THE ARTS
MY MATRYOSHKA DOLLS STORY By Maya Apostoloska
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ometimes we cannot correctly value the art, the objects and the things we are doing because of many reasons or being overwhelmed by subjectivity. When an artist creates art, he cannot predict if he is creating a masterpiece. It needs time to read or recognize the secret meaning we are painting or drawing. I have a sketchbook, primarily for drawing while I am talking on the phone. In the moments when our ideas brighten up the light of our thoughts and everything seems to have a sense of knowledge, ecstasy and beauty on the canvas, the moment of internal peace. We must distance ourselves, so I leave the canvas overnight because in the morning the painting always looks different. The finishing touches can be done afterwards, sometimes maybe after days, years… Since I have moved to my new house, I became good friends with the neighbour from number 12 - the mysterious Mr. Willem De Witt. He is brilliant, wise and
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sharp in his words, has blue eyes, always styled white hair and is 93 years old. In the last four months, we have built up a beautiful friendship. His wife passed away in 2015 and since then he lives alone in this enormous house. His two sons and one daughter visit him almost every week. Willem’s wife was an artist just like me, and he used to work the same job as my husband. We have so much in common. When I asked him how she died, he just told me she was threadbare and old. When I went for the first time to visit his house, I didn’t expect to see so much heritage in their home. I recognized a reach small museum, a stunning private collection of artworks. There were many paintings, aquarelles, prints, sculptures, original sewn art pieces… There was art everywhere, on the walls, between the books, in the hall, even pieces on the ground. Amazed by that beauty, I needed
to sit down on the red chair to take a deep breath. Willem lent me the book catalogue of their private collection where besides reproductions were also described the stories about purchasing the art pieces. That’s how I started borrowing books from his library. There were over 150 artist pieces in house numbered 12 at Franklin. D. Rooseveltlaan in Rijswijk, collected from artists from the entire world. I was speechless. From the décor in the house and the buildin lift chair on the stairs, I realised that someone from the family was an invalid. For the last seven years, his wife Wies De Witt was bedridden, and she couldn’t create any art. On the upper floor were the studio and all untouched paintings, brushes, and pallets from his wife. Cantered in the studio at the painting monkey was her last painting of yellow-orange flowers surrounded by a dark purple background.
