ISSUE #6 – 2010/2011 STRICTLY UNEDITED

#6
ISSUE #6 – 2010/2011 STRICTLY UNEDITED JOURNAL ON THE PERSONAL EXPERIENCE OF NATURE IN THE URbAN ENvIRONmENT
CLUB
DONNY
day 1125
Bert De mUYNCk
Last night I dreamed I was being followed. Soon
after I woke up, opened the window and watched
the city sleep. Looking down, I saw people
gathering around the entrance to my apartment
building. My initial reaction was to jump, fall
and crush them. I believed that while falling my
body would enlarge and in a few seconds I would
become bigger than the city of Beijing. After that
the planet would stop rotating. I looked down
again and everybody had disappeared. In the tower
in front of me a woman was undressing.
around her apartment. She may not have been
beautiful, but she could certainly move her body.
And that’s the most important thing. She came to
the window, stared in my direction and rubbed
her breasts against the glass. As she did this,
my thoughts returned to earlier that afternoon.
A petite lady had given a lecture about flexible
cities, collapsing buildings, while drawing strange
comparisons between different cities. It is hard
to resist the temptation of a theoretically sound
analysis of the contemporary city. Now, so I
was convinced, she was standing in front of me,
When I started in business in this country, I was the smoking the city away.
only architect around. This place didn’t need any
of us, or so I was told upon arrival. I was trouble, I never called myself an expert; as always, other
dealing in towers and transforming territories. people call you names. Being called an architect
Here, progress occurred naturally, building was was harder to face. Because it was true, it felt
uncomplicated and architecture had its own like an insult. But I was doing so much more than
mysterious ways of being realized. Those times piling bricks on top of each other, considering
had their advantages; there was nobody around different ways of putting frames into their places,
to criticize you, you could think up the most attaching wood to concrete.
outrageous designs and they would materialize,
no matter where, the following week. You talked Architects think cities here are more dynamic,
to some people, any people, and the next day a but they do get disenchanted. Here, they expect
whole neighborhood would disappear. After that their life to be glamorous and to be entertained
exhilarating period this country got caught up by big clients, day-in-day-out. These nobodiesin the global swindle of creating livable, green, from-nowhere work here with the sole ambition
sustainable, human and creative cities; the future of gaining recognition elsewhere. A client can
was determined by feedback provided by experts. smell that craving for escapism. My clients know
Experts, as everyone knows, are like vampires; that I breathe architecture. They know I adjust
they are only sexy in movies. A few years earlier to the environment easily, smoothly, smartly
these experts had talked themselves into a couple and mysteriously. That is because I came here
of meetings with the ruling classes and sketched blank, without being preconditioned by anything
them a grim future; one of urban disaster, famine, else. If clients want contemporary, I give them
war, traffic, social unrest, revolt and an all- contemporary. If others want contemporary with
encompassing anonymous urban environment. Chinese characteristics, I give them contemporary
Fear would be all that remained, the future reduced with Chinese characteristics. If they want
to something that was so yesterday-ish. The same elaborate, they get elaborate.
experts that put the problem on the agenda would,
of course, be the only ones able to provide the She must have some kind of itch, I thought.
solutions. All they wanted in return was money.
That is how this country miraculously went from There must be something wrong with the glass, I
a building boom one day, to bankruptcy the next. thought.
When I left, I was told they needed me.
Some architects are so preoccupied with their own
Soon after, she was naked and started walking creations that they forget it’s reality that demands
our attention. They deal with reality from a
distance, get lost and are unable to see what is
really happening; the end of the city as we think
we know it. As an expert, your life is dependent
on a weird form of self-inflicted euphoria; that
doomsday will come tomorrow.
On the scale of spatial organization, the
contemporary city is located somewhere between
the laboratory and the landfill. One architect once
said that congestion, economics, dependency
and lack of vision have all contributed to the
development of the modern city. In those cities,
so he argued, people take for granted to spend
a lifetime in large sterile apartment blocks. He
forgot to mention that most of the people take it
for granted that they’ll spend the rest of their lives
in slums. Rubbing their breasts against cardboard
and barbwire. He also forgot to mention that they
will be forced to move territories constantly, that
sterile territories will replace their humble habitats,
that they will only return in order to roam around
in the laboratory and collect the garbage, sweep
the dust, pour the concrete, operate the elevator,
guard the compound and clean the dishes.
The silence surrounding the creation of
architecture in this country may be the result of
its dismissal of the authorship of the architectural
image. This country is built by an army of
anonymous architects, invisible planners and
unidentifiable property developers, all following
or broadening the guidelines laid down by a group
of mysterious officials. All this together leads to a
situation in which the autonomy of architecture is
the central tenet. People passing through the city,
on its ring roads and elevated highways, through
its avenues or swirling along its intersections,
rarely seem to think about who is responsible for
the environment they find themselves in. When
everything around you is changing, it is difficult
to make a distinction between the important and
the ephemeral changes.
There must be something wrong with the building
in front of me, I thought.
CLUB DONNY #6 2010 > 03
malakoff
haNNe hageNaars
Amsterdam: This man knows how to flirt, his
eyes squinting like a puma on the prowl, his
compliments descend into implausibility and
still I find them hard to resist. In the midst of my
confusion as to whether I should or shouldn’t play
along, he suddenly lifts me up and sniffs, the scent
of my perfume, my body, my breath. ‘This is how
we decide about sex in the land where I come
from’. His sweet-scented senses intoxicate.
Château of Roissy: Thus he would posses her as a
god possessed his creatures, who he lays hold of in
guise of a monster or a bird, of an invisible spirit
or a state of ecstasy.
Since she loved him. She could not help loving
whatever derived from him. O listened and
trembled with happiness, because he loved her, al
acquiescent she trembled.
From: Pauline Réage: Histoire d’O, (translation Sabine
d’Estree) (Pauline Réage was a pseudonym of Anne
Declos. She wrote the book for her lover and boss at the
publisher’s Gallimard, Jean Paulhan.)
In Paris a door opens. There stands Pierre. On his
face a darkish haze shows clearly in the glaring
sunlight; in his long nightgown with a hat on his
head, as if he just stepped out of bed, which he
has.
The first time my partner and I visited his uncle
Pierre and aunt Puss in Paris, I was lured along
under false pretences. My partner had the run of
his aunt’s apartment, he showed me the brasscoloured key, he was free to stay whenever he
wanted. What he failed to mention was that his
aunt and uncle also live there, that we would
actually just be paying them a visit and that both
the house and his relatives were in a pretty filthy
state.
In the back-garden studio of the house in the suburb
Malakoff, we slept on sheets we brought along
with us, after having dusted all the cobwebs off.
One of the toilets had long since ceased to function
and the other had not been cleaned in years; the
garden it is then! Aunt Puss bought the studio in
the sixties and turned it into a Parisian version of a
Tyrolean climbers’ hut, wood everywhere, and on
the floor she laid large jagged tiles in a pattern of
her own design. Books, books were everywhere.
She no longer did the cooking. Pierre bought the
meals from the petrol station around the corner.
Breakfast consisted of old pieces of baguette,
washed down with expensive champagne out of
grimy little cups. Paris sparkled. I’ve loved them
ever since that first weekend. Pierre and Puss,
her name apparently derives from ‘sourpuss’, her
nickname as a child.
Aunt Puss’ grey-haired furrowed head, her eyes a
watery blue and red, was still full of thoughts that
04 < CLUB DONNY #6 2010
quickly became ever-greyer and more shadowy.
Her skin was covered in razor-sharp grooves, as if
every night her head was bound tightly with strings,
which were cut loose again in the morning. On our
second visit, her speech had already deteriorated
into long threads of sound, an incomprehensible
fusion of Frenchdutch. Her mind could no longer
stand the pressure of those strings and she began
down the long lonely road of withdrawal. She
mumbled restlessly and her eyes took on that hazy
glow, whereby you knew that while she could
still see, she was no longer able to comprehend.
Step by step her reality disappeared, and nothing
came in its place. Like the path from the house to
the studio that also gradually became overgrown;
from then on they remained in the living room.
Puss in one bed, Pierre in the other. Her resting,
him reading.
They spent summer in the country house in Soisysur-Seine. A typical French country retreat with
a main building and two wings. If we didn’t find
them in Malakoff, we continued driving to the
other house. Puss was looking surprisingly good,
we thought. Yes, one evening she had walked into
the garden and got lost, the dear waiflike Puss was
calmly waiting under a bush, waiting for what?
First for darkness, then for nothing, that’s all,
until she was found, stone cold. She was picked
up by an ambulance with its lights flashing. The
days in hospital had done her good. Her nails
were manicured and her skin had regained its own
colour.
A year later: the house in Malakoff is empty again.
We drive on to the country house. The doorbell
rings. Pierre opens the door and for the first
time we see panic in his eyes, desperation. We
follow him inside. Papers, books, matches and a
handkerchief float in the last remaining water on
the floor. During the cold winter months the pipes
had burst and water came streaming into the house.
Toadstools are growing on the spines of the books,
the wood of the windowsill, even on the pieces
of carpet on the first floor where the moisture has
soaked through. A seventeenth century Japanese
figurine is ravaged by white mould. Everywhere,
books are lying, standing and hanging out to dry,
hopelessly. We help drag the green velour sofa
outside, but the thing just falls apart. Woodlice and
unidentified moisture-loving insects run for their
lives. The soft green fabric and crumbly pieces of
wood lie on the grass, recovering. One of Pierre’s
suits hangs on a coat hanger in the sun.
Meanwhile, Puss sits on a bench in the hallway,
her long grey hair loose and hanging down, like
threads of dust in the light. The dampness has
also damaged the clothes she has on, and holes
have appeared in her long shapeless nightgown,
through which a breast is visible. The air is full
of damp, urine, water and a little sweat. The smell
of letting go, no control, of decay. Never had I
seen the process of death so visible in life itself.
It is still too soon though. Water pipes turned off,
mopped up, cleared away, and aired.
Malakoff. Nature feels so at ease in this house.
Dust inhabits the place, and grime is a second
layer that covers these two frail people and their
possessions. In the studio behind the house, where
nobody goes anymore, the plants are forcing their
way in, growing through the bricks, sprouting out
between the books.
There, in disrepair, lies the book Histoire d’O, the
scandalous volume about sex and total submission,
which his mother wrote in an attempt to bind her
lover to her, through language. She too lived here
in Malakoff until her death, in the room where
Puss and Pierre now lay together on the bed,
letting the days drift by. Spots of pink and white
mould add a splash of vivid colour to the black
cover of the book. The house in Soisy was a gift
from her lover. The one for whom she wrote the
book. The books are her other inheritance, books
everywhere, in the washbasin, the bath, in boxes,
behind the curtains. Unbridled books.
During our last visit the situation appears to have
changed. For the first time Pierre wants to organize
matters. A home help perhaps? A nursing home?
First he picks up a large folder, unties the ribbon
and opens it. Paper creatures (silverfish, firebrats,
long-tailed silverfish) scuttle off to a safer spot,
plenty of choice, books lie everywhere. Out of
the folder he pulls drawings by Henri Michaux,
an etching by Manet. Every sheet of paper is
yellowed and covered in circles and mould. ‘If
there’s anything you want, just say the word’.
The cups, the draining-board and the smell in
particular make me lose my appetite. Slyly I stuff
my slice of the cake we brought with us into my
bag. The smell of urine turns my stomach. Aunt
Puss. She breathes. She eats, although it can’t be
much. She just keeps living. Now and then she
walks around flapping her arms like a bird. She
has fallen silent, language has abandoned her.
She smiles a lot, distantly. How must the world,
this room, look through her eyes? The books
stand in rows against the mirrored walls, their
spines against the glass, turning their backs on
the people. The windows are dull with stains and
damp and outside the branches scratch impatiently
at the panes. Her nails just keep growing, hands
like little claws, but harmless. She lives and
breathes, but the smell of what is approaching is
all-pervading, the smell of the end.
Amsterdam: My relationship has ended prior to
their death.
La mémoire est humide, lucide.
from: lagos
to: douala
JeLLe BOUwhUis
While visiting Google Earth, one can only wonder
about the geographical embedding of a city like
Lagos, especially as geographical background
information on this, one of the world’s largest
conurbations, is so scarce on the Internet. One
website I consulted uses the view of Lagos from the
stratosphere as an example of the ‘nature-crushing
impact of a city’. True, when seen in its entirety,
approx 25 x 20 km, the pale grey of urbanity
appears to expand endlessly into the green of
the rainforest on this section of the West-African
coast. Only a few whimsical, green tentacles seem
to defy the sprawling urban fabric – small rivers,
wetlands and gorges that are probably unsuitable
for settlement, as is the case with the characteristic
lagoons from which Lagos derives its name. But
a closer inspection reveals that the city is not so
much expanding into the rainforest, but into a
patchwork of small-scale agricultural enterprises
that must have developed at least as rapidly as the
city itself, paving the way for the incessant urban
sprawl.
A more thorough examination of Google Maps,
photos of cityscapes and empirical evidence, even
the evasive grey, sometimes reveals a green spot
other than those riversides mentioned previously.
For example, Ikoyi, a densely inhabited quarter
on Lagos island, the ‘old’ centre of the city,
includes a golf course and a polo club, although
from street level these areas are barely visible,
let alone accessible. There is, however, one large
public green area near the city centre: the park
that surrounds the National Theatre and Gallery
of Art, institutions that are combined in the same
building, which is itself an outstanding jewel of late
modernist architecture. Luckily, it hardly attracts
any visitors so the park remains a relatively quiet
zone in vibrant Lagos, perhaps also due to the fact
that the park is less suitable for economic activity
than any street elsewhere in the city. It is probably
also better policed (while making my way through
the park I encountered a squad of adolescents who
were carrying rifles and monitoring the main road
that borders the park; to me they looked like socalled ‘area boys’, but my driver, who fruitlessly
asked them the way, maintained that they were
police – not that there was much difference, he
went on to say, but still). The vast park, partly
wetland, seemed perfectly suited for the museum
attendant’s goat to graze on. The guard had little
else to do, other than collecting the negligible
entrance fee from a single visitor a day.
Despite its remarkable architecture the museum
seems entirely unfit to house art: it lacks both
daylight windows and electricity, and only by the
dim flame from a cigarette lighter could one discern
some colourfully painted portraits of famous
Nigerian officials, in addition to some sculptures
and an empty pedestal sporting the curious memo:
‘curator this object is kept for maintenance’. The
main gallery spaces were walled-off anyway.
In the park, though, I encountered open-air
landscape painters, an image one doesn’t usually
associate with Lagos. Partly hidden, but in fact
just some 200 meters from the museum entrance,
a group of artists joined forces in what is known
as ‘Universal Studios’. Their compound was
originally intended as parking space for the
vehicles of the museum staff, but in the permanent
absence of any staff at all, they arranged for its
informal conversion into a studio complex. Their
work consists of market-orientated woodcutting,
painting and elaborately laboured scrap sculpture;
their presence in the park is completely unexpected.
Some years ago they actually helped Lonnie van
Brummelen and Siebren de Haan to produce their
‘Monument of Sugar’.
One wouldn’t call Lagos ‘lush’ although recently
some modest investments in artificial nature have
been spotted. The strongest impressions of the
city consist of exhaust pipes directed towards
the streets, incessantly billowing clouds of black
smoke from electricity generators that run on
gasoline, and the grim slogans spray-painted
in black on many of the houses, stating ’this
house is not for sale’. As I was told, this is not to
ward off prospective immigrants, but to prevent
hustlers from selling the house during the owner’s
absence.
How different the Google impression of Douala,
some 800 kilometres to the east! Sumptuous trees
dominate this former capital of Cameroon, a city
of a yet unknown number of souls, estimated at
somewhere between one and four million and
supposedly the second-rainiest spot on earth. The
satellite view of this part of the Wouri delta, partially
obscured by clouds, shows hardly any agricultural
activity but instead reveals what appears to be a
genuine rainforest. More than that, the city looks
as though its inhabitants more or less landed in
the jungle and had not yet had time to urbanize
their environment. But the actual settlement today
is a deception. Douala is a place of the kind for
which the term ‘crap city’ was invented. Some
blame this predicament on civilian upheavals in
the in de 70s and 80s, after which the government
relocated the capital to Yaoundé and remained
unwilling to reconstruct the old one, but in actual
fact Douala looks and feels as if it has always been
just as it is today. The respectable contemporary
art centre Doual’art, an almost alien feature in
this context, gave the crap image a different turn
by commissioning a local artist, Joseph Francis
Sumegne for a large public sculpture. In 1996 they
realized La Nouvelle Liberté, a work made out of
old car parts and other scrap material. Towering
above the city’s busiest traffic junction, the
surprisingly elegant and impressive figure of over
ten meters-tall offers Douala its very own version
of the Statue of Liberty.
But after such urban distractions, one could actually
discern that Douala, nevertheless, offers fertile
ground for mango, banana and even coconut trees,
suggesting that the locals are able to live from what
this urban fruit garden has to offer. Ultimately,
a small shed is better for the environment than
a Lagos villa. In Douala I met the sympathetic
writer Lionel Manga, who is also a part-time
environment activist – another surprising feature
in a city that obviously has many other problems to
deal with. Manga had visited the Philips company
in Eindhoven to find out what could be done to get
energy-saving light bulbs introduced in Douala.
Personally I experienced that large parts of town
have no electricity supply at all; an evening
approach by plane revealed a deep darkness, as
if we were indeed landing in the forest, so I was
a bit puzzled by his initiative. In Lagos, such a
change could really make a difference, given the
ubiquity of the old-fashioned, constantly-burning
light bulb – probably one of the reasons behind
the notorious unreliability of Nigeria’s electricity
company NEPA.
While writing down these memories of a trip to
West Africa more than a year ago, I got to see
a small exhibition by Nigerian documentary
photographer Akintunde Akinleye in Amsterdam.
A couple of years ago he won a World Press Photo
Award with a picture of the devastation in Lagos
after a gas pipe explosion. This time I was drawn
to one of his photographs of a perfectly manicured
and capriciously embellished lawn square in the
midst of an infrastructural knot. Various websites
contend that this new and unprecedented ecological
activity by the city authority precedes a major
investment by Chinese traders in a commercial
district not far from this particular square. The
modest and artificial presence of green in Lagos
does not, however, convince the visitor of any
environmental care whatsoever. The rainforest has
already disappeared with the settlement of farmers
and the subsequent urbanization of their land. The
governmental mismanagement and environmental
neglect in crappy Douala, in contrast, leaves the
visitor with the contradictory but definitely more
pervasive and lasting impression that there’s very
little that separates it from its original habitat: a
deep green paradise.
CLUB DONNY #6 2010 > 05
in nature’s
time
gaiL satLer
I am very drawn to haiku and to impressionist
paintings, especially those of Monet. Both fuse
seeing and feeling and eliminate elaboration of
ideas. Descriptions so that the capturing of seeing/
feeling can be spontaneously experienced. These
works offer glimpses of the ordinary, guided by
capturing the essence rather than the accuracy of
representation. For haiku, the constraint of form
is mediated by juxtaposition. There is often a
seasonal reference, to set place and time. For
impressionists form is secondary to capturing
light and presence in the moment. Monet once
wrote about his process:
When you go out to paint, try to forget what objects
you have before you. Merely think, here is a little
square of blue, here is an oblong of pink, here is a
streak of yellow, and paint it just as it looks to you,
the exact color and shape, until it gives your own
naïve impression of the scene before you.
Upon my own reflection of these forms of
expression, I find myself attracted to these visceral
and intuitive works because they express my
feelings as a city dweller wherein my environment
is dominated by the spatial and temporal formality
and constraints of structured living. Grids rule as
do the urban colors of grey and black. Punctuality
is a must; time is money. In addition to a visually
ordered landscape, there is an undercurrent of the
clock, not the biological but the economic one. Yet
in my daily life, the visceral approach is also how
I experience the city. It is as Monet wrote a series
of impressions, slices of life that complete a scene
but only in an ephemeral way. In doing so, it offers
respite from a hyper and often grey world.
To reset my own biological clock, I seek escape
through the flora and fauna that grow and inhabit
in spite of human encroachment. Framing these
is ultimately the sky, day or night. I think I have
left a timed and measured world but upon closer
exploration. I am in the world of Nature – the
mother of all clocks and architectonics. I am
moved to write about these reflections in what I
call verbal sketches, a rapid, loose, uncensored
accounts similar to Monet’s sketches or, in French,
pochades. I begin my seasonal countdown,
marking time through the flowers that come and
go.
32 < CLUB DONNY #6 2010
Daffodils: lucky seven
One of the first signals of spring are daffodils. A
conical cup of bright yellow surrounded by six
triangles in the same shade resting atop a bright
green tubular stem. The daffodil is so angular,
so bold. Its pungent scent is no less brazen.
What breaks up the rather severe geometry is the
ruffling at the tip of the cone. Spring is a season
of subtleties, of pastels and hinted scents. Yet this
harbinger of the season is as fearless as can be.
buildings, people moving, stores filled with
merchandise. What gets my attention are the
chrysanthemums in planters along the streets
and at buildings’ entrances throughout the city.
Their compact form embodies all that makes
nature remarkable; perfect symmetry, precision
in the number of petals needed to complete
their shape of circle within circle. The petals
alternate to reveal each and all. Individual and
whole in perfect harmony; sturdy and delicate in
a spectrum of colors so vibrant – yellow, gold,
terracotta, magenta; even the whites are standout.
Some are multi-toned. Gold and crimson, white
and magenta. Here too harmony is achieved. Each
color allows the other its space and glory and
combines to be made even more glorious by their
union. There is a slight scent if you move closer
and a perfectly yellow circle at the very core. Such
abundance in this tiny package. They are autumn
perfectly captured; they are style and substance in
perfect balance, like all of nature’s creations.
The subtlety of lilacs
Later, lilacs, in hues of paler purples and white
emitting softer and more pleasing fragrances fill the
landscape. A white lilac bush is nestled, protected
from strong ocean winds. Unlike its purple
counterparts, this lilac’s scent is less pungent, but
no less fragrant. It compels me to move closer,
breathe longer and stronger. A small monarch
butterfly is perched atop one of the bouquets, in
no hurry to move. As it lingers, it gently opens its
wings. It has found the perfect place to soak in the
sun and the scent of the lilac. I, in turn, am treated The audacity of nature
to this double dose of subtlety, awakening me to After a winter snowfall, the city goes about
the beauty afforded in this manner.
recovering. Shoveling, digging out cars, attending
to events postponed by the weather. For the
Come the wild roses
umpteenth time, it seems, I take my boots and
Late in May, come roses, or more specifically wild walk in the brown-grey slush. There is nothing
roses. When a rose is a rose.
redeeming it seems, until I look and see one purple
Bushes grow on the side of a road. They encircle and one yellow crocus in the crack at the front
and enliven a stretch of parkway at the beach. Pops steps. Their colors are so much the brighter amid
of fuchsia, white and pink punctuate the many the soot tainted snow and grey brick. These tiny
shades of green. The six petals unfold and emit signs of life, unwilling to wait to be less than their
their unmistakable fragrance. Mention wild roses beautiful selves, reveal the wonderful audacity
to anyone who has encountered them and it is this of nature. Life goes on and can bring with it
feature they retell in words and facial expressions, redemption and hope- multifold!
ones of wild abandon and sheer pleasure.
I am amused and also puzzled by the idea that these The city is filled with small gestures of this
flowers are called wild, especially here because wilderness. Pocket parks and sideway cracks,
they civilize what is an otherwise bland stretch of planted pots and window boxes, all backed by the
gray concrete and black tar. Why would anyone larger green gestures on rooftops and abandoned
opt for civil rather than wild at this moment? elevated railways. I consider which of the forms
Why would anyone opt for domesticated roses, civilize and persist; which delight and energize.
subdued, exacting praise and reverence over ones For me the answer is clear. Natural gestures as
that elicit the purest form of astonishment?
well as human elements can coexist for they are
I suddenly understand Gauguin’s decision to move intrinsically connected, one complimenting the
to Tahiti over Paris and why I will rethink what the other on this canvas we call the city, creating a
wild can mean and evoke.
tableau, complete but never finished. Constantly
renewing and offering ways to astonish. Allowing
Chrysanthemums: style and substance
us to be guided by natural time.
In a place defined by uncountables; soaring
urban
farming
kLaar vaN Der Lippe & Bart stUart
On the morning of Wednesday 14 July 2010,
the Amsterdam-Amstelland police department
discovered a large marijuana plantation in our
shared studio building. This, it emerged, was
located in a secret space belonging to our neighbour.
For years we have managed the entire building and
the green spaces around it ourselves, mindful of our
philosophy of collective responsibility. July 14th is
the public holiday in France to commemorate the
storming of the Bastille. The start of the French
revolution in which the people seize power and
demand ‘freedom, equality and fraternity’.
Suddenly, 5 detectives appear. They inspect
doors and windows. Then force the entrance.
This is the moment of truth. A helicopter has
previously collected evidence with a thermal
camera. Temperature differences inside a building
can be measured to within 2ºC from a helicopter.
The required grow lights create a tropical
climate, making the space much warmer than its
surroundings. Time passes between taking the
thermal images and the raid itself, so what the
raid will discover remains uncertain. In this case it
proves rather disappointing: the cannabis nursery
is a reasonable size, but only contains 1600 small
plants. Evidently the crop has just been harvested.
That is unfortunate. The nursery is orderly,
professional and well organized. Ventilation pipes
run across the ceiling and 12 large carbon filters
stand next to the entrance. During the flowering
period, the plants develop a strong odour, making
it necessary to filter the air thoroughly. Extra floors
have been added in the space, thus enlarging the
growing area. The plants stand in big trays with
special soil, while an irrigation system waters
them automatically. Special nutrients ensure
rapid growth and high yields of THC, the active
agent of the cannabis plant. Mind-expansion
is manufactured with utmost efficiency. The
maximum is achieved in a short period of time.
The plants develop like top-class athletes, and yet,
this is not a maintenance-free machine, the plants
require daily attention. Moulds and infections are a
constant threat, temperature and artificial sunlight
need to be fine-tuned for an optimal result. The
estimated yield is 1600 x 25 gram= 40 kg. At a
value of 3.50 euro per gram, the return amounts
to 140,000 euro per 8 weeks. Minus costs. The
electricity was tapped off illegally and it turns out the outside world, and a grey outward appearance.
that our collective has been footing the bill for Only those involved know your power and what
years.
you are worth. Together you constitute your own
realm in which mutual trust is the precondition
‘It’s a game of cat and mouse’, explains the and the limit. Together or not at all. Together or
detective. ‘After two harvests, you’ve recovered the enemy. From behind a bush we record the
your costs, and after that you’re home and dry. observance of the brotherhood.
Until we come along and it starts all over again’. Two days later it becomes clear a decision has
Can we have a look? We are allowed in, as the been made. Perhaps the State has won a battle,
forensic examination has already taken place. though certainly not yet the war. Our studio turns
Inside we furtively take photos.
out to be the battlefield. The initial provocation:
The plants do not feel like nature. It is a kind of the windows are smashed. After another two
false reality: artificial and forced. They seem like days: the gas installation is destroyed, followed
slaves, prisoners. What are we seeing here? Is this by personal items, and then the threats begin.
a field, a field with a farmer? Or is it a plantation, We make constant and emotional appeals to our
with a planter and slaves? Is this Babylon or a justice system, we ask for its representatives, the
sweatshop?
police, to intervene, for their protection. They,
Urban farming or urban exploitation? Our world however, are not that easily persuaded to launch a
or another world?
counter attack. Is there really a battle? Do we have
When we re-emerge we see the neighbour watching legitimate and convincing evidence? In the eyes of
from a short distance. We quickly conceal the the law, everyone is innocent until proven guilty.
camera and don’t greet each other further.
The administration of justice is not based upon
opinions. An independent witness is necessary
The door to the nursery is the portal to a parallel before making any decision that involves direct
world. Our neighbour is now visited by very confrontation. Correct but impossible: in this
different friends and colleagues. Bigger cars, asymmetrical warfare the tactic is precisely to
bigger mouths. Previously a quiet one-man remain unseen. Operations are stealthy and covert.
business, now a lively conductor arrogantly After each successful attack and failure to produce
waving directions. The growing floors are evidence, the neighbour becomes increasingly
demolished noisily, bonfires are built. Fire, more raucous: victory, victory.
fire. We watch the black smoke in amazement. In
front of us a ritual is being carried out. History The culmination occurs on a Wednesday morning.
rewritten. The raid becomes a rampage, the quiet The fire brigade arrives just in time to prevent the
life behind closed doors an exuberant screaming studio being razed to the ground completely. After
outside. Hidden horticulture is now exhibitionism. inspecting the scene, the detective shakes his
The whole thing reveals a frustration and rage that head: no CCTV images, no evidence. ‘Basic rules
goes deeper than the simple cat and mouse story. of investigation’. We nod compliantly through our
This is not just the loss of lucrative business. tears.
This is about the division of roles: who is the cat
and who the mouse. Of course, having a secret By now the peace has returned. The opening
life is complex. Being a successful grower is an between the worlds has closed. The plantation
exercise in humility. Although you easily make as stands empty. Soon we are holding an open house
much as 5 police officers per month, you have to to find possible tenants. We can almost return to
continue driving the same size car. You can’t wear the studio ourselves. Now and then we think about
expensive clothes or jewellery. Don’t discuss your the plants. And about all the secret gardens behind
business model. Keep quiet about your successes, the facades in the city. As an image though...
never complain about setbacks. You are unable to
report robberies, have no standing or respect in
CLUB DONNY #6 2010 > 33
DONNY’s FavOUrites
sensational bikes
www.ericroelen.nl
We love the bikes from Club Donny friend Eric Roelen. The fixed gear bikes are handmade and composed of
new and used items.
bangalore
urban food garden
httP://jgarden.in
Over the last six months, Chandra has done eight installations for families in individual homes and apartments
and one for a group of social engineers in a bank colony. He believes that organic terrace gardening is a simple
and powerful means for the middle class to roll up their sleeves and get more involved with issues concerning
their lives
the sPace lady
The Space Lady is San Francisco’s most enchanting street musician. Whether on keyboard or accordion, her
music stops sidewalk traffic even in this multi-task town. She usually performs wearing a steel helmet with
angel wings, making her easy to recognize but belying the credibility of her haunting vocal interpretations of
well known songs.
the beekeePer next door
In March, New York City made beekeeping legal, and in so doing it joined a long list of other municipalities,
from Denver to Milwaukee to Minneapolis to Salt Lake City, that have also lifted beekeeping bans in the last
two years. Nationwide, hives are being tucked into small backyards and set alongside driveways. Beekeeping
classes are filling up quickly, and new beekeeping clubs are forming at the same time that established ones are
reporting large jumps in membership.
naoshima jaPan
the benesse art site
A series of art projects developed on Naoshima Island, located in the Seto Inland Sea. Its facilities includes
the Benesse House, the Chichu Art Museum, the Art House Project, and Honmura Lounge & Archive; their
sitespecific activities and artworks focus on contemporary art in harmony with the natural beauty and local
culture of Naoshima. The Benesse House was designed by acclaimed Japanese architect Tadao Ando.
sPinning flowers ep
wizards
httP://whizards.bandcamP.com/album/sPinning-flowers-eP
Oh boy. This is a must. We are so chilled right now its starting to get uncomfortable. Wizards have so very
generously put this excellent Ep up for free download on their bandcamp. Make sure you bring some thermals
to this party.
Pok fu lam
A residential area on Hong Kong Island, at the western end of the Southern District overlooking Lamma Island.
Pok Fu Lam can claim several firsts in the history of Hong Kong: It was the place where Hong Kong’s floral
emblem, Bauhinia blakeana, was first discovered; the site for Hong Kong’s first reservoir, Pokfulam Reservoir
(1883), and the site for Hong Kong’s first dairy farm supplying milk and cattle to the Hong Kong community.
At the centre is the indigenous village called Pok Fu Lam Village which is often mistaken as a shanty town but
is a historic village that has existed since the beginning of the 17th century.
zaPPata romana
www.urbanarchitectureProject.org
About 50 community-run green areas mapped: little urban gardens, play yards, edible gardens and areas for
walking, resting, or simply talking. Citizens and associations acting together to reclaim the abandoned areas
in Rome. More than 100 sites together with the 65 spontaneous gardens registered by the Rome municipality.
Urban farms too and other interesting experiences such as Partecipation Houses, “Punti Verdi Qualità” and
green areas maintained by established associations.
anne geene Perceel nr. 235 encycloPedie van een volkstuin
isbn 978-90-815515-1-9
Unique photographic universe, a meticulous account of what there is to explore in a neglected plot of exactly
245 square meters
new york
the anti restaurant suPPer club movement
Some call these secretive supper events underground dinner parties, others call them anti-restaurants, or
guerrilla gourmet. The ‘anti-restaurant supper club’ is where passionate foodies who dislike the constraints or
are simply bored of restaurants, open their doors to the public by hosting as many people as can fit around their
dinner table and feeding them. They have gained a following among food lovers, mostly in their 20s and 30s,
who have an opinion on local versus organic, prefer intimate and casual to grand and ceremonial, and are open
to meeting people and building connections in new ways.
34 < CLUB DONNY #6 2010
Club Donny is a biannual magazine
on the personal experience of nature
in the urban environment presented
by Frank Bruggeman, Ernst van
der Hoeven and Ben Laloua/Didier
Pascal.
PAGE 01 / 36 Shanghai, Birdhead
PAGE 02 / 35 Texas, Bert de Jong
TEXTPAGE 03 Day 1125,
Bert de Muynck
TEXTPAGE 04 Malakoff,
Hanne Hagenaars
TEXTPAGE 05 From: Lagos
To: Douala, Jelle Bouwhuis
TEXTPAGE 06 Bamboo
PAGE 07 / 30 Veldhoven, Mei Wah,
Bjorn Staps
PAGE 08 / 29 Nantou City, Taiwan,
Joris Landman
PAGE 09 / 28 Shanghai, Birdhead
PAGE 10 / 27 Tokyo, Tsukiji Fish
Market, Ernst van der Hoeven
PAGE 11 / 26 Lagos, Green Cirkel,
Akintunde Akinleye
PAGE 12 / 25 Saint Aignan,
ZooParc de Beauval, Anouk Gielen
PAGE 13 / 24 Napels, Ben Laloua
PAGE 14 / 23 Oberhausen,
Liesbeth Doornbosch
PAGE 15 / 22 Shanghai,
Frank Bruggeman
PAGE 16 / 21 Mantingerzand,
Drente, Denise Collignon
PAGE 17 / 20 Tokyo, Homeless
shelter along the Ara-kawa river
Itabashi ward Krijn Kristiaansen/
Cathelijne Montens
PAGE 18 / 19 Pingquan Village,
Hebei Province, Zhu Shikun
TEXTPAGE 31 Bamboo
TEXTPAGE 32 In Nature’s Time,
Gail Satler
TEXTPAGE 33 Urban Farming,
Klaar van der Lippe & Bart Stuart
TEXTPAGE 34 Donny’s favourites
TRANSLATION / Mike Ritchie
PRINTING / die Keure, Brugge
PUBLISHER / post editions
www.post-editions.com
SUBSCRIPTION / Bruil & van der
Staaij
www.bruil.info/
ISSN: 1879-7466
Club Donny
www.clubdonny.com
© 2010 Club Donny
The authors and contributors.
Reproduction without permission
prohibited.
This publication was made possible
by Municipality of Rotterdam
Department of Art and Culture.