Hans van der Kamp

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Once in a while I make an animation to post it at CamDogs and YouTube. Usually the clip depicts an animal reading poetry. Some people think I do not like literature or poetry very much, but I do.

It is easy to generate more than a thousand views on a Gorilla reading Charles Bukowski, whereas the poem itself posted anywhere on the Internet would not get that kind of attention. As far as I can see I am promoting literature instead of ridiculing it. A lot of people think differently, so I get flamed often for my good intentions.

I had anticipated responses like that with my “American Mona Lisa”, where I added the voice of one of the Sharon Tate killers, devout follower of Charles Manson, to this rock solid art icon. Nothing happened. Nobody is interested. I believe the video received a 100 clicks in one month, so I am shamelessly plugging it here.

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Quite some time ago I stopped celebrating birthdays with the exception of my 50th, two years ago, when I invited a random group of people from the neighborhood bar. I must say that was one of the best birthdays ever. Perhaps it is better to celebrate with a group of strangers.

A year before that I was moving from one apartment to another, like I have done about 20 times in my life and before I left I filled out this postal form to have my mail forwarded to the new address. I had forgotten about the fact that there was another person in the old building carrying the same last name “Van der Kamp”. She was not related to me in any way, but within days I was receiving both her mail and mine on my new address. I apologized in all sincerity and started hand delivering her mail.

That was not enough, of course. The woman kept calling me with her screechy demanding voice, terrified as she was about the possibility that her partner would find out about her little adventures. Without hesitation I took the initiative to cancel the mail forwarding service. It took three months before the bureaucrats of the postal services actually effectuated the change. All these months my phone kept ringing, mostly very early in the morning.

So, when I was finally ready to send out cards to family and friends to inform them of my new address, I was so sick and tired with the whole concept of mail that I decided not to do so. Within weeks I slowly started to relax; it felt really good not to be bothered with mail sent by institutions, companies and – worst of all – people who ring your doorbell just when you are really not ready to entertain. It was such a success that I also changed and unlisted both my phone numbers.

A year later I moved in with Karin/Tangiers and there was a problem with the apartment which prevented me from officially living there, so I lost my registration in the city archives of Amsterdam. Formally I do not exist any more. Urgent messages still reach me through the Internet and if I have missed a few; I think I can live with that.

Have you ever tried not to exist? I would like to recommend it, if only for a year or two. The people who care have long found a way to contact me and the rest simply evaporated and with them a lot of obligations. It is a good test to get to know who your friends are.

Two of the most important people in my life were suddenly gone with the wind and that was tough and confusing, but at the same time my perspective changed. I learned that – within reasonable limits – we can be as charming or as obnoxious as we please. Most people are way too involved with their own objectives to even notice the difference. They see you as they see themselves. If they are not to be trusted; they will not trust you. If friendships have no real meaning to them, they will expect you to act accordingly. It is quite shallow, but very easy to deal with.

There are a few people I do miss, like F. for instance with whom I have fought so many stupid battles in the past. She is also celebrating her birthday on the 17th. I hope she has forgiven me as I have forgiven her. Hopefully one day we can look back on our mistakes without suppressing the good times — or to at least greet each other politely on the sidewalk. F. always liked a stiff drink, so I will drink to her health, hoping she is doing fine.

There is one thing I can count on; these lost friends will thoroughly enjoy the fact that they can skip my birthday, because I am a lousy host. In the beginning of the evening I am always happy to see all these gleaming faces around me, but after a few drinks I start playing music in a very egocentric fashion. Unlike some of my friends I am not into “high culture” when it comes to music. I am more drawn towards the corny stuff.

After a few songs, the first visitors start to find excuses to leave early. Maybe in a subconscious way that is what I want; that they will leave the party before I really get sentimental about life in general.

Especially for those who are absent in real life but who persist in visiting this blog for reasons beyond my imagination, I have compiled a webcast (mp3) with The Best of The Worst Birthday Songs.

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The first time I was asked by a magazine editor to photograph a couple engaged in BDSM, I simply refused. A few other photographers also refused. Somehow that made it into a challenge, because I was the youngest photographer aboard. When I was asked for a second time; I accepted the assignment.

I felt awkward when they opened the door, although the house they lived in seemed quite normal to me. They offered me a coffee and started talking about their love life, smiling a lot and holding hands. I still felt uncomfortable. The ear of the coffee cup felt kind of sticky and so did the fake leather couch I was sitting on. Maybe I was starting to imagine things?

Before I had left to do the assignment, a psychologist working for the same magazine had explained to me that a healthy BDSM relationship was all about men being submissive to the female, dominant partner. When the man in the house told me that he was the dominant and that his wife was his submissive, I asked permission to use the phone to call my editor. I was sent to the wrong address. No doubt about that. A woman beating up a man for sexual pleasure was completely in sync with contemporary conventions. But a man inflicting pain on his wife… That was unthinkable!

The couple seemed pretty amused and they explained that their role play had nothing to do with aggression and I reluctantly followed them to the basement that looked like a set for a Dracula movie. There were hundreds of strange gadgets hanging from the walls and there were ropes and chains everywhere. I wanted to go home, but as the woman sat down on the chair and the man started to tie her to it with a rope, I became intrigued by their ritual. Something had changed between them. There was a tension in the air but not one of stress or fear. Somehow the atmosphere seemed almost religious to me.

As always I was hiding behind my camera, pretending there was no reality outside the limited space of my viewfinder, while I slowly and carefully moved around the couple to take pictures. As I was standing behind the woman, her man unexpectedly squeezed her nipples very hard and her head fell back with a sigh. She was staring right into the center of my viewfinder and the look in her eyes made me shiver. Somehow I recognized that look, but I could not place it. Up to this day I still cannot find the words to describe what I saw. A mixture of serenity and arousal maybe, but these words seem so flat and they do not fully reflect the intensity.

Something snapped inside of me; I mumbled some excuses and left the house in a hurry, leaving two lens caps, a costly exposure meter and several rolls of film. The moment I returned to my studio I starting developing the film and began making enlargements of that last picture, fearing that what I had seen only existed in my mind, but it was right there on photographic paper and the longer I looked at the picture the harder it became to determine what was going on in her mind, but the look in her eyes kept fascinating me for years.

When the editor asked about the pictures; I made up some story about bad lighting. He bought it and I kept the photographs to myself. It took almost two decades before I started photographing BDSM again — with only one goal in mind and that was to see what I had seen in the eyes of that particular woman. [To be continued...]

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