FIVE | In Flanders Fields.

PART THREE – SCENE FIVE
Monday, September 25th, 2023

FADE IN:
EXT. GRAVEYARD GRASS, STEENKERKE BELGIUM – AFTERNOON

Every time we came on a family trip to the coast, there was one specific trip inland. A visit to the city of Veurne and/or walking through the sleepy fields of Oeren nearby. A walk to the MiniPri where we got to pick out ONE TOY. It was a HUGE toy store in my memory, but turns out to be a store with one toy aisle. (Time has stood still there, they still sell Britney Spears & Eminem posters from the early nillies. It’s a little weird, but comforting nonetheless.)

So my search for treasured memories drives me inland today, to the quiet town of Steenkerke in that same region.

When I was old enough to go to the coast myself, my dad gave me the same advice every time: ‘Jul, you have to go to Steenkerke’. And then when I was there, a message: ‘Jul, have you been to Steenkerke?’. It had everything to do with his love for music and art, which combined itself in the Flemish artist Willem Vermandere. A philosopher, poet, writer, etcher, painter, sculptor and a singer-songwriter with an impressive oeuvre.

Two years ago, I finally listened and fell deeply in love with the artist who’d I’d only heard of in passing before. I read (and immediately bought) his book Als ‘t maar Geestig is and set off to discover his hometown Steenkerke.

On the way to and from there, I was entranced by his music that fit so well with the scenery of the Flanders Fields. Some of it light-hearted, but some deeply rooted in the horrible happenings in those fields, like the album Altijd iemands vader, altijd iemands kind (Always someone’s father, always someone’s child). It’s a true masterpiece of musical storytelling.

In Steenkerke, like in so many places around West-Flanders, there’s a military graveyard from the first World War, with graves of too many young men who lost their lives in a cruel and useless war. (Like there is any other kind.) This visit in 2021, combined with my journey to Ypres, where I was moved to tears by the daily tribute of The Last post at the Menin gate, inspired me to make my own piece of protest-art.

Within this collage I sprinkled in some music which reminds me of the wars of my lifetime. The ones fought in Iraq and Afghanistan, after 9/11 happened, which in turn made me VERY conscious of world politics. The skull is made up of the lyrics to the heartwrenching song Hero of War by Rise Against and I added in the title of Let them Eat War by Bad Religion. 

It was reading Willem Vermandere’s book that drove me to enrol in the Art Academy, where I found joy in creating again after a very long hiatus. This was the first piece I made after some dark years where I lost my passion for creation. In a way, Vermandere was the instigator for the Clumsy Crane Studio Instagram that now also includes my great love of writing. The music has ALWAYS been a common thread on the page, all my own favourite pieces of art were inspired by or named for songs.

Back to Steenkerke. My plan for today was to spend an afternoon on the terrace of his favourite pub, one he wrote this song about. (It was the place where I bought the book and enjoyed a nice local beer on the last my last visit, as pictured above.) Alas, this being after the high season, the café was closed for a yearly holiday. I saw my plans for writing with the church in back of me, his house in front of me and his spirit near me fade away. But then I find this spot in the grass and decide to start writing there, overlooking the polder. 

The sound of nature takes over and I realise this is the better option. Writing with a bunch of bike tourists surrounding me would have been another experience indeed. All I hear now is the wind gently caressing the leaves of the trees and about ten different species of bird tweeting merrily away. Somewhere in the distance I hear some church bells jingling a joyful tune. Around me there’s the fluttering of butterflies, ladybugs and other summery critters enjoying the last rays of sun. 

In this sleepy silent town I seem to be completely on my own. Alone, but not lonely. I am surrounded by memories and profoundly content with my own company. Feeling that artful soul across the street brings some extra oxygen. As if a cosmic connection is supporting me while writing. I lie back and stare at the clouds and drink it all in. 

There’s the tiny church behind me, filled with some of his beautiful works of art. He wrote the following song about it. My favourite lyric is this:

O ik wil het al nog geiren geloven,
dat mirakel van die zes kruiken wijn
en van Lazarus die al drie dagen dood was,
were levend, meer moet dat nie zijn.

Dat is ‘t werk van zangers en dichters,
als ‘t maar rijmt, is ‘t een fluitje van ne cent,
dat Jezus zijn moeder nog maagd was,
is dat geen geestig vertellement!

Roughly translated that goes:

Oh, I want to gladly believe it all
The miracle of those six jugs of wine
And of Lazarus who’d been dead for three days
Alive again, that’s all it takes.

That’s the work of singers and poets,
If it just rhymes, it’s a piece of cake,
That Jesus’ mother was still a virgin,
Isn’t that a droll tale

After I’m done writing, I step into the church to wander past Vermandere’s paintings, etches and sculptures again. I refrain from putting his music on because the Gregorian church music, which I kind of really despise and always have, reminds me of my father again. I take my sweet time looking at every piece in detail and marvel at the imagery and colours. 

The beauty and intricacy of the works doesn’t really translate into pictures.  I get especially transfixed by this one, drinking in every brushstroke and bit of shading in these striking colours with hungry (and quite frankly a little jealous) eyes.

In trying to research what this piece is called (no luck yet), I just found out this piece I saw on my first night in Nieuwpoort. It was made in remembrance of the Great War and is called Verzoening or Atonement. It is placed on the geographical starting point of the Western Front right near the pier.

I walk back out of the church, put on my hiking boots and wander off in the distance. After a while, my thirst, which I was supposed to quench at that little terrace, takes over. Nothing is open within walking distance, so I decide to drive over to Ramskapelle and I unknowingly end up at the perfect writing spot. Another place where time stood still, with a slightly camp but lovely decorated terrace and some beautiful inspiring wall art. 

A chill and very 80s soundtrack in the background, a very LOUD but soothing conversation between two local ladies in that lovely West-Flanders dialect and some nice regional beers on the menu. The air feels warm, and smells of a rain shower that never happens. What else could a person want? Fate drove me here. I start writing. Crocodile Rock jumps on in the background. I smile and think of Joey Clyde. 

Before going home I honour my farmer family roots by making friends with a sheep and admiring some farming equipment. Dad would have been proud of me today.