9 september 2012, om 09:05 uur
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"Get the hell outta here, Rommert Boonstra!"



I had my exposure to the organization in the Roman church you La Chapelle de Corbelin (see photo) in Burgundy when I was a hoarse angry voice outside in the bright sunlight hear the cursing and swearing at me and my work. I'm not afraid of a drunken artist and love a riot going on in cell block number ninen and was equal amused.

I'm quite used to the bad manners of Dutch visual artists so did not look at that another brawler came to me. Brandishing of pace and with flailing arms he came face contorted with rage.

Probably the man was as drunk as a skunk. I put out my hand because I had him once at a Flea market just spoken. Rays sweat dripped from his face ashen.

I held out my hand to greet him and smiled.

 "A hand?" he roared like a sick lion.

"A hand?"

 "Yes, a hand, a good look," I said laconically.

 "A hand? Dirty filthy bastard! Dick! Bastard! Funk! Bastard! Fascist! Motherfucking son of a bitch! "he shouted

 "Pleasant, my name is Fred van der Wal,. Please take a sit. Wanna have a beer?" I said.

 "Who do you think you are here to exhibit with your rubbish? You're on my place in Burgundy! " was his observation.

 "" And who do you think you can come here as if I am organizing an exhibition at the Chapelle. Man you're drunk! This is not a public space. You're not welcome here, honey, get the hell outta here, " I said again.

I saw him with a stack of papers in his hand with his poems, which he swung to face the organizer of the exhibition, a woman who was very quiet despite its vulgar shouts.

Kidney problems, the first thing I thought when I looked at the gray face of the angry man. In a moment he gets even a stroke or a heart attack, we can cleanup the garbage because those guys always leave all body fluids coincide.

His confused argument I understood that he objected that my photorealistic drawings and paintings exhibited in his neighborhood, because he considered that the area around La Chapelle as his own property  where no other artist should manifest run.

Territory Drift.

He began in French to roar against the organizer that I was a pornographer, a scoundrel, a peintre criminel, a psychopath and if she knew who I was she would ran away. He had articles copied from my weblog and wanted to translate the stuff.

 "Go ahead! It is always good for an author as he is being translated, " I grinned.

 "I'll make you leave the internet, and you will be banished from the Journals and magazines! Forever! " he shouted.

 He referred to the left wing journal De Volkskrant and my Weblog. I shrugged my shoulders.

"Go ahead," I said.

 "I will translate everything in flawless French what you've written for pornography and that I send to the Mayor of La Chapelle and Couloutre and to the General Council and the police! They will sue you! Ten years in jail will be the sentence!" He shouted.

 "Especially do! Do not forget to ring Sarkozy and Ségolène Royal, who will have serious concerns about the impact of your actions! Maybe you will get a grant for your activities! A contemporary art project. Opportunity knocks! " I said sarcastically.

Arttist R.B. I would be "a process have to do in France" on account of in the Netherlands published stories of my hand, because according to him there was no freedom of speech in France.

 "Go ahead, we have an excellent lawyer in Cosne who represents our business, moreover, you're wrong grievously! I've lived here for five years! You're just a tourist. Your name is nodbody, " I said quietly.

 "I will make sure that you throughout France and in the Netherlands never are allowed to exhibit your rubbish," he raged on.

 "France is very large, there you can get a day job of it. You have got nothing to tell any one. Bon courage! " I replied.

At two inches from my face, he continued to yell at me like an old woman. I could smell his foul breath and how he explains his clothes stank. A dirty old men air of an unpleasant pensioner.

 "Go home, man, brushing your teeth, you stink out of your mouth!" I advised him.

"You smell your upper lip, motherfucker!" he yelled.  The arguments of a son of a cheesemonger in Groningen.

He was the journalist of  "Le journal du centre"  he asserted against the organizer.

 "That you're not," she said quietly. He picked up a cheap digital camera 5 mp Aldi and started right and left to photograph my drawings and paintings. I was totally fed up with the man.

 "Let's call the po;ice, you violate my copyright, as in the lockup, they know how to handle a troublemaker," I said to my wife and the organizer of the exhibition.

That calmed the not really very brave art creator. He walked quickly to his folding bike.

"Your work is bullshit and I will start an action against you on the internet!"  he cried when he grabbed his bike. He stumbled and struggled hard standing.

 "Good luck, boy! Give my regards to your lovely wife.  Did she leave you again? " I asked mockingly.

In most relationships it is the: artist in house, shit in the room, turds on the couch! Never invite and artist in your house for more than one day, because when he’ll stay longer,within two weeks your daughters become very thick, your wife has an unexplainable uncurable venereal disease  and your son is converted to the gay scene. Manuy artists have no morals, their rotation, pointer is their cock.

I met in Amsterdam an artist with long hair and one tooth in his mouth who told me: “I fucked ma sister, ma father, ma mother and ma brother!”

“Congratulations and celebrations big shot” I said.


Rommert, You have a passive aggressive personality. You suppress all the things that bother you and when you drink, subconsciously, you allow yourself to address all the small suffe rings that you have been holding in. You really are pitifull.

Examine the broad topics of your offense and make an effort to address those issues in sober life, in small measures at first, then larger steps once you begin to learn to stand up for yourself. Defining the issues (saying things out loud) to yourself and others, is the first and hardest step.


Rommert walked out of the exhibition hall and climbed with difficulty on his bike. I saw the man as a lone cyclist against the wind on the hills fihting against the elements. It was not very easy, life was not worth living, even for a, mumbling, malicious elderly with mental health problems.

The opening proceeded further spotless. Speeches by the mayor, many attendees, half Dutch and the other half French, it was animated afternoon and it was not until late in the night a noisy evening with singing, laughing, dancing and lots of bottles of wine.

Sunday morning  the Volkskrant Weblog published no less than three slanderous articles of this overwrought artistic gentleman in which he called  the readers to fight against me with all Webloggers together.

I sent an email with a complaint to the web editor for incitement and defamation. A few days later, the contributions was erased, I was backed by a number of bloggers including an impassioned defense by the famous red haired Isis Nedloni that we will not easily forget. The ignominious retreat of an artist in Burgundy and the blog was born.

Isis sent me a copy of a slimy mail from the artist where he asked verbal contact with her. Even that action failed. She never answered him.

Two days later I saw the man alone on his bike slowly cycle tot the village of Creantay. It rained pretty. I rolled down the window of the car and shouted cheerfully: "Do not catch a cold, boy! It will be the end of the world when you finish your artistic career in despair and loneliness!"

Our car pulled up quickly. Water splashed now from below against his belly.

His expression was grim.

A man who stood alone in his grudges cools off maybe in a rainstorm. Especially if you encouraged him from a passing car.

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