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The Hallucinarium of Kerkrade: A History That Means Nothing and Represents Everything

 

What is a village that becomes a city? A place that was first nothing, then something, yet ultimately still nothing—except for those who happen to live there. It's a story that could be told anywhere, and therefore about nowhere. Yet you paint it anyway, as if cataloging facts—the Romans, the Spaniards, the steam engines—might change something. As if listing events could tell us what it meant to live there. As if history weren't primarily made of everything that didn't happen.

 

And what did happen, really? Almost nothing. Most centuries were just stretched-out presents, prisons of stagnation. You were born, you stayed, you died—and the world barely moved. That's the real story: not rebellion, but acceptance; not discovery, but inability to leave. And yet this is precisely what we never paint, never celebrate. Wars and inventions are spectacular, but identity—that vague sense of belonging somewhere without knowing why—remains elusive. As if we're afraid that if we examine it too long, we'll discover it doesn't exist.

 

We imagine tradition preserves something, but perhaps it just conceals how little we actually retain. Change is what we admire, but what we truly are is what refuses to change. And yet—when we try to describe that feeling of "home," it evaporates. As if identity were a necessary hallucination to avoid noticing we've been imprisoned all along.

 

The painting shows everything that occurred, but the real drama lies in everything that could never occur. History is a sum total of missed chances, yet against our better judgment, we feel something must be preserved. As if secretly hoping someone might someday look at this painting and think: "Yes, this was it. This is how it felt." While secretly knowing: it can't be. And yet you keep painting.

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