I’m a Swede living in Amsterdam, and some kind of aspiring “writer,” I think. To have something to do on the weekends, and to practice my chops, I’m visiting museums and writing about them. So every Sunday—if all goes well—I sit down and type out a post about the previous day’s museum, to hopefully post it the same day.

These are hurried pieces which often means they consist of weird digressions and half-baked ideas. But I try to put in some Instagram photos or pictures of paintings, spoonfuls of color to make the wordy texts palatable. I hope to make this stuff enjoyable to read. If you are not entertained, I have failed.

Here is the article that started the whole thing, a kind of introduction about my own somewhat “problematic” relation to the world of museums. And here are my trip reports so far: li > a { font-weight: bold }

The Allard Pierson Museum — in which I tread creaky floors, desire to speak with strangers, ponder mummies, yearn for gold, imagine capers, and calm myself with the Lankavatara Sutra;

The Amsterdam Pipe Museum — in which I admire the kind and knowledgable staff, discuss the homosociality of pipe smoking, sketch the fascinating history of tobacco, and wistfully recall a moment of illicit yet peaceful smoking outside a Swedish Zen temple;

The Van Gogh Museum — in which I host Florentine couch surfers, remember my hometown bluesman friend’s song about Vincent, equate ethics and aesthetics, investigate the phenomenology of potatoes, ruminate on inner sorrow in Van Gogh’s letters, and recommend a reckless lifestyle;

De Nieuwe Kerk — in which I read Wordsworth on the first mild day of March, consider English cruelty, fail to flee from happiness into a torture dungeon, go to an old church to meditate upon a single grisly Francis Bacon painting, read some Deleuze, sneak a forbidden photograph, discuss the painting of forces, suggest a trip to The Butcher; and, most recently,

Our Lord in the Attic — in which I visit a secret Catholic chapel, visit a meetup on “Atheism 2.0,” fear Jesus, transcribe two poems by Emily Dickinson, lament my lack of faith, call for something like the Mos Eisley Cantina, remember my Sunday mornings at the clandestine hideout of the Gothenburg Zen Center, and encourage revolutionary dinner parties.

That’s it for now. I’d be delighted if you read any of these.