Chris J. Desmet | Musings

  Way back when I was a kid — eight, maybe nine — just like every other boy in the neighbourhood, I dreamed of becoming a professional football player. The streets where I grew up were basically our playground. The only cars that ever interrupted our matches were those of the neighbours or the milkman’s van. In summer we made an exception for the ice cream vendor, obviously. We kicked that ball around nonstop, pretending to be Juan Lozano or Robbie Rensenbrink. Granted, I never lacked ambition. At one point flying fighter jets seemed irresistible and I briefly promoted that dream to first place. Watching war movies even had me considering joining the army once I was old enough. But none of those secondary mirages could beat the main objective: life on the pitch, the sacred grass. There was nothing better. In the dream I’d wake up at eight, plenty of time for a healthy breakfast — lots of fruit. Then off to the training centre. Some banter with the lads in the dressing room. Out ont...

How many artists today dare to bite the hand that feeds them — and still get fed? How many artists can we name who are embraced by the establishment yet remain its sharpest critics? I suspect very few — perhaps none today. And yet that tension between belonging and rebellion is exactly where true art is born, where ideas take root that only generations later will be fully understood. There is no shortage of artists today. Musicians, actors, painters, conceptual artists, writers, photographers — the list is endless. And still their trajectories tend to look remarkably alike. A fiery start in youth, fuelled by rebellion and restlessness. Then success arrives, and the rough edges begin to soften. Some even turn completely, adapting themselves to whatever the cultural mainstream demands. Punk rockers going commercial. Former rebels becoming polished brands. The desire to belong to the establishment proves stronger than their early defiance. And so their art becomes flat, harmless, meaningl...

  Recently, I attended the launch of The Smell of Olhão. Olhão is the city in the deep south of Portugal where I now live. Four people had joined forces to present the fruit of their labour: a travel book with a twist — an alternative to the glossy guidebooks. A raw, authentic look at the city, filled with sharp observations, sketches and comics, essays on local architecture, and even recipes. Later that evening, I ended up on a terrace with one of the writers, the translator, and the illustrator — all Dutch. Over beers and small bites, these seasoned literary professionals talked endlessly. I listened to their elegant phrasing, the way they exchanged ideas about the state of the world, effortlessly weaving in their views on the Netherlands and Portugal. Intelligent and eloquent. Even when they disagreed, they did so gracefully, with finely sharpened, understated jabs. I mostly listened. I enjoyed their command of language. I only spoke when spoken to. Somehow, I felt inadequate — ...

What exactly is freedom? Freedom means being able to act, think, and speak without coercion. To make your own choices without external force. Yet it isn’t boundless; it can be limited to safeguard society and to curb selfishness. Your freedom ends where another’s begins. That sounds good, and in a well-organized society we’ve laid that out neatly in laws. When reality or the spirit of the times changes, we adapt those laws. Simple. Freedom today looks different than it did hundreds of years ago. That’s called progress — or civilization, depending on how you see it. Lately, there’s been a lot of noise about freedom of expression . It’s a fundamental right to express an opinion and to receive information without interference from above — vital to any democracy. Still, there are legal limits meant to prevent harm: incitement to hatred, calls for violence. A government’s role is to protect that right, not decide what may or may not be said. Yet this right seems to be under pressure. O...