Fun & Famous
First shoot, then talk
by Maddy Stolk
Once I sat next to Robbie Williams on the terrace of the Amstel Hotel, high-heeled and in a good mood. Robbie was staying there, surveying the battlefield, and while his eyes lingered on my fuzzy lower limbs, he said: ‘Nice shoes.’ Nothing uplifting, but hey. And I said: nothing. Absolutely nothing. In fact, I looked like a deer in headlights, raised the left corner of my mouth as a sign of life, and turned to my company. Who treated me to a major eye roll: I could have at least said ‘thanks’. Not very uplifting either, but at least a form of communication.
But I just can't do it. Small talk, networking: I die a little inside every time. At company parties (I'm a freelancer, so I never have just one, but at least twelve in a year), networking events, and New Year's drinks, I have a tried-and-true recipe. I pick the biggest plant there is (usually a fern), slide it into the corner, and then wait behind it until it's over. Especially at networking events, this is a golden move, because by the time I go home, I've spoken to exactly zero potential clients. However, I have been thoroughly caught up by the attendees I already knew, who know that it's good sheltering for me in the corner. They always bring a filled glass, so all in all, I still have a great time – it’s just utterly pointless.
The best remedy would obviously be: never go again. But I exhibit slightly hermit-like traits in daily life, so that doesn't seem healthy to me. A close second is: say what you really think about it all, but the chimney must also keep smoking, etc., so that's not an option either.
With great admiration, I once read a story about actress and singer Ellen ten Damme. She had to open an exhibition, walked in there, looked around, stuck a Polaroid camera under her skirt, pinned the Polaroid that then rolled out of the camera to the wall with a thumbtack, scribbled something on it, and disappeared again. What was written with a marker under the photo?
‘Cunt opening’
I hear you, Ellen.
To check at the time of writing this piece whether I had dreamed or made up this story, I did a Google search (what's on the internet really happened, right?). This yielded this piece of prose:
‘Do you know the one about Ellen ten Damme that she takes a Polaroid of her vagina at an annoying vernissage and writes on it: this is a cunt opening?’
To which one Wout replies:
‘What is a vernissage?’
Oh, Wout. The hope of the Netherlands in troubled times – and the reason I am more often found behind a fern than in front of it. But I digress. That daunting season full of drinks, year-end parties, celebrations, and gatherings is coming again. But I’m not participating this year; I’m going to buy a merino wool house suit, with matching slippers. Or a Polaroid camera.
