like Viktor & Rolf

perhaps

we would

write

Viktor & Rolf for de Bijenkorf

Via design.nl

about a girl who soaked up the warm air,

who was mesmerized by the lush green,

and worshiped the star speckled skies of Paramaribo.

A girl who spent hours staring at mineral rich waters,

and densely packed forests,

adrift on het meer,

intoxicated by beauty and brilliance.

Stuuwmeer, Suriname

A girl who danced entire evenings away to the rhythms of kaseko…

We might also write about the secret.

The secret of the spell cast over her when first she heard

kay manman la te ke tramble.

The spell that sets her eyes ablaze like fire,

her hair tracing the pattern of her body, swaying, turning,

transformed every time by zouk.

Her arms are set free as they pay homage,

they too are in a trance, they too feel its magic -

zouk their master, zouk their salve.

Nothing before then means anything,

nothing before then, exists.

zouk la sé sèl médikaman nou ni…

]]> http://www.winifredwikkeling.com/blog/2010/01/27/the-15th-tale/feed/ 0 http://www.winifredwikkeling.com/blog/2009/06/07/this-must-be-the-place/ http://www.winifredwikkeling.com/blog/2009/06/07/this-must-be-the-place/#comments Sun, 07 Jun 2009 14:36:19 +0000 Winifred http://www.winifredwikkeling.com/blog/?p=221

Tulip Fields Holland

Via 2 or 3 things I know

Home is where I want to be
Pick me up and turn me round
….
Feet on the ground
Head in the sky
It’s ok I know nothing’s wrong . . nothing

Home – is where I want to be
But I guess I’m already there
……

I can’t tell one from another
Did I find you, or you find me?
There was a time before we were born
If someone asks, this is where I’ll be . . . where I’ll be

…..

I’m just an animal looking for a home
Share the same space for a minute or two
And you love me till my heart stops
Love me till I’m dead
Eyes that light up, eyes look through you
Cover up the blank spots
Hit me on the head Ah ooh…

~Talking Heads

Perspective Chair by Pharrell Williams

Occasionally we suffer bouts of self importance that lead us to believe the designer should tailor their work to match our tastes and desires rather than their own. Such is the case with this chair. Though not Dutch, not particularly clever and not quite beautiful, we were moved by the perspective. But for all the innuendo of this design, we are mostly left cold. We suspect we could be far more likely seduced by a chair that exudes warmth and passion in its craftsmanship; something that gives us the sense that the designer’s own hands touched it, assembled it and carved his vision to life. This chair makes us want for the warmth of wood, the seduction of black, the strength of an epoxy finish, the passion of manual labor. We wish to commission a re-make.

Sranan Gron

2009, you’ve already spoiled us. You gave us 5 weeks in Suriname, 89 degree days, mornings that began with the barking of dogs, the chirping of birds, the cackle of all manner of fowl. You gave us the sweet sounds of sranan tongo, the bauxite roads of Afobaka, the gorgeously intertwined mangrove trees of Warrapa Creek, and everywhere the warmth of a beautiful people. You gave us the foods we have missed: bami, nasi, roti, pastei, maisena koekjes, sopropo, antroa, pietjil, ham taw, manja, birambie. And, oh, how we danced as we celebrated those last days of 2008! You gave us such joy, such pride, so much laughter. You reminded us that when Sranan gron e kari oen, we must listen, we must go. And you gave us back the song; the song that we had searched for, for many years. The song we did not know the name of or by whom it was sung. We did not understand why it was important to us or what answers it might hold. And we had not even yet thought of the song when we first felt that warm air, and walked on the lush Surinaams land. So it was a complete surprise when we found ourselves on our second day in Suriname at the javaanse markt, our hearts pounding fast as we heard the song. We would have run over children and the infirm to locate its source, but there were not meant to be any obstacles to our receiving of it. After all, we had waited many years and we had traveled long and far so that finally it could be ours. With every note we relived those early years in Suriname, we saw again our house on Johannes Mungra Straat. We saw our grandmother, our aunts and uncles, we saw so many family friends. We saw parties at Krasnapolski, we saw us dancing with our father, our little feet on top of his. We saw all the things we had missed, memories we were afraid we might lose. And when we heard the song it was then that we understood that somehow it had been for us a sort of capsule. A safe place where our memories would always be stored. The song was for us affirmation of what we had lived, what we had loved, what we had lost. But now we have “Wooi mi Debar.” And we do not have to fear losing that particular place in time, that particular place in our hearts. Now we close our eyes, we press our lips together, our hips sway gently, slowly. One or two teardrops fall. We always finish the song.