Basje Boer | Richtje Reinsma

Richtje Reinsma
Black Mirror (2011), Richtje Reinsma, graphite, watercolor pencil, pastel crayon, ink, asphalt paint, 21 x 29.7 cm

A tiny spot on the keyboard. You try to rub it off with your thumb. No luck. You try to scratch it off with your fingernail. The scratching makes the eeriest little sound. The other sounds in the room join in, the colors of the walls and the skin tone of your hand twist into a new, brighter color. You breathe in, you breathe out, you breathe in. The spot's gone.

You once watched a movie in school. They'd fashioned one of the rooms into a movie theatre. The kids from your class could hardly suppress their excitement, neither could you. But thinking back, the one thing about that day that really stuck was leaving the room after the film was finished. The tingling joy of seeing a good movie - it was Bram Stoker's Dracula by Francis Ford Coppola - and the excitement of breaking your school routine seemed to match the overwhelming experience of going from a pitch black room into a hallway that's soaked in the light of the afternoon sun, sending your eyes on a rollercoaster ride.

There were a few different routes you could walk to school.
One of them led through a department store, where you read magazines in the bookshop or took the escalator one floor up, only to go straight down again.
But there was another route, going around the back of the department store, where a large window was covered in black from the inside so you couldn't see anything but yourself. The black mirror, you and your friends would call it. It was forbidden to look at the black mirror, you would surely die if you would.
You would take this route every once in a while, just to taunt the evil that was behind the black mirror. And sometimes you and your friends passed it while roaming the neighborhood. Run! you'd yell at each other once the window got in sight. And you would run, frantically, looking down at your feet.

It might be something in his eyes,
His smudgy jacket,
The trembling of his hands,
The way his lips jerk into something that could almost be a smile.
All the shapes and colors, the sounds and the funny little smells come together to form one, tense ball of something you could only describe as the truth - what else could it be?
All you know is, something's off. You know it, you're sure of it, you can sense these things.
It's this man, this stranger that stepped into the bar. You have a feeling about him. You can't explain it, how can you explain a feeling?
You can't afford to take a risk.
You might be wrong - but what if you're right?
You should take charge.
You have everything to lose.