What are you talking about?

"I'm in no rush." "You foreigners are always in a hurry. You're always running, even to work." Vincenzo laughs short and hard, while he steps on the gass.

He cuts the corners like a race car driver, swerving to the left without worrying about oncoming traffic. If I die here, so be it, I think to myself, trying to distract my mind by looking outside.

A bleak landscape passes by the window. Crooked olive trees parade in the barren earth like an army of veterans, an army of skeletons that have crawled up from the earth. Bullet hole-like burrows adorn their bark. With their heavily wrinkled arms they lean on crutches, or on neighboring trees, while it's not clear who's supporting and who's being supported. Sometimes branches are broken off and young sprouts emerge in their place, as proof that the battle is still being fought.

It is the landscape of a war against the sun; a war that is fought over generations, in the full realization that it is a losing battle. The sun persists in its relentless heat and eventually the last drop of moisture in the earth will dry up. The army of veterans persists in not dying, thanks to a cluttered system of tubes and tubes, like the blood infusions given in the field hospital to soldiers with gaping wounds. The battle continues for generations and the olive trees still bear fruit.

"There are more than 3,000 trees in L." Vincenzo utters, looking more at me than at the road. As he says this, he takes both hands off the steering wheel and makes grand gestures to indicate that 3000 is a big number. I nod and try to appear impressed. Meanwhile, I look at the speedometer reading 120, which seems like a bigger number to me right now. My stomach is contracting.

"What are you doing here?" Vincenzo asks. It's more a reproach than a question. "I work, paint." "Usually foreigners are tourists," he says. "Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against tourists, hey, they pay well, but they are not Italians. They have no sense of humor."

"Are you from France?" "No, the Netherlands... Holland." "The French are the worst. I'm not just saying this. I've been to Paris. You just can't talk to them. I don't know anyone with French friends and I know a lot of Italians living in France. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying the Dutch are better than the French. I don't know any Dutch and if you ask me you are all the same. You lack sunlight, that is why you all come here. For the sun. Even the sun prefers Italy." 

He laughs again loudly. Apparently everything was said, because the rest of the route he remains silent. I heave a sigh of relief as the car comes to a stop...

Every one of my artworks is the beginning of a story...

Gaaike Niels Euwema