouderkerk—just a five-minute bike ride from my apartment! Talk about your basic shock and surprise! I have ridden my bike on the bike path adjacent to the Amstel many times, and to be on the water, seeing the familiar landmarks was very special indeed. The Amstel is a major shipping waterway, so you might imagine the turbulence caused by ocean-worthy vessels as we approached Amsterdam!

Again, it was a very special treat to see the familiar historic Amsterdam landmarks, but this time from the water. The Hermitage, the Nieuw Kerk, Centraal Station—fabulous! It was soon back to the IJ, the Markermeer, and back to Sonya’s. Many thanks to Sonya and Wik for providing an unforgettable memory.

                                                                                                                                                 Does that look safe to you?