Dear All,

A strip of late afternoon sun peeks through a gap between the curtains, it slowly creeps up to the bed and divides the body of the man next to him in two parts. His index finger carefully follows the clear line, a ray of sun that seems to move up and down a bit on the quietly breathing body. Tenderslow his finger goes over the trail on the soft skin, back and forth, back and forth. He answers a sleepy mumbling with a kiss, right where the light is. He exhales heavily and then lays his head against the shoulder next to him. His right hand keeps the other shoulder. He feels the arm that warmly embraces his own back and closes his eyes. Wordless promises went from mouth to mouth this afternoon. In his mind he repeats the soft whispers and the feeling of warm lips against his ears is there again. This afternoon he knows the world in their hands, ready for ten thousand new mornings. The safety of the moment puts him, effortlessly, to sleep.

When, with the afternoon progressing, the line of sunlight reaches his face it suddenly appears to him. He wakes up scared. The curtains, the curtains are not closed!

He pulls a sheet from the bed, covers himself and runs to the window. Between the hastily closed curtains, a space of less than four centimeter is still open. He peeps out and then he knows again, they are on the tenth floor. With a sigh his arms drop, the sheet falls from his hands. On the way back to the bed he stumbles over it and falls, face down, over the bed. For a moment he lies still, then he starts to cry with silent sobs. The other takes the face full of tears between his hands; lips repeat earlier promises. In the meantime the outer world wrings itself through those few centimeters of opening and fills the entire room.

No lawmaker can take discrimination away. ‘Personal opinions”, based on religion or not, cannot be forbidden. Defending a civil servant who is not willing to administer gay marriage is allowed, oppose certain rights is not forbidden, trying to manage the life of others in the name of your own god is not unusual, reason with prejudice and pertinent nonsense happens every day. The impact on many lives is fatal nevertheless. Disastrous for the one who’s judges as well for those that are pulled with in the hell of falseness.

Experiences in the last few weeks made me angry, sad and touched me. My patience with and understanding for are used up. Justification because this party or that institution does a lot of good as well is not in it; this touches the essence of being human, disrespect for others cannot bring any good.

Yes, I’m angry.

This blog is like “preaching for my own parish”, I know, I’m sure that we agree. Still, these words had to come out. I’m angry.

Love, Frank



‘If you wait till you can do everything for everybody instead of something for somebody you’ll end up doing nothing for nobody.’

Dear All

No better recipe to turn a day into a difficult one than, already in a fragile mood, to read some stories about Africa. Stories that touch the heart I mean. The writer doesn’t know this but the boy that whispers in his ear; I know that boy. The book he mentions, ‘Country of my scull’ by Antjie Krog, I’ve read it and it left traces of sadness and recognition that won’t go away. ‘This encounter makes us both whole again’ turned out to come from a deep felt truth, embedded in the hearts of people in Africa. That alcoholic asked me for new shoes as well.

This week it was eleven years ago that I married and, for the first time, I didn’t only wonder how it would have been but also if it (still) would’ve been. Asking a question that can’t be answered is useless, to realize that everything, always, flows can be disconcerting or an encouragement. I try the latter, sweet memories are no useful mould for the future.

And still, some stories open chests full of the past, chests that were not that well locked in the first place. And if there are no stories there are the dreams that, uncontrolled, bring up memory, knowledge and wishes – wishes the most. Paton wrote ‘Cry the beloved country’ when I was still in elementary school but that Msimangu (not related) would’ve been in my heart without that book as well. Writers that cleverly sketch a world that is the same as the world I know make once more the realization of brotherhood inescapable. I still love to sit on that hillside in Nkonjeni with the crooked house in the back from where you can see so far. Far, far, far.     ‘You can leave Africa, Africa won’t leave you my friend.’

That boy that whispered in the ear of the writer, that boy, I know him. His whisper sometimes becomes a shout: ‘come back!’ From here I can see all the work that has to be done there and I’d love to. Work with results, unlike in my own surroundings not disturbed by reality. Tempting dreams that censor the unwanted and deny the relentlessness of the real world.

‘East is east and west is west, and never the twain shall meet’ Kipling wrote. North south is what we say these days, politically more correct I hear. If Kipling meant the enormous differences that are often incompatible, if in his definition of meeting beliefs and backgrounds have to be the same, he has a point. But as long as people have been travelling, they meet; ever more often, ever more intense. That goes at least for everyone that is willing to look further than his or her own circle. And here as well as in Africa it’s simply a consequence of being there.

Yes, I do see the differences, but not I only. For them also, for the other, the world is getting smaller and smaller and – it sounds like a contradiction – ever more puzzling. East west, north south, rich poor is what it’s really all about but that sounds so harsh; we see more and more of each other and too often we from the west consider our own ideals superior; a qualification that, maybe, sometimes is correct but looses every trace of legitimacy where word and deed are not one. Freedom, equality and brotherhood are difficult to sell in a world where (economical) exploitation is the order of the day. The anger and disgust, the escape in own/old culture, the ever bigger stream of refugees; the gap, even in our own society, becomes bigger and bigger. As long as we don’t take are own ideals seriously, surprise is either hypocrisy or stupidity.

The cleaning lady and her husband who makes a new gate were both in a terrible mood. At one point I’d had it and asked what was wrong. Bingung – confused. With a mass cremation coming soon they are supposed to volunteer in the banjar (local community) every day; women the whole day, men half the day. That volunteering is a joke, it’s not paid indeed but the one that doesn’t join puts himself outside of the community and, maybe even worse, will be so ashamed. Disastrous in a society where people are paid per day and no work means no income. People with a low income will have nothing left; only the rich are not bothered. And for the priests, of whom the children remarkably often study in Singapore or Australia, these are the good months.

It’s made them easy. The wish for escape into ones own culture is not unique for parts of the Islamic society, it creeps over the world. (Hello Black Peter) Here, not only here, it often results in a balancing act; on one side the traditional way of living and on the other the ‘good stuff’ modern society offers – at a price of course. The hero that will stand up and say it can’t go on like this and finds a third way is not born yet I think. Revolution is far, far away.

P’s son is getting married, right after the month of no work and no income. It can’t wait much longer. You understand I’m sure. And P has to pay for it, that’s the rule for a son. The financial situation of the family is such that a comparison with Greece comes to mind, so they go for the absolute minimum. 35 million rupiah (a good years salary) and no more than 150 guests. Just enough to not feel shame towards the neighbours. Last night the introductory stories to work towards a loan already came.

A culture of shame, priests that care about tradition and not about people, poor education and corruption all over the place; how to escape?

Love, Frank

on the road

A half, torn piece of paper from a jotter with the clumsy writing of a child, found between my mother’s things in her little cupboard. For fifty-seven years she kept it and I think that, once in a while, she looked at it too. For fifty-seven years she saved a moment of happiness. Catch the beauty when it comes by, don’t look at the darkness for too long, let it go in the mist of the past. A lesson in the art of how to live your life through a scrap of paper.
Dear All,

For five weeks I was on the road and I hardly managed to write. He who travels a lot has a lot to tell is what they say. Maybe so – the travels within are still more interesting I think. Nevertheless, an update is in place.
First there were a few days teaching. Nice students and I learn as well. Then of course the opening of the exhibition at Glass Gallery Leerdam. Also for me it was the first time I did see all the works together; a relief when all is right then. And the opening; so many dear friends that made the effort to come and see, so glad to see them all and hardly any time for one of them. More than hundred people in two hours or so, less than a minute for each of them. And still, it was so good they all were there, it felt like a warm bath. Many compliments about my new work, a number of sales and more to come is what the gallery owner says. (For those that didn’t have the opportunity yet, it’s still open till July 26.)

Some work done, a nice weekend in Switzerland and after that to Africa. Africa, coming home in a place where my house isn’t any longer. Every time I land in Johannesburg I’m overwhelmed by melancholy that belongs to a love that doesn’t have a form anymore but never fades. Wrap my arms around that world, I’d love to.
Hello Frank, a bit of realism, Please! Yep, you’re right, Bali is good too, very good in fact.
Two weeks busy with all sorts of things. Dear friends are establishing a restaurant annex hotel and it’s fun to be involved a bit. The wall panels I made in the Netherlands are to their liking, I’ll make a few more later; another project of mine in Africa. Enjoy the quietness on the farm where I may stay, the beautiful sights, delicious meals and good wine and the best company I could wish for. I wonder if there is many people that are a lucky as I am.

And Bali is still Bali. Zoef was delighted to see me again but… how deep the love of my dog goes, I don’t know. During a little experiment last night, I let him walk without a leash, he disappeared direction my domestic help where two of his friends live. For a moment he followed me but before I could close the gate he slipped out of the garden. Ah, when he comes back later today he has another reason to be sooo happy.
Still ceremonies allover the place, the Balinese that live abroad are coming home one by one to attend the mass cremation in August. P. and his wife close the one hole with another, every hole a bit bigger and deeper than the one before, each upacara sets them back a bit more. The taxi-drivers complain about a lack of tourists, the conclusion of P. that, maybe there are too many taxies didn’t land there yet. The small road nearby is on its way to become a Main Street, new houses to let are build everywhere, most of them are empty; too much of everything. That tourism is affected negatively by all that too much, is a notion that doesn’t sink in.
But the weather is fine, the people are beautiful and friendly. For a cold shower I have to wait till all the hot water is out of the pipes is gone, the pool is lukewarm. Pool has an important role in loosing a number of kilos that, in mysterious ways, were added to my body during my trip.
And, oh yes, it was my birthday. Thanks for all your good wishes, your friendship and connectedness were important in marking the beginning of a new year. Sixty-three now and I think that the vague idea that I’m getting to understand a bit more about life is due to getting older, as if, on the road, something is added. It’s good this way.

Love, Frank

The seas are tired

It’s not true that people don’t follow their dreams anymore because they grew old. They grew old because they didn’t follow their dreams anymore.

Dear All

A short trip to Java; checking some furniture for a friend in Africa and on the last day enjoy Yogyakarta. It became a trip with some hurdles. Only at the airport I notice that my ticket is indeed for the 16th but in December. Susah. Susah at the airport and of course with the agent when I get back. I want a reimbursement ad it’s doubtful if that will happen, I know. A smooth flight to Yogyakarta, the train to Solo is on time. The furniture looks good, it’s a serious company, I’m glad I went. For the Friday I have an appointment in Semarang. I book the bus for an early ride to be back somewhere late afternoon. That won’t work says the manufacturer when I call him. The showroom is in Jepara, 75 km further, it’s a three hours drive and we won’t be back in time. Funny for a company that has its office in Semarang and why didn’t they tell me in the first place… I’ll change my ticket so that I’m in Semarang till Saturday. Good plan says the furniture guy, that way there is no problem. I throw my ticket away and buy a new one. (change your ticket Pak? Ha, ha, that’s not possible.) Thursday in the evening I get a text message. He forgot but the next day is Friday so there is sholat in the mosque. (prayers). He’ll pick me up at one. Had I known before, I wouldn’t have left Solo at 5 in the morning.

It’s almost two when he arrives in my hotel. ‘Eh, well, eh, no. To Jepara today? It’s a three hours drive Pak, we’ll never make it.’ ‘And how can I see the furniture then?’ He doesn’t know but maybe I have an idea? The ideas I have are mainly violent. Goodbye Sir, goodbye Sir. I’m not too happy.

Time to pamper myself a bit. I go for dinner in Toko Oen, a restaurant that’s there since 1928 and where remarkably little has changed over the years. Even the waiter seems to have been part of the establishment since they started. A singer, he looks like eighty or older, sings ballads and kroncong with a clear voice and the right intonation for every word. Tempo dulu, a trip to the times before I was even born, the nasi goreng is the best I’ve ever had, the sate is a delicacy. Ten minutes Toko Oen and I’m overwhelmed by feelings of thankfulness; I’m allowed to be there and enjoy the graciousness of the place and the people. Semarang, mid Java.

An article in a newspaper states that the boat refugees are, maybe (sic) with the exception of those that come from Syria, are a new sort of gold diggers. The economy in Africa is getting better all the time so why go to Europe? He blames the internet. The fast communication and the too positive picture of life in Europe that comes through … Malaysia, Indonesia and Thailand send the refugees in in that part of the world, mainly Rohingya from Myanmar, back to the sea. It’s Birma’s (Myanmars) problem is it not? Europe makes some inadequate plans, it has to be affordable. A Dutch politician compares them with a well known criminal, Katie Hopkins from the Sun in GB calls them cockroaches and wants the marine to sink their boats at sea. The seas are tired was a song of a Dutch singer years ago. Yes, the seas are tired, more than ever I’d think.

Internet; our richness is not a rumour any longer. It’s not hidden anymore but visible for each and everyone. If envy is still envy when hunger and need are paired with a sense of right and wrong is a question not difficult to answer. How to explain the Chinese worker whom assembles i-phones for almost nothing, 12 hours a day, six or seven days a week, that the lady responsible for the sales of it gets 80 million a year is something I wouldn’t know. The soaps with their always well off characters in big houses and fat cars are to be seen on every TV screen. The commercials for often useless but expensive products as well; bold underlining of unreasonable inequalities. Seeds for revolution fall everywhere, more and more. The blunt and self-conceited argument “we deserved it” is long past its best before date and, that’s where the article is right, keeping doors and windows closed is, due to internet, impossible. Why you would want to keep it closed in the first place is another question. If the words “you are me in a different form” is true, and I do believe so with all my heart, we are quite schizophrenic.

In the meantime the opening of my exhibition in Leerdam is already done. It was good, very good. It became a beautiful exhibition and the reactions were very positive. It turns out that receiving compliments for a whole day is something I’m very good at. Now back to work again, making wall panels for a restaurant in Africa. It feels a bit like a new beginning.

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Together, all of us.


Dear All,

He got an unsatisfactory mark for his talk in school halfway the sixties. His own fault probably, at least he could have known. Wrong subject and a newly introduced system of grading – the listeners, the class, could determine the mark – made a poor starting-point for a story told by a somewhat unworldly boy of fifteen that was never part of the gang in the first place. Without any knowledge or insight, only based on a vague notion that something had to be done, the images of Biafra from newspapers and TV journals still on his mind, he had chosen development aid as a subject. Not a very sexy theme. Talking for half an hour with words like ‘give as much as you can afford’, compassion and the love of one’s neighbour and fumbling through permillages that he wanted to change into percentages. The class heard ‘giving all you have’, didn’t see any need at all and understood that the boy was even more crazy than they’d thought. Incensed he stumbled through the last ten minutes in which the class could ask questions and ended his talk with ‘If we are not going to bring it, one day they will come and get it’. It sounded like a threat. The result was a lot of screaming and a fat unsatisfactory mark.

The cynical diminishing of the surveillance in the Mediteranean – possibly some more will drown in the beginning but after a while it will get less – achieved the opposite. Thousands of people drowned but it needed 900 victims in one boat to come to a new plan. We’re going to do it differently.

In the Hague endless discussions about giving people, of whom we all think they cannot stay indefinitely, the basics like food and shelter yes or no as long as they are in the country. It’s not so much about the costs I read, that seems to be not that much, it’s about the principle, and of course about the voters opinion in the next elections. That a huge number of people cannot go back in the first place is a detail that’s ignored for now, for a long time already it’s not about people anymore.

That boy in the sixties, it was I, knows a little bit more today. ‘They will come and get it’ doesn’t sound like a threat any longer, it became a logical and understandable fact of life. And I can’t blame them. Saying they should get shelter in their own regions may be a point but then you’ll have to do something. Only when those shelters are a reality, not a half worn tent with a bucket in the corner for twenty people but adequate, safe shelters; only then we can talk again. Why does the UN find it difficult to find even those thirty million dollars that are desperately needed for Yarmuk, that camp in Syria?

That talk, I wouldn’t do it again nowadays. Also today the class would give me a very unsatisfactory mark.

In the meantime in Alexandra, Alex we used to say fondly, the army went in to stop killings with a xenophobic background. Last night there were another two victims. The king of the Zulu’s – of the Zulu’s for Christ sake!!! – gave words to feelings that apparently are alive in many. ‘Those leaches have to go!’ he told his people. He was talking about foreigners in South Africa, Wilders (the Dutch politician) in an African version. Powers that are easy let loose and hard to get back where they belong.

The, in my opinion, real causes of all the hatred and distrust, politicians that line their pockets without any shame have lost contact a long time ago with the people for whom they should be there and think their new car is more important that running water for Emmanuels mother. That and the deadlock because of inadequate government; it’s never mentioned. Votes they’ll get anyway, they brought freedom to the country did they not?And, almost unnoticed, a spirit of shameless egoism and neo-liberalism (is there a difference between the two?) leads people into a new form of slavery.

Tonight that soft sweet tenor sounds loud and clear, just like then with a touch of despair. ‘We have to do it together, all of us, together.

Love, Frank



Dear All

It is the year 1937 and pitch-dark, I’m sitting on my terrace, no lights allowed tonight. All is dead quiet, apart from those horrible dogs at the neighbours. It is Nyepi, the Balinese New Year. I just arrived back home from the Netherlands last night and the trip from the airport took hours. Ogoh-ogoh everywhere, grotesque statues that every banjar (neighbourhood) makes and carries around in procession. Main and back-roads alike, every road was blocked. In case of a ceremony there is no consideration towards traffic, tourism or anything at all. And today is a day of silence. Machines are not allowed, I didn’t dare to swim because of the noise. Not a real problem: ‘he’s a bit tired’.

My visit to the Netherlands was short, just bringing and picking up some glass. The closest dealer is in Australia but the prices there are so that a ticket to Holland worked out cheaper. On top of that I could bring a part of the exhibition. And a cosy 32 hours in the plane… There was a time when bus-companies advertised with ‘real airplane seats’, I assume they don’t do that anymore. Nevertheless, home safe, a reason to be thankful.

I was in Holland during elections but of course that didn’t help. I cannot understand how it works. The party with no vision and a bunch of swindlers in their camp remained the biggest. The first results one can read in their ‘new plan’ to not allow any asylum seeker in Europe; rough egoism, dressed up with plastic compassion, no clue about international agreements. Maybe they try to open a door for the next election so that they can form a coalition with that other Dutch idiot Wilders? Every country gets the government it deserves. I just wonder, what on earth have they done while I was away to deserve this sort of punishment.

That, two days after my arrival in Holland a number of Facebook friends liked a KLM trip to Bali did hurt a bit. Not very subtle boys, not subtle at all.

At home all was fine, only the water-pump broke down. Tired, overtired is what Pak Par thinks. It’s quite possible. Due to a stupid plan I share the pump with the neighbours who have three houses connected. I think they spend their days with showers and baths, water goes through like in a medium sized river. Pump tired and now dead. I can see the discussion coming about who’s going to pay what and how much. And a few fish were dead. More than 70 fish and still I look with sad feelings at the few that lay dead between the lotus. Life, how much do we really understand about life? I read about universes that possibly exist next to ours, countless maybe, and conclude it isn’t much. My understanding I mean. With a smile I think of J. who suggested that, maybe, it’s all an experiment of a student in another dimension. Much further than amazement about the cause behind the cause I don’t get. No need, amazement is a very good instrument to live your life in happiness.

Tomorrow back to work again. A lot of grinding and polishing, not my favourite job but the results are nice. And a trip to the sandblaster, it’s possible again, I have my new drivers-license. I need one every year because they don’t even want to think about me having a valid license while my residence permit is expired. That my permit expires 6 months before the drivers-license is no problem. Read: a new drivers-license every year brings more money. First to the doctor for a declaration of health. The lady fills in a form, she doesn’t look at me at all, I pay 3 dollars and I’m healthy again. Good deal.

The police in the meantime have thought of something new, they need a copy of my passport. My permit is not enough anymore. Return to my house, stop at the copy-shop and back to the police. ‘Ah, but your license expired yesterday!’ ‘ Yeah, that’s why I’m here, to prolong.’ ‘Well, it’s not valid anymore now, is it? We cannot prolong this one, you have to apply all over again.’ I got a confusing test on a computer. ‘Is it okay to drive a motor with a ladder on your shoulder of, say, 10 meters long?’ ‘Is it allowed to drive over pedestrians on a zebra-crossing?’ ‘Is a slalom through a closed railway crossing okay?’

Amazing, all those things one has to know! But maybe it’s not a real luxury in Bali. (Except for the railway thing, we have no trains here.) In all the confusion I failed the test anyway, 5 wrong out of 30 was one too many. Loud protests from my side. It’s not fair. I had a license. I’m driving for over 40 years now (oops, it is wise to mention that I’m that old already?). Indonesian is not my mother tongue. Etc. etc.

The manager! The manager!!!

Calm down now, the manager can arrange things. ‘How much did you pay last year?’ First I pretended not to know anymore but finally I admitted: Rp 300.000,– (US$ 25.–) Oh, well, fort hat money we can do it again sir, no worries see? He loved to help people. Five minutes later I was on the street again with my new drivers-license. The price 5 dollars more than the official price. See you next year. ‘Don’t get angry, just be amazed’ says D.

Love Frank.

Our hands

Dear All,

A picture in the newspapers didn’t make sleep come easy. The two convicted Australians are transported to Java in a sickening theatre with a role for lots of police and military. There, in Java, they will be executed together with eight others. One of these days I’ll get up in the morning and read on the net that it’s over. I know, every minute people die somewhere in this world but still, the deliberate killing of ten people is a rock in my pillow at night.









Also a last plea in court had no effect.

The mules – certainly, stupid idiots that entered a ridiculous adventure, hoping for some money – have to be killed. The principals, this was about drugs that were to be exported from Indonesia to Australia, are not bothered. A war on drugs, like a war on terrorism or a war on murder in general; it’s not going to work. Take action where needed and possible, of course. But our only real hope is to work towards a sentiment and an attitude that recognizes the other as a human being. Also the intended shooting of a girl from the Philippines is, when we are able to see the saddening limitations of her world, a crime. It brings me to a well meant ‘god do something’, only to realize that there are no other hands available than yours and mine. Keep on looking to all those wonderful people and initiatives that are there as well can keep us going and, hopefully, inspired. The world needs us.

Indonesia does all it can to safe their citizens abroad when convicted to death. Millions of dollars went to Saudi Arabia as indemnification – another detestable thing, as if you could minimize the results of murder with money – to bring home two citizens that would’ve been beheaded. Indonesia itself is deaf for each and every plea. Munafik (from Arabic language) is the word in Indonesian: hypocrite. ‘The fat lady’, Megawati Sukarnoputri, a former president, opposes changing the verdict and the present president seems, after a hopeful beginning, to weak to oppose her, the head of his party. This week he managed to lecture kids of around 16 on drugs and its 50 victims a day (?) in this country only. And consequently he asked for their agreement with capital punishment for drugs related crime. I a country where opposing a superior is not done, he looks for support from children for an unsupportable decision. How low can you go?

All in all the presidency of Jokowi is disappointing so far. He is, I think, still a less horrific option than Prabowo, the proven murderer who just didn’t make it, nevertheless, it’s disappointing. Very.

The not so pleasant waitress was gone and I just started to frequent LalaLili again. The owner, pleased I was back, was over the top friendly and – what else can one say – praised Zoef the dog right into dogs-heaven. Oh what a sweet dog Pak Frank has, and so clean, and such a beautiful fur, and so healthy and polite… We, Zoef and I, were not impressed. And I’m sure Zoef was thinking about Ibu Putu where indeed, he gets less compliments but always a nice and juicy bone. Zoef knows his priorities and so does the owner of LalaLili, or so I thought. Since a week or so she has something new. Hours and hours in a row she plays a tape with a monotonous mantra, with ‘Om Swastiastu”. Thousand times and more, same words, same guy, same tone. My question if the guests liked it, the waitress couldn’t answer. My “I do”, with implication, was not received well. No LalaLili for a while I think.

Ah, criticizing Indonesia – was sich liebt das neckt sich is what the Germans say. How great would it be if I could utter all this, knowing that in The Netherlands all is fine and well. That’s not reality though. We already had a MP without a vision; as far as it wasn’t clear yet, morals are missing too. His statement that he’d rather see Jihadi’s die in Syria than coming back to The Netherlands is not only shocking, it also underlines the bankruptcy of everything the Dutch (government) used to be. I have no idea if he is going to apologize, it doesn’t matter really. This is in his head and with such an attitude one doesn’t belong in a position like his. Where would he belong? I can‘t think of another place really. Dohmen, a Dutch philosopher, thinks that love for your fellow men is too much asked, he sees more in sympathy. I strongly disagree with him but even then, our MP can’t muster that either. The country is in a sad state. There is a lot of work to do.

I take it we’re all doing our best. The WRR (scientific advice board for the government) concludes that the value of art should be prioritized and not the question what it brings in terms of economy. Travelling up and down every day will be a problem but otherwise there would be a job for me. That conclusion I’ve drawn long time ago and without expensive research and such. The dreams that art can offer us will turn out to be (at least partly) the material of which a new tomorrow is build. Imagination, beyond what we knew and what was accepted, beyond convention and personal hang-ups and how ‘the rules are’. Your and my hands can work with that.

Love, Frank