| Dear Theo, |
|
I am fairly frequently asked by people what age you are - a question which it usually takes a mathematical exercise on my part to answer. I was in my early thirties when you stopped off at the gallery on Vijzelgracht in 1972, and as the year 2002 tells me that 30 years have gone by since that date and you were 33 years old in 1972, this can only mean that you are now 63. Which proves beyond doubt that we have been working together for 30 years - a milestone worth celebrating even if it seems as nothing has changed in the interim. Let me assure you, dear Theo, that I look forward to bolting on at least another 30 years, in which I hope we will be able to sustain our long-standing ascending line until the both of us finally keel over. But I digress. Dear Theo, of course it's your paintings that we're here for today, and although I'm not the right person at this particular point in time to launch into an art history discourse, there is a discrepancy that keeps haunting me. Your work is underpinned by the doom unleashed by your fellow creatures, of which there is no shortage of precedents. But what is it that sparks admiration of your work in those very same fellow creatures? Some time ago I wrote something about light and hopefulness, and secrecy, about compassion and wonder. Whatever it is, it provides you with topics and themes, with a leitmotif and with joy in your painting. May the coming years continue to shower you with the latter in particular, as well as with a never-ending supply of dilapidated structures. Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to take this opportunity to say a few words to you as well. Many of those of you who are gathered here today have followed Theo Voorzaat's work for several decades. In addition to the sheer delight this has brought you, there's something else I'd like to suggest. You must have read about the changes in views over the years of who it was that painted Rembrandt's paintings, or what it was that Hieronymus Bosch was seeking to express in his scenes. There are those who think they've got the answer to these questions, but they weren't there when it happened, so who would believe what they've got to say? But things are different now: Theo Voorzaat's world is your world, so you could sit down and write a letter today to the committees to be charged in future with finding out what Voorzaat really meant and which of his paintings were really made by him as opposed to which should be attributed to his followers. In due course your document will come to be regarded as a reliable source. Of course one should ensure that these sources do not fall victim to the ravages of time, so instead of putting them in a neat stack and filing them in a safe place, distributing them is what we should do, so as to ensure that not all evidence is lost if disaster were to strike. Which implies that I hereby invite you to write a thousand essays, which I will personally encase in a thousand concrete slabs to be dispatched to a thousand different places. That leaves just one loose end to tie up, dear Theo, as I have forgotten to ask you whether you approve of all this future publicity. But I just know that you'll forgive me for my omission. And so it is with great pleasure that I declare this exhibition open. |