Last week I was talking with a colleague at work about the summer and Pride and what kind of parties he’s been going to lately (namely after hour loft parties that go on for days was his answer.)

“I never see you out.” He said looking at me.

I told him that I did but even when I mentioned the clubs that I tend to frequent I realized it had been months since I’d been to any of these venues.

This has not been much of a dancing summer I’m afraid and if I’m being completely honest with myself I’m unsure if I actually miss it. Clubbing has somehow lost a bit of its lustre. Everything is over priced and too loud and too late at night. I want to give myself the space to outgrow things with grace. However, when you start a Substack about nightlife and club culture, it' starts to feel a bit disingenuous when there are no boots on the ground.

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Luckily, I still have so much dancing that permeates my life outside of dark dance floors. As a freelance dance fitness instructor by day, I still get to express myself through my body, rearrange my molecules and shake off a healthy dose of negativity replaced by dopamine and serotonin.

The downside is that most of the time on my days off from teaching, the last thing my body wants to do is go out dancing. Dancing for my own pleasure often takes a back seat these days.

Sometimes I really do think I should just bow out and stop going out altogether. But as an OG clubbed, hippie-raver, there’s a part of me that feels like it’s my duty to show up, take up space in dark rooms and be the light that lets people know that I have a right to be here, I belong here, no one is ever too old to dance…

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Let me clear, this is no way a humble brag that I was able to read some books over the summer. As someone who holds a BA in Literature and Society from the Vrije University in Amsterdam, one would assume I am devouring books on the daily. I am most certainly not. In my household, my husband puts me to shame, often reading multiple books at once, many of them hefty in academic jargon that it would take me hours or weeks to fully grasp certain paragraphs.

It actually takes me many days slowly reading each page before I attain any kind of flow. This is why I like the beach so much. I find laying on a beach gives my brain enough relaxation and decompression to actually focus on something like a book. The beach also gives me permission to just be inside of the pages without a sense of guilt or that I need to be doing something else. At the beach, I’m able to surrender myself and my imagination to the pages. I also get distracted easily and I have to reread many passages, especially when they are descriptive, in order understand what is going on.

As you can see from the photo, my summer reads thus far are kind of all over the place. I have no discerning taste for what I read. I’m like Goldilocks, trying to find what fits my mood, my schedule, my brain capacity, at the moment I am reading it. Generally speaking, if I can’t seem to get past the first five pages (or the first chapter) I will put the book down. If the chapters are too long I will stop and maybe continue at a later date or never return to it again.

Somehow, these books (plus a few others) hit the sweet spot and made the cut.

As an aspiring writer, a lot of the time when I read I’m also just genuinely impressed that these authors have been published. Sometimes, I’m also tinged with jealousy.

Looking at the selection of books I’m also struck that there is an imbalance between the genders. I’ll have to be mindful of that for my future reads. My partner once spent a period reading only female authors and I found that really commendable. Shannon Chakraborty’s book The Adventures of Amina Al-Sirafi was a very satisfying page turner. An adventure tale set throughout Africa with some magic sprinkled in, it gave a refreshing twist to the pirate genre with the protagonist being a woman captain. There was some nice queer-coded moments in there as well. It’s part of a series with the second book just recently published so I’m excited to dive back into that world, maybe in the winter months when I’m longing for some sunny adventures.

Dinniman’s Dungeon Crawler Carl was also a fun romp set in a dystopian future where Earth has collapsed and has become a part of a televised Galactic to-the-death reality show/video game for Aliens. For me, it was giving Hunger Games for the hungry gamer crowd. Some very witty dialogue that did make me chuckle out loud (and that’s hard to do). Dinniman has created a very distinct and recognizable voice in Carl. However, sometimes I did feel like I was in a long conversation with someone who was mansplaining an entire video game run to me. But it’s not over! The book ends with a set up for more books to come. I’ll also probably take some time before revisiting this world.

I took a hard left from the entertainment literature to read Stein’s Paris France. The book was published just as the Nazi’s took over France during the Second World War so the book has an ominous undercurrent while Stein describes Paris and Parisian people, their culture and sensibilities. Stein is very particular in how the uses words and syntax which made the text both reach and complex. I found myself reading passages over and over to capture its meaning. The writing lingers in a liminal space between prose and poetry and memoir. Her use of repetition in words and phrases and her cadence seems like the precursor to what the beatniks were doing in America. Fascinating read and a lovely ode to Paris in the midst of a tumultuous world at war - something that feels very present today.

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I don’t know Ben Lerner’s works and I feel like as a literature scholar I should. Transcription falls into this new category of works where Covid and the pandemic makes an appearance. I imagine most books that take place present-day will be addressing this in their works in some sort of fashion (Moore and Szalay also write about Covid in their respective works of fiction). I read this book for a book club I will be attending later in September and I am very glad that I did. Much like Stein, Lerner has a very particular way of expressing ideas and feelings through images and language. I was impressed with the kind of mood he was able to sustain and whilst writing through shifting character perspectives. The book has a good way of making the reader feel slighting discombobulated and curious at the same time. There’s a lot that can be unpacked and discussed here: familial relations, false memories, plagiarism in Academia, masculinity. I’m looking forward to discussing it in book club.

Probably the most annoying read for me this summer was Moore’s Not Good Enough. A debut novel about a gay protagonist who attempts to pick up the pieces of his life after a sudden break with a boyfriend of nine-years, it’s a gay novel that’s just good enough to be published and something I wish I had written. Out of all the books this one sort of checked the beach-read box. There was a kind of airy, rom-com vibe to it, a book that felt easy to slip back into without any sort of heavy investment. If I’m being completely honest, I felt like the characters were all slightly off-putting and made me confront a lot of my own internal homophobia, in that the story reminds me so much of a messy youth that I am glad I’m not a part of anymore. Drinking and being in the throes of chaos is a being plot device here and the fact that the protagonist was prominently using Facebook as a millennial sort of took me out of the fantasy. But that could just be me - are millennials really using Facebook that much? What gave the book some gravitas was the ending which didn’t wrap everything up in a bow as I suspected it would. It was a serviceable book and Moore will certainly crank out more of these in the next few years. I wish I had written, though I really can’t stand these characters. I need a minute with myself to process why these characters irritated me so much. Perhaps it’s just too close to home (or a particularly time in my life that feels so far away at the moment). If you’re gay, you’ll understand when I say that this book is drama.

I was very curious to read Szalay’s Flesh because it was the winner of last year’s Booker Prize and during my BA I had a class about Publishing where we discussed a lot of about the industry, how it works, and what the literary world looks for in an Award-winning piece of writing. Flesh was the quickest read I had all summer, I spent a weekend reading it from start to finish, which shocked me because I really don’t read like that. I just love a book that can hold you captive in the first few sentences and then you’re just in it till the end. There is a simplicity to the book which is so hard to cultivate. Szalazy is not fussy in his writing and yet who knows the exact words and phrases to use to build a world in the reader’s imagination. This is a character study of one man’s life and the subtle and profound turns it takes just from choices that are both within and without his control. Szalay’s book asks us, does the flesh truly obey the mind? Are we really in control of our actions, our behaviours? I was very impressed by this book. It’s going to sit with me for a bit, which is a testament to the writing. I really hope they don’t fuck it up by turning this into a movie or a limited series for streamers, but why do I already feel like some dip-shit is already pitching it or workshopping it somewhere? Which goes back to my question about the Booker Prize: do books that win awards need to show potential for adaptation to the screen?

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Last weekend bloomed another heatwave. By the time he made it to Houthavens the sun was already making its descent. The throngs of pretty bodies clustered along the wharf like lazy sea lions huddled together to get the last bit of golden rays.

Fires everywhere big and small. We all feel how the Earth is shifting, how our world has altered. And yet in this tiny country we still bask in the warmth of a good summer. Underneath our delusion simmers the knowledge that the longer days of heat that we enjoy to tan our bodies means migration, environmental changes, loss of life.

Two things can be true: we are grateful and guarded.

(Sadly and thankfully the hot streaked has ended, at least for now. A forecast of rain for the next two weeks is the reprieve the brittle grass and dry soil need. This long stretch of grey marks the end of a summer and a return to structure and seriousness.)

He questions everything and for the first time in a long while he allows himself the luxury to sit with them. Unfixable, unknowing, questions as gifts, wrapped in a mystery, wrapped in riddle.

For instance, are friends really that important?

He’s observing all the people along the wharf and on the dock, a British Mom taking her kids out onto the water on a SUP as the Dad looks on from the dock, three strapping men taking turns diving, a crew of older Dutchmen continually drinking beers as they blare hard techno from a portable speaker, a group of girls lying on a patchwork of beach towels, sharing chips and hummus and their plans for next summer…

He’s grappled with this for most of his life. A desire to belong to a community, to some place, creating a solid sense of identity. This longing now feels ancestral, an heirloom passed down from generations, from a lineage of people who were colonized over and over, struggling to find a place to belong.

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I haven’t been dancing very much summer and that worries me.

The start of the summer felt promising. I went to see Gilles Peterson at Lofi for Rainbow Disco Club and I thought I was being both smart and strategic by buying a few tickets to some events in advance to take advantage of the early bird prices and to give me a few milestones to look forward to throughout the summer months.

Silly me for planning ahead. Though my sun/heat rash took less time to heal than I imagined, my cold/flu coincided with most of the events I had planned on attending. If I was smarter I would have put my tickets on ticket swap but I was just too tired and weak to bother. Money down the drain. Not too much but it adds up in the end. So much for trying to organize my club life.

While dancing has always been a passion of mine, as of late I have started to question how smart it is to monetize one’s passions. I was so young when ballet and musical theatre was my full-time job. I had youth on my side to give me enough extra energy to still go out on the weekends, even after a long run of shows. Although being a dance fitness instructor satisfies my dance cravings (and gives me a paycheque), I’m less inclined to go out dancing as a form of release, relaxation and self expression. And I don’t necessarily think that that’s a good thing.

As an OG Raver I still think that showing up to a club or party to dance is a vital part of club life. Clubs used to be a bastion for the queer community, a place for us to feel safe to explore and develop our physicality, to connect through moment. This wordless form of communication between friendly strangers has since petered out. The club is now a concert venue where groups of individuals sway self-consciously in close knit circles amongst their core group of friends. Those who don’t dance use the dance floor as a thorough fare, aimlessly walking in time to the rhythm in lieu of full bodied expression.

Of course I’m aware that this is a generalization.

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I love a good party. Every summer, Pride is one of those events that can elevate and punctuate the season. For many queer people it is our favourite holiday, and for the straight-identifying population, especially in Amsterdam, it’s an opportunity to hop on a boat with several cases of beer and some big speakers with friends, and dabble in some glitter as a kind of hallowe’en for heteros if the theme were camp-meets-disco.

I’ve lived long enough to witness and participate in several Prides in different cities and countries. So much so that this year I ended up working instead of out on the streets celebrating. Last year, when I knew that Amsterdam Pride was also representing World Pride I had tried to get my two friends from Canada to consider coming for the occasion but to no avail. With no one to party with, the idea of Pride sort of lost a bit of its lustre. As it turned out I got a nasty flu and was also still recovering which made things doubly depressing.

It’s an embarrassment of riches to live in Amsterdam, the first place in the world to legalize same-sex marriage, but over the years you start to feel like once you’ve seen one canal boat parade you’ve seen them all.

In truth, it is an amazing sight, if you can actually see it. Finding a spot along the canal means showing up hours earlier and for a short immigrant like me, attempting see anything above the towering shoulders of very tall Dutch people takes its toll eventually.

These little petty annoyances are just that, petty.

I often worry that my criticism borders on cynicism but there’s a part of me that wants to balance out the performative joy I tend to see on social media. Everyone is everywhere, having a good time and doing the most. (I really need to take a break from Instagram and touch grass).

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Mark: Tell me the story of how Prik began?

Jelger: I started Prik in 2006 with Gerson. At the time we were a couple and then we eventually became business partners.

M: How did you meet?

J: Back then I was going to these queer underground parties. There was this space in the city centre above the Aldi and they had a party called Spellbound which happened once a month. That’s how we met. We’d also hang out with friends at some of the gay bars but they were never really my cup of tea. I always found them a bit too commercial. That’s when Gerson and I started thinking about opening our own bar.

We were both in our late twenties. Gerson was a buyer for HEMA and I was working in horeca while I was studying business management and photography so I had some experience working a bar.

M: Was it difficult to find the location for Prik?

J: A little bit. We always wanted to do something in the centre of Amsterdam because that’s where all the gays bar are, but at the same time we didn’t want to necessarily be on one of the well-known gay streets.

M: So, it was a choice to not to own a bar on Reguliersdwaarsstraat for instance?

J: There’s often a lot of bar-hopping when you’re on a street like Reguliers. We wanted to have a space where we could do whatever we wanted and create our own identity. Something unpretentious and where people could feel comfortable to be themselves. We also wanted it to feel playful and kind of flexible so people could sit during the day but also have dancing and music at night.

M: And now it’s been twenty years!

J: When we started we thought, let’s see what happens after five years. If we’re still having fun after that, we’ll go another five years. Time flies!

M: What do you think it takes to keep a business successful like Prik running in Amsterdam?

J: Well, it’s not easy. I think it takes constant work and attention. After Gerson decided to stop, there was a moment where I wondered, do I really want to keep doing this? It felt like things were starting to slip a bit because I wasn’t focused, and if the leader isn’t paying attention then neither is the team.

M: How did you turn that around?

J: Our manager Davide wanted to become part-owner. Being an owner is different from being a manager. You have more of an investment to the bar and the team. Davide’s also younger than me so he brings in a lot of fresh ideas and new energy. Maybe the clientele at the bar would have kept getting older as I get older but with Davide, there’s a younger crowd too. We have a diverse patrons here which is really nice.

M: Prik has been a landmark for the gay community for many years now. How do you think the community has changed over the years?

J: I still think the gay community is thriving. At one point I felt there was a lot more acceptance which meant gay people could frequent bars outside of the community more easily for instance. But lately I’ve also heard young people say that it’s becoming less tolerant so having places for queer people to feel safe are maybe becoming more important again. Of course, everyone can be whoever they want to be everywhere in Amsterdam, but I still think there could be a need for something more.

M: Like what, for instance?

J: I think it could be nice to have more queer cultural spaces in Amsterdam or spots for daytime activities. There’s quite a bit happening in gay nightlife but not so much during the day. I think that could be interesting.

I also think the nightlife model has changed where there are more parties as opposed to gay clubs. There’s Raum and Tilla Tec which, I think is stopping soon, though hopefully something else will open up afterwards. Otherside is also hosting queer events.

M: Is that a nice development to have more of a focus on parties?

J: On the one hand I think it’s nice, but I think at Prik we want to also focus on bringing back that local gay club feel where there’s always something going on every Friday, Saturday and Sunday. So, even if you went by yourself, you could start to build a relationship with the space and the people who frequent it.

I do believe there is a loneliness issue that can’t be solved by being on the apps. That’s why a neighbourhood bar like Prik is so valuable. It connects you with the community in a different or more meaningful way.

M: For people visiting Amsterdam for the first time, what are some of the queer spots you think they should check out after coming to Prik for a special cocktail?

J: I always say go to Club Church. There Thursday night is always full of self-expression where anything can happen depending on the people and the vibe. Spijker Bar is also good if you are into a bit of an older crowd, Raum is good for a real underground club vibe.

M: The outdoor street party that Prik hosts one of the highlights every Pride season. How did that come about?

J: Every year the bar would have an anniversary party which kept getting bigger and bigger. By our eight anniversary we were already getting warnings from the police and on the ninth anniversary we got shut down because there were too many people.

Then for our tenth anniversary we thought we can’t just have a party anymore, we have to do something bigger. Since the bar’s anniversary is just a few weeks before Pride, we decided to talk with the municipality and with their support we were able to close off the entire street and have a street party.

Amsterdam is hosting World Pride this year so the street party is going to double in size with two stages over two days.

M: What’s the best part about doing a two-day street party?

J: When it’s past midnight and knowing that everything went smoothly!

M: Twenty years on, are you able to sit back a bit and enjoy some of Prik’s success?

J: Yeah, I do enjoy the success of what Prik is, especially when people tell you how important the bar is for them and for their social life.

Having a co-owner who looks after a lot of the managing has helped create a more 9 to 5 structure for me. These days I don’t work behind the bar so much anymore. I can finish my day and go home and cook a nice dinner with my partner. I have time to read more.

People sometimes say they miss seeing me but that they still keep going which is nice. It feels good knowing that I don’t have to always be here to keep this place going, and that Prik doesn't revolve around me.

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Outside the venue by the parked bikes, he was frustrated that he’d made such a rookie mistake. He’d forgotten to take out from his bag a small round container that was packed with “in-an-emergency over-the-counter drugs”: paracetamol, advil and some anti-histamines in case, god-forbid, he had an allergic reaction to something he ate which sadly had been happening more frequently in the last few years.

There was no way the security at the venue would let him bring a container full of drugs into the club so he had to find a place to stash it outside. He thought of leaving it in his bike basket but that felt too risky. Someone might take it and the anti-histamines were not purchased in Amsterdam but were delivered from visitors passing through from Canada. Losing even a few of them would be significant.

Searching for a spot, he was reminded of years ago when he was staying at a friend’s studio apartment in Manhattan. She was a former dance colleague who retired and moved back to the States to study Art History. While he was visiting, she stayed with her boyfriend who was living in the Financial District. There’s a pink rock the size of my hand by the bushes outside the apartment, she said. I’ll just leave the keys there. It seemed crazy that anyone would do such a thing, but New York City is a crazy place and after finding the solitary key and feeling relieved to have found it, it made sense to him that in a city of millions of people, a random robber looking for a key under a rock in front of a specific apartment is highly unlikely.

He opted to leave the container on the ground by the outer wall of the building, close to his bike. Hidden in shadow, it seemed logical to him that no one would find it unless they knew where to look. His only hope was that he would leave the club before some drunk guy would use that particular corner to take a leak, but judging from the amount of parked bikes, it seemed like a slow night.

He gave himself a strict exit time of roughly 2am, which he lovingly refers to as Toronto time. Back in the day when he was partying in Toronto, most bars, including some clubs, would close at two in the morning. By 1:50 someone would grab the mic and you would hear over the speakers, first call for last call. At 1:55 again the voice would return, last call at the bar. By 2am the music was turned off, lights turned on and everyone scurried off, looking ghoulish in the harsh light. There were occasions when the lights would go on and the person you were flirting with all night looked nothing like he did, filtered through smoke and coloured lights. Sometimes ac club would be so dark, the only way you could see how someone looked was to hope he’d ask for a light for his cigarette and then you could shove a lighter close to his face for a more accurate look. Back then, people smoked in clubs.

Now the security takes your phone and covers the lens with a sticker. It’s more of a deterrent than anything. As he got to the dance floor, he watched a guy with a bunch of his friends head toward the DJs, phone in hand. Two DJs were playing a back-to-back set to the small crowd that was slowing starting to grow. He watched, as the guy held up his phone to try and videotape the DJs but then remembered that his phone had a sticker and chuckled lightly to himself, putting his phone back in his pocket.

He wondered what kind of pictures he could get away with in a venue that actively deters it. It’s a noble effort from parties and venues to keep phones off the dance floor. Queer spaces are sacred and for many a place of safety and self discovery. Even so, he missed capturing the vibe of a space with his phone, the silhouettes of bodies in motion, the strobing of lights inside a liminal space.

It was early and people were walking in and out of the room, unsure if whether the join the few people dancing or opt for another drink at the bar. Earlier that day, he threw out his back so even he was unsure of what his next would should be: keep dancing or go home?

Luckily, the crowd picked up just before 1am, a standard peak hour for a “regular”night out. The dance floor had the advantage of feeling large but being quite intimate. Even a party of only a hundred or so people already made the space feel full. As more people started to stream in he noticed a cluster who were busying themselves on the dance floor with a phone flashlight on, searching for something on the ground. Lost drugs? Keys? A contact lens? He hoped they would find what they were looking for.

Despite his tired legs and bad back, he felt buoyed by the music, a cross section of 90’s nostalgia with sexy, grimy bass lines. Two men took up space in front of him, both shirtless, wearing jeans. The sight of them and the rancid smell of poppers and body odour took him back yet again to Toronto, to his youth, where the combinations of those two scents were so prevalent.

Even though he didn’t stay long - couldn’t stay long: he had work the next day - he enjoyed what he was seeing and hearing. He felt fairly certain that some good mischief would he happening by 4am. The music was all the right amounts of sexy. Not overt or performative.

He stuck to his schedule and left before the night took off and got good. Was the price tag worth it for just a few hours on the dance floor. He wasn’t sure, maybe? He missed the days when you could enjoy this kind of premium experience for free at your local bar or club. We expected more from our local clubs and bars back then. But the world costs more now. This is what we’ve created.

On another night, if his back wasn’t so out of whack, he might have stayed, but maybe it saved him from make some terrible choices. He looked around the room with a sigh and left quietly, and wished the security a good night before exiting the club (be nice to your security guards folks).

His drugs were exactly where he left them.

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I was having a hard time reading her. Such a small book, the cover unassuming, not fussy. Pretentious purchase perhaps? Most likely. We were wandering around Paris for three days, living out a flaneur fantasy. Buying a book entitled Paris France while in Paris, France was the literary equivalent of buying a beret and traipsing around the city with a baguette under his harm.

Was I stupid? Even trying to read some of the witty passages to my husband in bed I found himself slightly tongue tied, short paragraphs of run on sentences, placing imaginary commas where he thought they ought to be, rereading aloud one sentence more than once to gleam its meaning.

(It was one of his favourite trips in a long time, one that he will refer back to in his mind for years to come. Not because it was his birthday, though that was part of it, but that the three days, to quote Stein, felt “peaceful and exciting.”)

I had a difficult time planning what to do for my birthday, mostly because I felt pressure to make something of it. Was there something wrong with me for not wanting to have a big party in celebration of being, well, certifiably old? Later, it made sense that I was apprehensive to do anything that drew too much attention to me. This is the plight of the summer baby who struggled with having birthdays when school was over and most of your classmates were on vacation. I don’t think I ever expected much from my birthday and I definitely don’t know.

A month ago, I made a lame ass attempt to potentially plan a dinner but when I brought it up to a couple I know they wondered if I might be open to the change the date to accommodate their travels plans. That didn’t sit well with me. Like I said, I’m not much of a birthday person, but surely I shouldn’t be trying to accommodate other people on what’s supposed to be my “special day”.

She is not the first to say it but when super model Alex Consani said “closed mouths don’t get fed,” I felt it deep in my bones, and told my husband a few months before my birthday that I wanted to spend it in Paris. No more pressure to make an event or party, no more trying to invite or coerce people to come visit and celebrate my birthday, just me and him in Paris.

Even though we’d been a few times for short trips with family or the occasional conference, Paris has a kind of allure that I’m still captivated by.

We were not there to go to the Louvre, or the Eiffel Tower or Paris Disney, though any of those things would have been great. All I wanted to do was be in a nice air-conditioned hotel, in a nice party of the city and walk around, eat good food, drink good coffee, and buy some books.

There were things that anchored us, a delicious sushi dinner on Rue Sainte-Anne, skipping Shakespeare and Company to peruse the oldest English bookstore in the 1st arrondissement, an evening at the ballet to punctuate our final night, but mostly we allowed ourselves the luxury or not having much of a plan, letting our feet, our hearts and our stomachs guide us.

We walked by the Seine to check out JR’s installation on Pont Neuf which was sadly, already closed. We saw the line of tourists by the live music venue I had seen on Instagram and instantly aborted and walked home instead (I started calling the hotel “home” as in “shall we go home and take a nap before dinner?” I was doing that annoying thing I always do when I look around a neighbourhood that’s not my own and say, “I think I could live here.” Bitch, of course you think that: all you’re doing for three days is spending money, walking and eating. If you had to live here you would have to work, and that would be an entirely different story.)

No this is not a perfect city. That doesn't not exist in real life. Even parts of Paris smell like hot, humid urine in the summer. People walk too close behind you while talking with their friends, there are cities of tents under bridges for asylum seekers. Paris, in the heat, is a true melting pot. It is the epicentre of the remnants of colonialism. Paris is extreme, it is diverse, it is a place of cultures and ethnicities blending into one another, creating the fabric of the city. It cannot be contained nor segregated. Paris feels alive.

I feel provincial in Paris. I was nervous to go to the Palais Garnier to see the Paris Opera Ballet. Would everyone be in gowns and tuxedoes? Would they kick me out for wearing Asics sneakers with my dress pants? But then I try to calm myself down, think rationally. I try to talk myself up and say to myself, “I’m allowed to be here.”

But even still, as I enjoy the opulence of the theatre and watch the most beautiful dancers perform in front of me, the little boy inside of me can’t believe that I’m actually here, in Paris. That this is actually my life. I had so often dreamed of getting out of my Pointe Claire, the suburban city on the west side of Montreal island. Never in my wildest dreams could I ever imagine I would be here for my birthday.

I like Paris for its third spaces. I like that Paris feels like a city because there is both the need, the necessity, and the desire to go out into the city, to explore its offerings and to be in connection with people. I like that in almost every corner something interesting is happening.

After the performance we were still a tad peckish. Where was that cure spot near our place? But then we turned the corner and there it was. We sat street side and watched the world go by. My heart was full: how is this real?

We enjoyed our prosecco with a simple smoked salmon sandwich with homemade chips and later a decadent piece of chocolate tart. It was past eleven but the waiter was clear that the kitchen stayed open till midnight. He was young twink but already blasé about work and life, not interested in performing for us, but offering no nonsense, impeccable service. We relished our meal thinking how difficult or impossible it would be to find such a meal so late at night in Amsterdam.

More trips to Paris in the next year. I am manifesting it. She is a city I would like to get to know more.

Closed mouths don’t get fed: more trips to Paris.

From Timmy’s comments that tanked his Oscar hopes to Rosalia donning pointe shoes for her live concert, ballet seems to be having a moment. The most recent manifestation of this is in Olivia Rodrigo’s music video for ‘Stupid Song’ from her latest album You Seem Pretty Sad for a Girl So in Love; an album that perfectly encapsulates the trajectory impossible young love that inevitably unravels. The sound aesthetic that is tinged with nostalgia and celebrates the music of artists like The Cure, Liz Phair and other alternative rock and emo of that ilk, truly has scratched an itch for a closet grunge-lover like me.

Rodrigo’s concept for ‘Stupid Song’ shares an interesting connection with her debut video ‘Drop Dead’ which has the artist dancing through Versailles in a baby doll dress, at one point playfully mirroring some ballet gestures (I don’t know Rodrigo very well but it’s clear she is no stranger to a dance studio).

The use of New York City as a kind of companion piece to ‘Drop Dead’ and its Paris location is a clever concept. Most people attuned to ballet know that it was King Louis the 14th who popularized ballet in the 17th century and in fact made Versailles his home.

The video also appears to be referencing the iconic character of Carrie Bradshaw from the television series Sex and the City which made Sarah Jessica Parker a cultural and fashion icon. It’s hard not to think of New York without thinking about the significance of this show. The tumultuous romance between Carrie and Mr. Big/John reflects the kind of complicated yearnings and heartbreak that is the conceit of Rodrigo’s album.

Whoever had the foresight to use professional ballerinas, especially utilizing the talent and artistry of local working New York dancers deserves an ovation. I was worried when I first saw the first glint of pointe shoes in the video which quickly turned to both relief then glee when Tyler Peck bourréd into frame. There’s nothing worse than seeing someone who is not a ballerina act like a ballerina on the screen. Not only is it cringe it’s actually quite dangerous for the performer. On average, it takes at least a decade of consistent training to create a professional ballet dancer, someone with the artistic and athletic ability to perform, emote and push the human physical form. Imagine training to be a tennis star or basketball player but added to it you have to make it look graceful and easy.

If Chalamet brought ballet into the cultural zeitgeist as an art form on the brink of extinction, I would argue Rodrigo helped resuscitate the art form and champion it as a symbol of feminine power.

Delicate does not mean weak and in ‘Stupid Song’ the dancers featured in the video hail from two of the biggest and most acclaimed ballet companies in the United States (American Ballet Theatre and New York City Ballet). For ballet dancers everywhere, especially young teens who are beginning their professional careers seeing Tyler Peck and India Bradely in an Olivia Rodrigo video is affirming, unexpected, and kind of a big fucking deal.

Tyler Peck has been a star of the New York City Ballet for years. She’s a seasoned performer with impeccable technique and musicality. India Bradely is a rising star of the company, and is part of a new generation of artists who continue to push the art form for more diversity and inclusion. When I saw this two dancers in ‘Stupid Song’ I thought, “Okay Olivia, kudos to you. You’ve done your homework.”

Yes the video shows the women in pink and dancing on pointe, but ‘Stupid Song’ also shows the different shades and power of femininity, subverting the clichéd tropes of ballerinas. At one moment in the video, the dancers perform in the middle of the street, almost at risk of colliding with oncoming traffic. As the song reaches its climax the dancers become more wild and emotive, pink tights are stained in dirt and their hair, now released from their buns, are thrown about wildly as their bodies bounce off each other.

The symbol of hair plays an important role for a ballerina often signifying the unraveling of a tormented soul, as in Giselle, or a kind of freedom of expression as in Balanchine’s Walpurgisnacht. ‘Stupid Song’ helps de-mystify ballet for the tik-tok generation to also show that ballet is not just a “pretty girl” in a pink tutu. Ballerinas are women who are strong, powerful, frightening, exciting, human.

It’s exciting to see an artist finding creative ways to be in dialogue with other artists from different art forms. Like her latest album, Rodrigo has managed to pay homage to something in a significant way that doesn’t feel exploitative or self-serving. I can imagine a young girl somewhere not knowing anything about ballet, then seeing this video and dream of becoming one. The idea of that tickles me pink.

Share lives after dark

I read somewhere that life happens in 7-year cycles. These seven year chunks track your development from childhood to adolescence to adulthood, from emotional development to Saturn returns and everything in between. If anything, it’s a good way to reflect and process things that have happened in your life, and to prepare yourself for the next chapter.

I guess one could say I’ve been going through a seven-year itch, literally. I first discovered I was having problems with my skin during the summer just before the pandemic after a short vacation. For the last few years I experimented with the idea that the skin reactions I was having in the summer - little bumpy rashes that pepper huge areas of skin on various parts of my body - were due to my pre-existing condition of eczema exacerbated with sunscreen that I assumed was clogging my pores.

Eczema has always been a problem of mine but over time I pretty much aged out of it, finding topical creams that kept it at bay. Growing up I always enjoyed tanning and the way I looked as the colour of my skin deepened to a mocha glow. Being a July baby, summer was my jam.

Well not anymore.

I had high hopes that I had figured out my summer skin predicament last year, when I discovered a zinc sunscreen that seemed to keep the red bumpy patches from manifesting. Still, as a precaution I continued to keep my sun exposure to a minimum, and have accepted over the years since my first outbreak that sitting out in the sun to tan is something I could no longer do.

As a new seven year cycle begins for me this week, sadly it seems that I just have to accept that me and the sun are no longer friends. At least, not like we used to be. A short vacation to the beach, fully protected with my sunscreen and under the shade of an umbrella with short bouts in the water to cooldown, did nothing to abate the onslaught of itchy red patches forming all over my chest, back and arms.

I love a beach. I love the way my body and mind relaxes and I feel as though I finally have the bandwidth to sink my teeth into a good book. I was so happy to have finished a substantial novel on the three days we were at the beach…but was the cost worth it?

Once the rash spreads there’s nothing much to do but wait it out. Perhaps it’s wisdom in this new phase of life that helps me be a little kinder to myself when my body seems to revolt and rebel. Already I am imagining how grateful I will feel when my skin goes back to normal after a few weeks.

But there is a kind of grief I am feeling in this moment. It’s the realization that I can’t avoid or deny this issue any longer and that fundamentally my relationship with the sun, with nature, needs to change if I’m to enjoy the summer. Looking at my skin and feeling the pervasive prickly itchiness reminds me of ways that I continue to be othered, that I can no longer sit in the sun or go to the beach with friends in such a carefree way like other people do. It reminds me of how un-normal and freakish I often feel.

It may seem like an odd correlation but since losing some significant people in my life in the past five years, grief has become a central feature in my adult life. It comes in waves of different intensity, some that laps up quietly on the shore, other times a tidal wave of angry, violent emotions. And in this time of adulthood I don’t think anyone prepared me for the ongoing micro-mourning processes one has to go through. Grief and mourning, big and small: the loss of a job, a dream that is slowly dying, the grief of losing friendships to geography, marriages, or time, the real death of loved ones who never come back in this lifetime, the mourning of a body you no longer recognize or understand. The mourning of certain naïveté.

In the early stages of Adulthood, when a career is so important, we often talk about successes and failures. “It’s not about how many times you fall, it’s about how quickly you get up.” They say.

I never really understood how powerful something like grief can be in one’s journey in this lifetime. But just like love, happiness, anger, joy, it is an emotion that is there, that is to be experienced, that is to be in relation to.

When my rash exploded after a previous summer where I thought I had it all figured out, I let myself weep for a version of me that probably will never be anymore, that carefree version of me who can sit in the sun and bathe in its rays while reading a good book. There seems to be so many things to grieve and mourn in this stage in life. But I guess for me, in this new seven year cycle, it’s about understanding and mastering the ability to experience both grief and joy, for finding ways to love the skin I’m in… in all it’s facets.

****

“Why are you wearing a long sleeve shirt? Are you crazy?”

He cowered slightly. “I have this really horrible heat rash and I’m kind of self-conscious about it.”

“Heat rash?”

“Yeah. For a while I thought I was allergic to certain sunscreen but now I just think I have a sensitivity to the sun.”

“So, you’re allergic to the sun?” He looked at him quizzically.

“Yeah, I think I am.” He felt embarrassed. Who’s allergic to the fucking sun?!

“So, what you’re saying is, you're a vampire.” He gave him a wink.

He smiled, thinking about his Substack, Lives After Dark, and all the fun and adventures he’s enjoyed in the night. He was grateful that his friend didn’t make him feel like freak, like someone who didn’t belong on this planet.

“Okay vampire, just don’t bite me!”

They both laughed.

Share lives after dark

Can we talk?

I started a piece earlier today, something about how I’ve given up on the idea of friendships. Not because people suck -

and people do suck (and by the way I include myself in people) -

But what I wanted to write about was how I’ve been trying to unlearn my adolescent and asinine ideas I’ve created around friendship. Expectations that, in the world we live in, are impossible to meet. I can often hold people to such a high standard forgetting that I also am able to drop the ball, forget to text people back, ghost people on their birthday, leave people on read.

These days I’m just trying to be a better friend to myself. That’s what I wanted to write.

That was before someone accidentally locked their bike to mine.

It was an off day. Slept poorly and woke with a deep heaviness in my bones. I lost my AirPods at the gym while training and still haven’t found them. They’re hiding in the left pocket of a hoodie I took off and somehow misplaced.

The bike incident at the end of the day was just the cherry on top of a lacklustre day. Who is in such a rush that they don’t even see that they’ve locked their chain to someone’s else’s bike?

To be fair, having to use public transportation because someone has accidentally locked their bike to yours is not such a big deal. But I’ve been running on fumes these past few months hoping this new work schedule would slowly starting to feel more natural over time and sadly that hasn't really happened. Mostly, I just ache all over.

(The thing about being a dancer is that you feel and interpret everything that is going on any our body. What does it mean that you have a weak left ankle? That after standing for four hours your right hip begins to ache? Why is your head so stuffy? Is the sharp pain in your neck serious or will it just go away on its own?)

Is it time for a little break?

Since my early twenties I’ve been doing this thing that seems to help me when I’m down,

like really down.

Like, there were times I’d be scrubbing toilets as a busboy thinking, what the fuck am I doing with my life? Or I’d go home after a long shift as a waiter in tears because a customer yelled at me for messing up their order. Or like now, when I’m trying to write something interesting, all I can think is, this is such shit.

When I get really down on myself I’ll find a moment to look up at the sky (if I’m outside) or just quietly (or out loud) say to myself:

THANK YOU

That’s it. I don’t know why that helps me but it does.

Maybe it’s because it’s a reminder that some things are actually random and nothing is personal. Like it’s a fact that someone locked their bike to mine, but it wasn’t a sign from the universe that my life is broken. It’s just something that happened today.

Anyway that’s what I do. When I feel like I’m really in the mire, or drowning in quicksand, I’ll dig deep and just say THANK YOU, to no one in particular and everything all at once.

Because that’s a muscle worth training: to feel grateful, even when it’s not easy to feel grateful.

Anyway, sorry this is a shitty piece of writing that totally amounts to nothing. I’ll be taking a two-week break after this and be back on June 30th. Maybe I’ll have something more interesting to share then.

Share lives after dark

Last night I took an evening stroll in my neighbourhood. I had eaten a whole container of barbecue Pringles and half a tub of Ben and Jerry’s cooke dough ice cream and my belly was starting to ache. I had been on my feet all day but I needed to kick start this digestion process and I knew the walk would help me feel less guilty for hoovering junk food while watching Tracker and being hypnotized by Justin Hartley’s insanely symmetrical face.

It was ten-thirty at night when I took my walk and the sun had yet to set, which is one of the joys of Amsterdam in the summer. These long days that slowly turn into night makes the evening feel luxurious.

I wanted to make sure to pass by the new bar in the neighbourhood. For a few years it was a nice spot that served tapas and had a kind of 80’s aesthetic. The vibe was pretty kitsch but I’m not one to go out drinking on the regular and I’d rather spend my money on other things (like chips and ice cream).

But a few weeks back I had noticed that the old bar looked vacant and out of the ashes sprouted something new with a sleeker look. I was curious to know if they had kept the outdoor seating along the canal. It made me happy to see the terrace full and that the new look seemed to bring in a fresh clientele.

It made me think of other stores, buildings and clubs that endlessly reinvent themselves. Something ends and then a few weeks or months later something new sprouts, reimagined, reinvigorated.

Is it ever too late for a person to reinvent themselves? We work so hard at becoming something, to feel the weight of being solid, fully formed, certain. But what do we miss out on by not shifting, experimenting with a fresh coat of paint, trying on new personas, new perspectives?

I’m happy to see the new bar doing well so early into the summer season. One night I’ll have to exchange my chips and ice cream for a martini.

I met the photographer James SG Gallagher through an exhibition he had during Amsterdam Dance Event a few years back. Recently, we met at Mundi in Amsterdam West to talk about his passion for photography and clubbing, and where his creative ambitions will take him next.

Share lives after dark

Mark: Tell me how you ended up in Amsterdam.

James: I’m actually from a tiny town called Loughborough, near Nottingham. I came as a student to study Anthropology.

M: Why Amsterdam?

J: As a teenager I started getting into electronic music, watching live DJ sets on the internet. I just became obsessed with DJs like Honey Dijon and Chicago house. When the opportunity came to study abroad, Amsterdam seemed like a the right fit. The first week I was here I was like, yeah this is the best place ever.

M: What was it about that first week?

J: It was October so it was my first time attending Amsterdam Dance Event. I was basically awake for five days and seeing everything I could. That’s when I began taking pictures.

M: Was that your first time using a camera?

J: When I was sixteen I was working in TV production. For a while I was doing that, also some theatre and music production, a bit of DJing… since I was young I was making a bit of money doing creative work. So, I had a background in TV and videography. When I arrived in Amsterdam at twenty it became clear to me that using my camera could be a good career move. There is a strong visual element to the electronic music and nightlife scene here. So, there’s a significant role for someone like me who has a passion for taking pictures and capturing moments.

M: You started working in the scene rather quickly once you moved to Amsterdam. How did you build your freelancing career? I imagine the scene is small enough to create up a network rather quickly?

J: You just sort of start working for little or no money. I did that for a while, and then slowly people started paying me. It kind of grew from there and eventually I started getting work also outside of the nightlife scene and doing press shoots and branding and that sort of thing. I do a lot of fashion shoots and take photos for museums.

M: Do you like working in these other aspects as well?

J: Love it! You just get to know more and have conversations with musicians and people who run the events. Sort of like this interview we’re having.

Through my work, I enjoy that clubbing has a kind of intentionality to it. It’s not about getting messed up and abusing substances, which is what is sometimes felt like back home in England. Here, there seems to be more of a cultural arts aspect to electronic music. People are more curious or intentional about listening to certain genres.

M: Can you breakdown what you normally do when you’re taking pictures for a club night?

J: Well, I’ll usually put myself to bed around 8 or 9pm and then wake up at 10:30 or 11pm. I’d have already packed up my gear before my nap so around midnight I would head out to the venue. I’ll bring some snacks with me, a few protein bars. I’ll eat something throughout the night and drink coffee to stay awake.

During the event, I’ll take pictures and record videos, trying to capture that live experience and provide some emotional context. Sometimes, I’ll even start editing while I’m at the venue and then keep at it afterwards.

M: And how do you unwind after a gig?

J: When I get home I’ll usually make myself some chamomile tea and give myself a bit of time to wind down because you can feel a bit manic. You know, a DJ is usually there for maybe three hours to do a set and when you’re there to party you can take breaks when you need. Butt when you’re working, you’re really there for the whole thing, like, ten hours sometimes.

M: Is that hard sometimes, to be at a venue for so long and working such long hours?

J: It kind of just feels native to me. You know, I just love taking photographs and being able to work amidst the chaos, at an event I would adore to be at anyway. Sometimes when you’re at a party socially it can be hard to really be there and capture that experience. My job almost gives me an excuse to listen to long DJ sets, whereas in other contexts it could be a challenge to do that.

For me, the job almost becomes this weekly anthropological project that I get to document. Like, I’m interested in the way people presents themselves in these spaces and question why they’re here, what is their perspective. Are people coming to escape something, or have a release from a job they hate maybe?

M: Do you ever find the job stressful with these long hours?

J: Maybe this is something that some people might find stressful, but I actually find it comforting. It was almost like, oh this feels amazing and this is something that I can do for a living. Being a nightlife photographer allows me to go out in an intentional way and has open doors to other opportunities and clients.

M: Now that you're more established, do you find that you are more selective in the projects you take on? Are you saying ‘no’ to more things? Are you taking time off for yourself?

J: Well, truthfully I’m trying to become a bit more balanced. In the summer’s I could be working seven days a week, but it’s not really sustainable. A few years ago, when I turned twenty-six, I was saying to myself, “Oh wow, I can feel tired!” I’m twenty-eight now and in this industry you can age pretty quickly. I’ve really got to prepare now and make sure to have some time afterwards to relax.

M: So, are you setting boundaries?

J: I really should be setting limits but I would be lying if I said I was doing that! I just like working with whoever wants me. And I’m excited to check out new things.

M: Now that you’re twenty-eight, do you still go out clubbing for fun?

J: Usually about once a week I’ll go out with friends either on a Friday or Saturday. But there’s a bit of an efficiency to it. Like, I’ll go for maybe three hours.

M: Why for just a few hours?

J: Because most times I will probably be working that same club the following weekend and I’ll need to be there for extended hours. Most club goers don’t spend as much time in a club space as I do.

M: Oh, I see. So you go out to kind of get a little amuse bouche and try not to over do it.

J: Exactly.

M: Do you tend to follow particular nights, or do you like following DJs?

J: More DJs, I think. I really like Passiondeez based in Amsterdam. He tends to play a lot of different genres from Drum ‘n Bass to country even. You should check him out.

M: If someone were coming to Amsterdam for the first time and really liked electronic music, where would you suggest they go out?

J: I like Radio Radio and Doka a lot, just for how intimate they are. But probably something like Skate Café for the Friday night and then LoFi for Saturday for like, a bigger, warehouse type of vibe.

M: What would you say is something special about the Amsterdam nightlife scene that might be hard to find elsewhere?

J: We can be really critical of things here, but in many other places, there aren’t any clubs and that’s just the end of it: you can’t go out, you can’t go to any parties. I think it’s quite accessible to go to a nightclub in Amsterdam. It’s not really like that in some places in the UK or Paris even to just, on the night, start in your kitchen with your friends and you can just be like, “We should go somewhere,” and within an hour go out and have an experience. That’s amazing.

I think that’s why it’s so important to actively maintain the scene here because there’s always a risk of things changing or ending. Property rights could change or spaces can get pushed even further outside of the city.

We need to maintain this scene because I think the more time people are at least attempting to dance together in rooms with people they don’t really know, the better. If we’re not doing it in clubs, then when are we doing that? So yes, we tend to be critical and sit around and say this or that about the scene, but we need to keep this flowing because there are whole countries where people don’t really dance.

We need to keep this scene thriving because we do need some moments for connection. Other than hanging out in a park, for instance, and enjoying the sun amongst strangers, I don’t know when I feel genuinely connected with other random people in society.

M: You’ve already established yourself as a photographer in the scene. Do you have ambitions or thoughts about what you want to be doing next?

J: In association with Studio Strip, I have a studio I’m starting to rent out to other creatives so they have places to do photo shoots and store their equipment. I’d like to have more studios and become a sort of Landlord for creatives.

M: So, more studios throughout the city?

J: No, different countries! Then you can get different people to run each one. I just want to create safe spaces for creatives.

M: What do you mean by safe spaces?

J: There are a lot of narcissists and a lot of egos in this industry. Sometimes you’re having meetings with people not in their right mind and communication can get weird, or people are trying to steal your equipment.

I think it’d be good to create spaces where that kind of stuff can’t happen, and facilitate others to be able to do things, you know? I feel like I can only keep making photographs from my perspective for so long before I think, oh, I’ve probably got to use what I have to help others make great things. I think that’s the way forward.

M: I think the act mentorship is actually a really important indication of a successful career. From our talk today, I feel like you’re someone who loves what they do, and it’s nice to meet someone who’s thriving in a job that is also his passion.

J: I really thrive on the chaos. Sometimes, I think, I can’t believe I make money doing this.

M: Do you think Amsterdam is a good city to find yourself creatively?

J: It’s a bit of a weird city. It’s a bit of a paradox because it’s like everything is possible here, so there’s nothing to find in a way. It’s can feel so culturally relevant and at times culturally dead at the same time. Everything that exists, exists here. Sometimes, there are people who may not want you in their space, so you just have to create your own thing. Amsterdam is like a blank slate. You can do what you want here.

Contact James SG Gallagher:

Website | Instagram

Lately, I’ve been going to the gym and working out to Honey Dijon’s latest album The Nightlife. Whenever I get a little obsessed with a song, I tend to start replaying it on a loop, listening for interesting musical elements and sometimes lyrics that capture a feeling or open my mind to new dimensions. This is the case with ‘Smoke and Mirrors’.

The sung, song by Maddison McFerrin, opens with sparing use of piano notes and a sultry layering of vocals, beginning with a question: do you remember who you were before you were told who you should be?

When the track begins, I find these words calling to me in a profound way. It’s an invitation to examine my own life and the journey I am on, and to question how society, for better or worse, has shaped me into the person I am today.

In the song, the narrator seems to be speaking on a challenging point of a budding relationship, where things are not quite clear and tensions are running high. it’s as though they are negotiating with themselves how much to invest in this ‘situationship’, attempting to convince themselves not to create a sense of self-worth from the attention of another:

Won't ask for your validation, I'm taking back my time / I won't ask for your validation, I no longer have the time

Are they saying these words to a potential lover? Or is this a mantra that they are repeating to themselves, as though they are looking at themselves in the mirror and saying, “I’m not doing this to myself again. I’m not validating my existence through someone else’s gaze. Not anymore.”

But the chorus complicates things further:

It's only smoke and mirrors, am I about to fall?
This is something serious, I'm giving it my all
It's only smoke and mirrors
I'm addicted to it all

The musical composition is down-tempo with a late 80’s early 90’s cinematic feel, evoking a sensation of a burgeoning love that is perhaps forbidden or elusive. A sensuality that lurks in the shadows that is pushing towards the light. But can this connection be sustained once it hits the light of day?

I find the use of the word ‘addiction’ quite powerful in this context. It’s a word that is quite commonly associated with nightlife and the rampant use of substances. Here, it’s an addiction to illusions, to the ephemeral. Yes, it seems that the narrator is talking about the fear of falling in love, but there is also a spiritual context that also works here. Could the ‘fall’ also be a fall from grace, or a fall from above, into an earthly plain where we are all performing, building on personas that make us palatable to the arbitrary structures of society?

One of my favourite verses is: I don't have the answers but I do know who I wanna be
It might be smoke and mirrors but it's all me

There’s a complexity in the contradictions that I find appealing. In this lifetime, I’d like to believe that we are in constant flux between states of non/conscious. We are shaped by those around us, our circumstances, our beliefs, but then something happens and it challenges our identity, pushing us to perform in new ways.

I have often tried to live my life with a kind of hope to be consistent in how I present myself, a red thread of authenticity that carries through the different relationships I have in my life. But I find it a fascinating proposition to consider that even the illusions and different constructions of my persona are also just facets of my personality.

We walk through life as though what we see is the real. But mostly it’s a subjective fragmentation of what our own mind constructs and interprets.

Life is but a dream, smoke and mirrors… I’m addicted to it all.

I can’t recall when Max Cooper came into my purview. To be honest I wouldn’t classify myself as a superfan or someone familiar with his oeuvre, but I am a fan of electronic music and am often interested in experiencing new artists.

A few years ago I was able to see him perform live at Paradiso and I wrote a substack of that experience. His latest showing at the same venue brought a few of the same production components while blending additional audio-visual elements.

In an electronic music industry inundated with visuals designed for spectacle and entertainment, the headiness and chin-scratching production from Cooper, both sonically and visually, is not just a feast for the senses but a refreshing and much needed perspective on techno. If someone were to ask me to give an example of what constitutes Intelligent Dance Music, I would certainly include Max Cooper.

What makes Max Cooper Live successful is its intentionality and attention to programming. Cooper has found a formula that caters to a variety of techno appreciators and afficiados, creating a cohesive feeling of community and connection. Existing somewhere between techno concert and dance party, the evening feels inclusive and joyous.

Cooper fuses his music production with visuals, hiding himself onstage between two giant screens, which helps accentuate the 3D illusion of his visuals. Didactic and at times so dizzying I had to look away, the visuals bring the evening to a heightened level of exploration, which I appreciate.

Amsterdammers do like a good dance party and towards the end of his two-hour set Cooper was ready to deliver, sharing an array of shifting genres from breakbeat and garage to four-to-the-floor pumping techno. His journey into breakbeat and dub was one I enjoyed in his last concert and I wondered if he’d revisit this sound again and I’m glad that he did.

This goes to show that there are people out there who appreciate a narrative structure in their techno music and acknowledge the importance of storytelling. Max Cooper spent the early part of his set taking us through intriguing visual landscapes of proteins, nature and architecture set to a trance-like cinematic score, and ended with much heavier rhythms and abstract visuals to get the crowd moving.

A groundbreaking formula for an epic dance party? Not really. But when done at this calibre it is a breathtaking experience that will linger with me for a while.

Rate: 5/5

It was the choice of words and its delivery that touched him.

Could they say we even really knew each other? Not really.

Flown in as a request from head office, she was a second pair of eyes to support the team and keep things on track. He’d always known she would leave after the month was up. So, other than the regular pleasantries during office hours, why put in the extra time in getting to know someone who has an expiration date?

But you can’t ignore a kindred spirit. And there was a tinge of sadness at the thought of her leaving.

It could have been an awkward goodbye or even a non-existent one since he was lucky to be there on her last day.

“Well, I suppose I won’t be seeing you after this. So, have a great life, I guess?”

He was so charmed by the moment, and her words, clichéd and corny even, rung in his ears with a different timbre.

And it hit him,

the honesty of the situation:

no promises of meeting in the future,

no false commitment to stay in touch, to text, to

somehow be in each other’s lives. No pretense to remain friends, even. Just an acknowledgment of people navigating through life like ships that were docked at port for a time but were ready to set sail again.

Isn’t that what we all are? Just passing ships in the night? So often he felt unmoored, hurt by the loss of people in his life, the ships that he thought would remain forever, gone for brighter pastures or without a trace in a night’s storm. So often he’d try to find ways to anchor a ship with their majestic sails, to keep them close to him as he navigated his own rough waters. But he knows in his heart he must let them go.

(It is also the same at a good party, when the music is right and strangers let down their guard and begin dancing with the people that surround them. The joy in bodies moving together and the shy smiles of acknowledgment that, for a moment, we are connected, we are moving as one. Wordless connection on the dance floor, meant to be experienced for a moment, then gone forever.)

Her words captured the beauty of the occasion: a closure of something with the profound hope for someone else to experience a great life, a bold life.

Not one without hardship or struggle

But a full life with adventure.

They may meet again (as ships sometimes do) but even if they didn’t, this moment was enough.

He wished more friendships and encounters ended this way. So, often a friendship just drifts into nothingness, no note, no final goodbye… just gone, with him left leaving metaphorical candles by the window, hoping for ships to return in the night.

***

Recently, a face popped into his mind (as they often do). Someone from his not so distant past, someone who might have been a friend, could have been…

(but the schedules never worked, and “how about we meet here?” and “sorry, I’ve got food poisoning” and “I’m traveling right now but let’s meet when I’m back?…”)

He looked at their text history and the last time he reached out was a year ago, his last text left on read.

He typed out a new message and hit send: Hey, just thinking of you. Are you still in Amsterdam?

Days later and still no response. He thought of him, the one time they shared a joint by the water and talked about movies they liked. He looked at the unanswered message and thought: Well, I suppose I won’t be seeing you. So, have a great life, I guess!

You can see laurahogeweg’s latest work-in-progress at the Museum Villa Mondrian in Winterswijk until May 3rd, 2026.

Mark: How about we start at the beginning. Where are you from in the Netherlands?

laurahogeweg: I’m actually kind of from everywhere in the Netherlands. By the age of five I moved a lot all over; cities and villages from the West to the North and then studying in the South. It’s good that you asked, because it has really informed my work as an artist. You tend to look at space differently when you’re constantly moving, never really finding something that feels like home.

M: How did that effect you, growing up?

l: I became fascinated by keeping the same routes I was taking. For example, biking to school, or to a friend’s house. I was constantly busy thinking about these routes. It sort of became a way to understand environment and create a safe space. It didn’t feel particularly like a hard way to grow up, but when I went to the art academy it became a huge deal in my life to experience life that was a change from constantly moving and making new friends. Even though the Netherlands is such a small country, it has such a variety of cultures. Everywhere I lived people asked me where my accent is from because it’s hard to place what region or province I’m from!

M: Does that make you feel like a bit of an outsider in your own country?

l: In many ways, yes. I think that experience made me quite observant and analytical. My art is very much centred around the idea of spaces. They’re often huge installations, site-specific, because then I can really point out something about the space which I can make mine, if that makes sense. When you leave so many different places growing up, it made me very aware of environments and architecture. Ultimately, my graduating piece for the art academy was very much informed by the history of the building of the art academy, for example.

M: Tell me a bit more about the art academy. Did you always want to be an artist?

l: I was already doing a lot of art projects in elementary school, but I didn’t want to become an artist at all. As a child, I felt a lot of freedom making little dances and theatre plays. I had this huge book which became a sort of project where I was just sticking everything in it. My classmates back then probably thought I was a bit off, but they never bullied me. It was only when I became a teenager that I rejected that creative part of me.

M: Why, what happened?

l: I felt like I didn’t want to be an artist because it’s not so easy in this society and I just wanted to blend in. For a time, I was focusing on this preparatory dance academy. I thought, if I became a dancer that would be so much easier because people, in general, understand the idea of wanting to move your body and it felt less vulnerable at the time, but in the end, became a really vulnerable experience! So, after high school I thought, okay, I’m just going to travel the world, be like a homeless person going to all these countries and working in a bar or something. For a while I was in Madrid as an au pair, which helped me explore some of my Spanish roots.

M: So, you were doing that for a bit and then how did you end up at the arts academy?

l: My gap year was pretty much over, and a friend of mine was telling me, ‘Just go do this.’ It was a preperatory course at AKI, the Arts Academy of Art and Design in Enschede. I really was naïve and just going with my intuition, but on the first day I was there I was like, I’m going to do Art Academy. So, after the preparatory program, I just kept going and ended up completing my bachelor’s at the Jan Van Eyck Academy in Maastricht.

M: What was it like at the Arts Academy?

l: There were not so many students, so there was a lot of space, and I took a lot of freedom there. I was like a tsunami in creating. I was writing, making installations, paintings, sculptures… I was also at one point like, I’m gonna get crazy, you know? I was drowning a bit in my own work.

In my last year, I had my own atelier in the art academy, and I decided to paint the walls purple. Then all of a sudden, I was like, okay, now I’m safe. Everything I did in the space, like sculptures, painting, video and writing felt grounded now that the walls had these colours.

M: Why purple?

l: Purple is coming back into my work. When my parents separated, my father let me paint my own room in one of the houses we moved into. I was 8 years old and my father just let me paint the walls myself. It was purple but, in the end, red as well. It didn’t look really nice, but my father was like, oh, just go on. Because he let me do that, let me be independent and paint my own walls, I think that’s when I became really aware of what colour is. It started some sort of fascination with it.

M: So, you painted the room purple. What else did you do with the space?

l: A lot! I made a maquette, which is to say a miniature model of my own atelier with the same purple walls and grey floor because the floor was grey. I put a lot of fabrics inside, I did some performative things and recorded them on video, and I also started to dive into the history of the building itself. I was evolving for the whole year, and then when it was time for the graduate exhibition. Having all this material I built up for a whole year, I was thinking really sharp and intuitively about what I wanted to have in there.

I remember there was an external person assessing our work in order to graduate and she said to my teachers, ‘She’s doing a really good job, but I think she doesn’t know herself what she’s doing.’ I remember thinking, ‘oh my god, how can you say that?!’ But, now I know she was thinking more of the future and how to present myself professionally, which I often struggled with.

M: I'm assuming that every artist has a different way that they navigate ‘regular’ life. How would you describe your day-to-day as an artist?

l: I don't know how to explain it because it changes all the time. Studying Art History at UVA, I’m interested in a lot of fields, like studying the Middle Ages, but also taking courses analyzing dance, or in philosophy. Like my studies but also within my artwork, it goes a bit everywhere, even with the kind of media I work with.

I also believe you need to have space in your daily life, like some hours, where you can just live intuitively.

M: Do you find working intuitively important?

l: Really important. Sure, sometimes there is a conceptual component to my work, but mostly it just…exists. Like, I’m just going to start making it, and maybe I don’t like it, so I take it away and put something new. So, I’m not really consciously thinking because for me, that’s just not what art is about. So, in my atelier it’s like: now I take this book, and I’m going to go through it, now I’m going to make this little thing there in the corner and it’s maybe just a small part. I think if I would film myself, you’d see me constantly walking through the room, going to different places, doing different things.

M: How did the exhibition, ‘Atelier Mondrian: Work in progress’ at the Villa Mondrian Winterswijk come about?

l: I saw that the museum had an open call for new artists and I applied. The project is a bit inspired by Mondrian himself because his ateliers were also like art installations. So, it’s like having your atelier itself be the exhibition.

I can see how some visitors might think a two-month residency might seem like I wouldn't have much freedom to do a lot, but I was like, no, I’m going to get my freedom out of this atelier no matter what, no matter if there is a visitor coming and not understanding it. I took this project to take my freedom back in creating a bit more, to really own the space. I don't know if you can see that in the work, but it doesn't matter. I find it interesting to claim space, and saying, this is mine, you know? That’s my own philosophy about it.

My work is like I work I create in which I can act it. So at times it looks like an interior, but also like a stage design. I perform in the space and document it which later becomes part of the work as a video installation. So, I’m really playing with different mediums and boundaries and making the viewer question, is it an interior stage design or is it an installation? I’m trying to blur the lines.

M: You’ve lived and studied in Amsterdam for over six years now. What kind of things to you do like to do in the city? At night, for example?

l: I’m more living for the day. If I do something in the night, it's having dinner with friends, but then at a home of a friend mostly. If I don’t feel like going out for dinner, or going to the theatre, I’m just home in my cocoon.

M: What do you do in your cocoon, other than creating? What do you do to unwind?

l: Watch documentaries, read, watch arthouse movies. Do you know the film Daisies by Věra Chytilová ? When I saw that movie for the first time, I was like… wow. That’s my comfort movie I always go back to.

M: Are there things in Amsterdam that you think people should absolutely see? Something maybe tourists might miss?

l: Well, definitely some galleries, but even when going to the Stedelijk Museum, tourists should really check out the permanent collection and not just the temporary exhibitions. There’s some really good paintings in the permanent collection and some weird videos from the 70’s that are really conceptual with a lot of humour to it.

M: In contrast to your childhood, does Amsterdam feel like home?

l: I think I will never feel ‘home’ anymore. I’m just living with this feeling of homelessness and that’s ok. I’m not sad about it. I don’t grieve for this feeling of ‘home’ because I don’t think it will come. I’m living with this idea that ‘home’ is just a part of my body. If I feel some sort of sense of being home, then it’s in my installations.

M: Do you think it’s important for people to have some kind of creativity in their life?

l: There was a time I tried to live without creating art because I just felt that the structure of society makes it really difficult to have any sort of artistic practice. For a few months I lived without doing anything creative until I realized I couldn’t push it away. For me, like eating your vegetables or brushing your teeth, art is truly a necessity.

And that’s also the reason why I’m not feeling like, oh, a lot of people need to see this, or I need to have like huge exhibitions with a huge audience. I don’t need that because it’s coming from a different necessity to create. I’m also never the person who says, ‘Oh, I’m so happy creating in my atelier.’ It’s not about being happy or sad. I’m just a human who creates. I would be okay if I didn’t need it, but now that I know I need it, I’m just embracing it. Like the feeling of homelessness, it’s just there.

Website: laurahogeweg

Instagram: [at] laurahogeweg

Share lives after dark

You could say Honey Dijon is having a moment with the release of her latest album ‘The Nightlife’, but the Chicago-born DJ who spends a lot of time of her time in Europe, has been having ‘moments’ for over a decade.

Honey Dijon has always been one of those staple (stable) DJs of mine that has stood the test of time. Her DJ sets have been the soundtrack of my life on the dance floor, unlocking core memories of different times, places, and iterations of me.

I got acquainted with her sound in Toronto when I frequented ‘Industry’, a warehouse type club space that was at the forefront of the new sound of house music coming from Chicago and New York. Danny Tenaglia had a regular night at the spot, and I’m almost certain I saw her DJ there (though, let’s face it, those days are quite hazy).

I do remember dancing outside Toronto City Hall for an event organized by promoters of the underground rave scene who were fighting the local government to recognize the importance of nightlife as vital and culturally significant of the City’s socio economic infrastructure.

Looking back, this was an important development in my own taste in electronic music. At the time, I was frequenting many different parties, straddling different underground social scenes and mainly going where my friends wanted to go. The rally covered a wide variety of electronic music and was probably the first event akin to what we know as Festivals today. What developed for me on the concrete ground of City Hall was a sudden awareness of the kind of music that made me want to dance. And that music came from Honey Dijon.

I think most people of this generation of nightlife enthusiasts are aware of her through her now iconic Sugar Mountain set for Boiler Room in 2018. Her hour-long set was like a dissertation of house music, spanning several genres, building narratives and arguments out of vocal edits and jazz riffs.

What I appreciate about Honey Dijon is that there is a vibrancy to her sound that is rooted in disco and African rhythms that feels alive in improvisation through DJ mastery.

If you’ve ever watched Honey Dijon play you can tell she loves DJing. Her sets are always peppered with innovative transitions, fast edits, impromptu build-ups and surprising vocal mash ups. She never panders to the audience, but is solely consumed with telling a story, her story, through the power of music. Sure there are moments when the joy over takes her and she becomes one with the sound and the crowd, propelling her to dance with abandon. But mostly she keeps her her head down, eyes on the decks, tweaking and playing with her edits, trying to concoct a swirling sound that becomes a battle cry, a gospel hymn, a warning, a sexual awakening.

What I appreciate about Honey Dijon and what I feel I can count on whenever I’m fortunate enough to see her play is her clarity and intention. Are her mixes always seamless? No. But that isn’t the point. She’s there to create a moment, to be authentically herself, to be courageous and try things on the fly. This is what makes her sets sound so exciting and real.

The ramping of BPMs, and the quality of techno being defined by how fast it’s playing is a Post-Covid phenomenon that I hope dance and nightlife scholars will study more closely in the coming years. But I think we’re in an interesting era where popular music, particularly with female (presenting/identifying) artists are now going back to a late 90’s, 2000’s sound. Just listen to FLO, Jesse Ware, the return of Robyn: pop is exploring dance club and house rhythms again, which makes Honey Dijon’s latest album all the more relevant.

While we often like to believe ‘the underground’ (whatever that means these days) is an example of utopian wonder where PLUR is bountiful and the space is full of possibility, Honey Dijon continues to make her mark in a cis, white-male dominated environment. As a trans, black woman, her events are undeniably a space of resistance, queer joy, sex positivity and just bad-ass energy.

Still at the top of her game with no signs of slowing down, Honey Dijon, for me, is the personification of what house music is.

Share lives after dark

I don’t think we ever thought we’d still be dancing in the dark

Working through feelings, exorcising demons on the dance floor

Remember how arrogant we were,

Thinking we were someone (our brains not even fully formed yet)

We’d snicker at those old gays who hung around the bar, chatting with each other

Barely moving to the beat

That will never be me, I used to say to myself

I’d say to myself:

When I’m their age I won’t be going to clubs and bars anymore. How sad is that? No, not me. These faces hanging around the clubs so late at night, trying to relive, recapture, retain, some kind of youth. Always lurking in some corner. No, this will not be me. I will be somewhere else, on a yacht in Thailand, a Michelin star restaurant hidden in the Alps, tanning on a private island in Greece, rolling in money…

But then the club became a home,

and the faces at the bar became familiar, became known.

It would take months, but over time: a glance, a nod, then a smile

Names finally exchanged, then eventually an offer of a round of shots

These men became fixtures, like wood paneling the smell of musk and cigarettes

I learned to savour their stories, their hugs, the way they carried their drunken joy

Never too close but close enough

To learn about their divorces, their open relationships, their adult children

Close enough

To talk about surviving AIDS and being undetectable

Close enough

To water their plants when they went on vacation

And feed their cats

Oh youth: the rush to get somewhere, anywhere but here

And these old men at the bar with their knowing, a hand on my shoulder

Grounding me to earth, their easy laughter and patience with my buzzing anxiety

Quietly whispering to me without words, but with their eyes:

Don’t worry so much about the future. The future will come before you know it.

Just be here now

And here I am (here we are). The future has come: no yachts. No Michelin star restaurants

The torch has been passed, to me, to my generation:

Don’t be shy

Come find me if you want to talk

I’ve had my fair share of adventures. Let me share my stories with you

And when I talk with my friends about the parties we’re still going to, the aches and pains of our bodies, the grief and sorrow that are now so ever-present in our lives, we keep saying to each other:

Did we ever imagine we’d still be dancing in the dark?

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For those of us who survived Covid, nightlife, club culture, the underground, and Festivals are thriving now more than ever;

or everything is closing and falling apart - depending on what kind of timeline/narrative the algorithm has you addicted to.

As a self proclaimed old school raver (I can just hear all the millennials now, “Ew he said rave - that’s so cringe.”) I wondered about the demise of dancing in club culture even before the pandemic hit.

Firstly, I will admit that I am quite pretentious about dancing. I grew up in a family that appreciated all forms of dancing and within Filipino culture, dancing and singing are very important to us.

I’m still someone who believes that if you’re going clubbing, the main purpose is to dance. I understand that there are moments to take a break, to connect with friends and share a drink or drugs or a smoke, but that is what a chill out room, bathroom or terrace is for. DJs play to a dance floor, and the dance floor is primarily for dancing.

Of course when I go out, I will see people dancing. What intrigues me is the intent, the purpose for people’s movements. And I find that this has shifted over time.

I’m also not talking about the Festival scene per se, where the maximalist aesthetic, concert-style performances with pyrotechnics and fireworks can often create a different kind of dancing experience and intention. What I’m speaking of here are venues that host weekly events and parties, drawing in crowds who make nightlife a part of their lifestyle.

For me, dancing at clubs has essentially always been about two things: healing and communion. And throughout the night, I would oscillate between these two intentions, depending on my mood, the music, and the overall vibe the space was creating.

Quick thought about vibe.

The vibe was never just about what the DJ was playing and rarely ever about who the DJ was. The vibe was the responsibility of both the DJ and the dancers on the dance floor to create and manifest a night that was not just about safe spaces and feeling cute but (ideally) compassion, transcendence and love. It was about creating a world that did not exist outside of the club, away from the constraints of capitalism and arbitrary societal conventions that kept people apart.

Dancing is a special form of communication because it is wordless. It is not tethered to words that work within a structure that often cuts off possibilities. To dance is to interpret a feeling or mood that, in its essence, is a wordless state. What is the word love if we did not make a definition for it? And how many different cultures interpret the word love int heir own way?

The beat is there to move you, the body dances to investigate feelings and emotions,

confront knots that restrict you and hold you back.

Dance exists to rearrange the atoms of your skin and flesh, to push past what you think is possible physically.

Dancing is courageous: it means looking silly, it means exposing yourself.

It feels so good to dance when you’re happy, but it’s even more impactful when you’re feeling sad, when you are dealing with loss and grief, when you’re mad at the world, when life feels unfair.

To let off steam, people go to the gym or take a walk or go on a run. It is a mistake to think that you should only go clubbing when you’re happy. While parties often promote certain ways of beings and ways of showing up and dressing, a club is a space that can hold multitudes.

So that’s the healing part dancing which leads me to communion.

At first I thought dancing was about connection and that part is certainly present, especially when most people are coming to clubs with their group of friends or even when someone is out clubbing with the hopes of hooking up (to put it bluntly).

When I looked up the definition for communion it says: “the sharing or exchanging of intimate thoughts and feelings, especially on a mental or spiritual level.”

The DNA of techno and house will always go back to queer people of colour who never had spaces to congregate and embraced the dance floor as a conduit to express themselves away from religious persecution, and a patriarchal society that privileged white men.

To go dancing on a Saturday night and well into Sunday morning was a spiritual event.

But even if it was just about hooking up, which so often it is for people, there is an art in connecting with someone non-verbally through dance which I find quite special. I am certainly an advocate for people feeling safe in club spaces and it is never my intention to impose my energy on someone. But there is a way to present yourself on the dance floor, while dancing, that communicates an openness with strangers as a way to build communion, to build as sense of unity, even if it’s only for the night.

I think long before Covid, the invention of dating apps, especially in the gay community, really changed the intentions of dancing, since no one needed to “cruise” on the dance floor anymore.

The amount of times you see someone attractive at the club, only to be completely turned off by their dancing…lol

No. I don’t see dancing at clubs much anymore.

And I get it, I’m old, maybe clubs are no longer meant for me and bla, bla, bla…

But from a dance anthropology point of view I find it fascinating.

In the last two weekends I went to two separate club events, both at the same club in Amsterdam but different parties. And there were stark differences between the parties. Of course there were other factors: one party was during the day, the other was a ten-hour marathon which included another after party in another venue. But both parties catered to a predominantly queer and gay community, and the music was also somewhat within the same 90s house genre.

What I noticed in the second party which was very different from the previous week was that while the dance floor was full, the dancing was mostly swaying, and mainly look towards the DJ. There was a sprinkle of conversation (not mad at it) but no movements that indicated a sense of conversation between the music and the dancer other than the obvious build up and drops (insert hands in the air).

I don’t think people dance to explore their own bodies or commune with others anymore. But if that’s not the case, why do people go dancing now? What is its purpose?

People complain that people don’t dance anymore because they’re scared to be surveilled and filmed. And yet people dance and perform for DJ sets that are filmed and posted on YouTube all the time. In the case of these two parties, the first party had a no film policy while the other did not, and I did find the first party more open in its intent to connect with others. Maybe there is something to it.

The community who remembers dancing as a way to heal and commune is aging out. Life sometimes feels like a boxing match where life hits below the belt or sucker punches you into a concussion and you forget what joy feels like, what dancing used to mean or provide.

We forget how spiritual club life can be at its core now that it has been rebranded and repurposed by corporate culture for profit.

Like Yoga and Pilates

You like going out

You see the importance in moving your body

In Dancing

In a space designed not through corporate structures

But the beautiful messiness of creativity

But how tough it is now to go out dancing

Amongst the young, who sway aimlessly in the pretense

The performance

Of being joyful

And so

Like sage personified,

You dance in different corners of the club

In the dark, behind the DJ, in the front, in line at the bar

You smile despite no one is smiling with you

You dance for yourself, the lights in the room, for the people that surround you

You dance to check in with yourself, you dance out of sadness

You dance for people who can’t dance anymore, you dance in memory of

You dance to feel the breath in your lungs

You dance to break down barriers

But all you feel are borders

Will dancing ever come back?

You wonder

And hope

Share lives after dark