About Vlaemsch

With Vlaemsch (chez moi), Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui wants to enter into a direct confrontation with the Flemish roots he has inherited from his mother’s side. As the child of a Flemish mother and a Moroccan father, from an early age he developed a crossroads identity that would also determine his choreographic oeuvre. Cherkaoui walks the grey zone between local anchoring and intercultural dialogue. His work cannot therefore be pinned down to a specific region, but it does open up the borders to let other worlds in.

Vlaemsch – not coincidentally in a ‘wrong’, old spelling – is a reminder that language too is a product of its own time. The piece opens the door to a mythical past that nevertheless departs from concrete objects and figures. The stage serves as a memory place where past, present and future meet. Movement becomes a form of memory work in which the roots of a personal, intimate Flemish identity are dug up, uprooted and rearranged.

For this production, Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui works together with visual artist Hans Op de Beeck, musician Floris De Rycker and costume designer Jan-Jan Van Essche. Four contemporary Flemish makers who together explore the role of their shared origin in their artistic signature. The visual work of Hans Op de Beeck is known for its ingenious play with grey values. The greyish Flanders that can be read from the landscape, weather and architecture is given a visual translation. Together with his music ensemble Ratas del Viejo Mundo (literally translated as ‘rats of the old world’), Floris De Rycker usually explores the sound colours of polyphonic music composed before 1600. As a lute player, he discovered how Arabic musical culture has been decisive for Western music, although that line of influence is often erased from music history. For his fashion designs, Jan-Jan Van Essche is inspired by different cultures with special attention for sustainable, local production. His clothing lines do not follow the rhythm of the seasons, but rather the stratification of the individual.

Opposite to the Flemish profile of the artistic team, Cherkaoui places a group of international performers. Their origin covers all corners of a world in conflict with itself: Japan, America, Russia, Ukraine, Congo, Canada, Germany, Israel and so on. The cross movement between West and East or North and South is characteristic of Cherkaoui’s choreographic oeuvre. With Vlaemsch, he continues this movement, but chooses a different point of departure. He reaches out a hand to the dancers to enter the mythical universe of so-called Flemish culture. The aim is not to impose supposed Flemish values on them, but rather to look for a form of cultural contamination. How can each person share his or her culture with the other without immediately falling into the trap of annexation or unlawful appropriation. Are we safe with each other? Vlaemsch wants to enter precisely into this tangle of cultural roots, which have numerous political, social and economic ramifications.

About Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui

Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui defies easy description: choreographer, opera director, dancer, composer, pianist, draughtsman… and a maker who works across multiple disciplines and platforms including cinema, Broadway, music videos, opera, museums and community art. The director the Ballet of the Grand Théâtre de Genève appeared first on the dance firmament as a startlingly limber performer, and, immediately after, as a prolific choreographer with a remarkable ability to create worlds entire to themselves, worlds where movement and music and architecture meld seamlessly.

While artistic director of Eastman, his contemporary dance company founded in 2010, and associate artist at London’s Sadler’s Wells and Théâtre National de Bretagne in Rennes, Cherkaoui also helmed Ballet Vlaanderen (Royal Ballet of Flanders) between 2015 and 2022. His journey as a ballet choreographer, though, began more than fifteen years ago. The first invitation to the realm of western classical dance came from Jean-Christophe Maillot and Les Ballets de Monte-Carlo for whom he made In Memoriam (2004), early in his career: this relationship also produced the unflinching yet beautiful gaze on colonial legacy, Mea Culpa (2006), and 2017’s sombre reflection around mortality, Memento Mori.

Loin (2005) originally made for the Grand Théâtre du Genève, End (2006) for the Cullberg Ballet, L’Homme de Bois (2006) for the Royal Danish Ballet, Labyrinth (2011) for the Dutch National Ballet, Boléro (2013) for the Paris Opera Ballet, with choreographer Damien Jalet and performance artist Marina Abramović, L’Oiseau de Feu (2015) for Stuttgart Ballet, Medusa (2019) for the Royal Ballet in London, and Laid in Earth (2021) for the English National Ballet were the result of memorable encounters with ballet companies across Europe. Cherkaoui made Fall (2015), Exhibition (2016) and Requiem (2017) with the dancers of the Royal Ballet of Flanders after joining the company as artistic director. He has also created pieces for celebrated principal dancers like Natalia Osipova (the trio Qutb, 2016), Carlos Acosta (the duet Mermaid, 2017), Marie-Agnès Gillot and Friedemann Vogel (a site-responsive duet from Firebird for the Fondation Louis Vuitton, 2017).

Cherkaoui first experienced the world of opera when he was invited to choreograph Der Ring des Nibelungen (2010-2013), directed by Guy Cassiers at Teatro alla Scala in Milan. As opera director he debuted at La Monnaie with the creation of Shell Shock, A Requiem of War (2014), by Nicholas Lens and Nick Cave. Since then he directed Jean-Philippe Rameau’s baroque opus Les Indes galantes (2016), Christoph Willibald Gluck’s Alceste (2019), and Toshio Hosokawa’s Hanjo (2023) at Bayerische Staatsoper, Philip Glass’s minimalist Satyagraha (2017) at Theater Basel, Komische Oper Berlin and Opera Vlaanderen, Claude Debussy’s Pelléas et Mélisande (2018) with Damien Jalet at Opera Vlaanderen, and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s Idomeneo (2024) at the Grand Théâtre de Genève.

His affinity for ballet and opera has led to some of his most enduring and high-profile works, and exciting cross-arts collaborations with visual artists (Marina Abramović, Amine Amharech, Hans Op de Beeck, Chiharu Shiota…), designers (Hedi Slimane, Karl Lagerfeld, Riccardo Tisci, Jan-Jan Van Essche, Dries Van Noten, Yuima Nakazato…) and musicians (A Filetta, Woodkid, Felix Buxton, to cite just a few).

Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui’s contemporary dance productions have been fêted across the globe, right from the début full-length, Nijinski Award-winning Rien de Rien (2000) and early company works like Foi (2003), Origine (2008) to the more recent Fractus V (2015), Nomad (2019) and Vlaemsch (chez moi) (2022). Cherkaoui’s insatiable curiosity about other movement languages and artistic legacies led to virtuosic and moving experiences including zero degrees (2005) alongside Akram Khan, Sutra (2008) for the warrior monks of the Shaolin Temple in Henan, China, Dunas (2009) with flamenca Maria Pagés, Play (2011) beside kutchipudi danseuse Shantala Shivalingappa, Session (2019), with Irish traditional dance exponent Colin Dunne, and latterly, an Accident / a Life (2024), a dance-theatre solo directed with and for Marc Brew.

The last decade has seen increased forays into choreography for cinema, theatre and pop music. Collaborations with filmmaker Joe Wright resulted in memorable celluloid ventures (such as Anna Karenina in 2012 and Cyrano in 2022). Cherkaoui teamed up with Wright as co-director and choreographer on a searing stage adaptation of Aimé Césaire’s A Season in the Congo (2013) as well. He also choreographed Lyndsey Turner’s 2015 production of Hamlet at the Barbican Centre in London. With Bunkamura in Tokyo, he directed Pluto (2015), based on the award-winning manga series by Naoki Urasawa and Takashi Nagasaki, and Evangelion Beyond (2023), an original play showing an alternative version of Hideaki Anno’s Evangelion franchise.

Since the mid-2010s, Cherkaoui has choreographed several of Beyoncé’s music videos and stage performances, beginning with a medley performance of Lemonade for the 2017 Grammy Awards and continuing right up to the music video of 2019’s Spirit, the single originally composed for the soundtrack of The Lion King. In the same year, Cherkaoui made his Broadway debut as choreographer for the Alanis Morissette musical Jagged Little Pill, directed by Diane Paulus and with a book by Diablo Cody, for which he picked up a Tony Awards nomination in the Best Choreography for a Musical category, the first Belgian artist to do so. He is also the movement director behind the 2022 revival of Michel Berger and Luc Plamondon’s rock-opera Starmania, which was laurelled with a Q d’Or, two Molières and two Trophées de la Comédie Musicale. Most recently, he choreographed several songs in Madonna’s CELEBRATION tour, among others Like a Prayer and Holiday.

And indeed, the awards and nominations are another useful shorthand for the range at hand. Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui’s work has picked up a staggering number, including two Olivier Awards, three Tanz Awards, a Giraldillo Award, the Jacob’s Pillow Dance Award, an Ultima from the Flemish government, and the Kairos Prize for his services to art and culture. There are more unusual ones too, such as a Fred and Adele Astaire Award – otherwise known as the Oscars of dance in cinema – for his choreography of Joe Wright’s Anna Karenina starring Keira Knightley and Jude Law, and the title of “young artist for intercultural dialogue between the Arab World and the West”, conferred by UNESCO in 2011. Among the latest? The 2019 Fedora–Van Cleefs Prize for Ballet for Invisible Cities, which he choreographed, and co-directed with Leo Warner, as well as an MTV Video Music Awards nomination for Beyoncé and Jay-Z’s Apeshit, shot at the Louvre Museum in Paris. In 2024, the King of Belgium conferred the title of Baron on Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui, making him the first Belgian Baron of North African descent.

Written by Karthika Naïr

About Eastman

Founded in January 2010, Eastman was set up to produce and promote the work of its artistic director Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui.

Cherkaoui’s non-hierarchical thinking on movement, body language and culture is the basis of his artistic approach. His work offers the audience a vast array of projects and collaborations across many forms of performance including contemporary dance, theatre, ballet, opera and music.

Set in his native harbor city of Antwerp (Belgium) and resident at DE SINGEL International Arts Centre (Antwerp), Eastman forms the central point for all of Cherkaoui’s work. Since its foundation in 2010, Cherkaoui created amongst others Babel (words) (with Damien Jalet), Play (with Shantala Shivalingappa), TeZukA, Puz/zle, 4D, Fractus V, Session (with Colin Dunne), 3S and Vlaemsch (chez moi) under Eastman’s wing. It also coordinates all of Cherkaoui’s work for other organizations.

Eastman’s international partners include La Monnaie / De Munt (Brussels), Les Théâtres de la Ville de Luxembourg, Grande Halle de La Villette (Paris), DE SINGEL International Arts Centre (Antwerp) and Sadler’s Wells (London).

Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui and Eastman are supported by the Flemish Government and the BNP Paribas Foundation. Eastman was European Cultural Ambassador 2013.

Artistic Team & Credits

Music Lyrics

Mílle quingéntis (Fifteen hundred)
Jacob Obrecht
Mílle quingéntis vérum bis sex mínus ánnis
Vírgine progéniti lápsis ab orígine Chrísti,
Sicílides fl érunt Múse,
dum Fáta tulérunt
Hóbrecht Guillérmum, mágna probitáte decórum,
Cecílie ad féstum, qui Cecíliam peragrávit
Oram;
ídem Orphéicum Músis Jácobum generávit.
Ergo dúlce mélos succentórum chórus álme
Cóncine ut ad célos sit vécta ánima
et dáta pálme.
Amen

Cantus firmus:
Réquiem aetérnam dóna éis, Dómine,
et lux perpétua lúceat éis.

After fifteen hundred minus two times six years
past since the birth of Christ,
the offspring of the Virgin,
Sicilian Muses cried when fate took away
Guillermus Obrecht, adorned with great dignity,
He who travelled through the Cecilian coast
at the feast of Cecilia;
the same conceived the Orphic Jacob for the Muses.
Therefore a sweet song, soft accompanying choir,
singing, that his soul may be carried to heaven
and given the palm.
Amen.

Cantus firmus:
Give them eternal rest, Oh Lord,
and may eternal light shine upon them.

Leo Flandricus
Piet Stryckers
De tijd verslindt de steden,
geen tronen blijven staan:
De legerbenden sneven,
een volk zal nooit vergaan.
De vijand trekt te velde,
omringd van doodsgevaar.
Wij lachen met zijn woede,
de Vlaamse Leeuw is daar
Hij scheurt, vernielt, verplettert,
bedekt met bloed en slijk
En zegepralend grijnst hij
op ‘s vijands trillend lijk.
Wij lachen met zijn woede,
de Vlaamse Leeuw is daar.

Time devours the cities,
no thrones remain standing:
The army troops fall,
a people will never perish.
The enemy goes to war,
surrounded by mortal danger.
We laugh at his anger,
The Flemish Lion is there
He tears, destroys, crushes,
covers in blood and mud
and triumphantly he grins
at the enemy’s trembling corps.
We laugh at his anger,
The Flemish Lion is there.

Soleil qui tout voit (Sun that sees everything)
Le Rat
Soleil qui tout voit,
par ma foi,
il ne faut pas que je le nie.
Je suis quasi jaloux de toi;
pourquoi regardes-tu mon amie
si dans dix millions pris l’envie,
la lune en laissa le cieux.
Je crains qu’en son amour te lie,
car un soleil mérite mieux.

Sun that sees everything,
Through my faith,
I have no need to deny it.
I am almost jealous of you;
Why do you look at my friend
If in ten million taken envy,
The moon left the sky.
I fear that her love ties you,
Because a sun deserves better.

Triste départ (Sad departure)
Nicolas Gombert
Triste départ m’avoit mis en douleur,
mon corps estoit plus froit
qui n’est le marbre,
transi de dueil
et sechant comm’ung arbre,
ma face’avoit perdu toute couleur

A sad departure had hurt me,
my body had burst more
than the marble,
sedated by the pain
and dry as a tree,
my face had lost all colour.

’t Is Vlaams, ’t trekt op geen kloten (It’s Flemish, it’s shit)
Wannes Van de Velde
Als ik een liedje zing op straat,
weloverdacht en in de maat,
dan ken ’t wel eens gebeuren
dat er een wandelaar passeert
die daar z’n eigen in geneert
en me dan af wil keuren.
Zijn argument is zeer bekend,
g’ hoort het van Zepperen tot Gent,
van Heverlee tot Schoten:
“’t Is Vlaams, ’t trekt op geen kloten…”
Nadat ik tussen feestkrakeel
in ’t Brabants dorp Londerzeel
een beetje had gezongen,
kwam er ’n Brabander naar mij
die zei: “Meneer, hoe durft gij,
en wel uit volle longen
hier zingen voor een volle zaal,
en dan nog in uw eigen taal?
Dat vind ik straffe stoten
want Vlaams trekt op geen kloten…”
‘k Ging overlest in Denderleeuw
langs ’t Vlaams kafeeke “Vlaamse Leeuw.”
En ‘k hoorde ze daar zingen.
Niet over Vlaamse gaai of spreeuw,
niet van den blauwvoet of meeuw,
maar over Duitse dingen.
En zeg nu niet dat ‘k er om lieg:
ze zongen liekes van de krieg.
Het Vlaams dat werd verstoten
want da’ trok op geen kloten…
De laatste tijd staat het wel fijn
zo een cultuurmodel te zijn door ABN te spreken.
Wie gaarne schijncultuur verwekt
spreekt nu een Hollands dialect.
Verkoopt Oranje-streken.
Zo krijgt ons volk één, twee, drij
een splinternieuw complexke bij.
Want volgens de groten
betekent Vlaams geen kloten…

When I’m singing a song on the street,
Well-considered and played in time,
It can happen
that someone strolling passes
who is ashamed at that
and then wants to berate me.
His argument is very well known,
you’ll hear it from Zepperen to Ghent,
from Heverlee to Schoten:
“It’s Flemish, it’s shit…”
After I had sung a bit
among party crackers
in the Brabantian village of Londerzeel,
a Brabantian came to me
who said: “Sir, how do you dare
singing here, from the top of your lungs,
for a full hall
and in your own language at that?
I find that a brazen act
since Flemish is shit…”
Recently I passed the Flemish bar
“The Flemish Lion” in Denderleeuw.
And I heard them sing in there.
Not about the Flemish jay or starling
Not of the blue-footed booby or the sea gull,
but about German things.
And don’t say I’m lying:
they were singing songs from the War.
They gave up Flemish
since it was shit…
Lately it’s a good look
to be a cultural role model by speaking polished Dutch.
He who likes to generate a culture of appearance
now speaks a Holland dialect.
Has Orange airs.
This way our people get in one, two, three
a brand new complex.
Because according to the big ones
Flemish doesn’t mean shit…

Het bedruckte wijf (The sad woman)
Gheerkin de Hondt
Het was mij van te voren gheseijt,
Dat hij was van Slutzaerts bende.
Zijn spel mij nu niet langher en greint,
Int beghinsel noch int eijnde.
Waer ick mij keer, waer ick mij wende,
Mijn man en is niet wel mijn vriend.
Eij, oudt grijsaard, dat ick u noijt en kende,
Want ghij en hebt niet wat mij dient.

I had been told before
that he belonged to Slutzaerts’ gang.
His game no longer pleased me,
nor in the beginning nor at the end.
No matter how I twist and turn,
my man is not really my friend.
Oh, old grey man, pity that I ever knew you,
for you have nothing to offer me.

Douce Dame Jolie (Sweet beautiful lady)
Guillaume de Machaut
Douce dame jolie
Pour dieu ne pensés mie
Que nulle ait signorie
Seur moy fors vous seulement.
Qu’adès sans tricherie
Chierie
Vous ay et humblement
Tous les jours de ma vie
Servie
Sans villain pensement
Helas! et je mendie
D’esperance et d’aïe,
Dont ma joie est fenie
Se pité ne vous en prent
Douce dame jolie
Pour dieu ne pensés mie
Que nulle ait signorie
Seur moy fors vous seulement.
Mais vo douce maistrie.
Mon cuer si durement
Qu’elle le contralie
Et lie
En amour tellement
Qu’il n’a de riens envie
Fors d’estre en vo baillie;
Et se ne li ottrie.
Vos cuers nul aligement
Douce dame jolie
Pour dieu ne pensés mie
Que nulle ait signorie
Seur moy fors vous seulement.
Et quant ma maladie
Garie
Ne sera nullement
Sans vous, douce anemie
Qui lie
Estes de mon tourment
A jointes mains deprie
Vo cuer, puis qu’il m’oublie
Que temprement m’ocie
Car trop langui longuement
Douce dame jolie
Pour dieu ne pensés mie
Que nulle ait signorie
Seur moy fors vous seulement

Sweet beautiful lady
In God’s name, don’t think
That no one reigns over me
but you
That without deceit
I cherished you
and humbly
All the days of my life
Served you.
Without thinking of villainy
Alas! I beg
for hope and for comfort;
My joy shall disappear
If you don’t show me mercy
Sweet beautiful lady
In God’s name, don’t think
That no one reigns over me
but you
but your lovely dominion
reigns over my heart so hard
that it counteracts
And binds
So in love
that I no longer feel any desire to do anything
Nothing matters anymore
than to be in your company
But your heart is not aligned
Sweet beautiful lady
In God’s name, don’t think
That no one reigns over me
but you
And when my illness
is cured
I will be nowhere
Without you, sweet enemy
Who enjoys
my torment
hands folded in prayer
Your heart, that forgets me
that kills me
Too long wasted away
Sweet beautiful lady
In god’s name, don’t think
That no one reigns over me
but you

Crudel Acerba (Cruel bitter)
Jacques Arcadelt
Crudel, acerba, inexorabil Morte,
cagion mi dài di mai
non esser lieto,
ma di menar tutta mia vita
in pianto,
e i giorni oscuri
et le dogliose notti.
I mei gravi sospir’ non vanno in rime,
e ‘l mio duro martir
vince ogni stile.

Cruel, bitter, ruthless Death,
you give me a reason
never to be happy,
but to lead my entire life
in tears,
in dark days
and sorrowful nights.
My deep desires don’t rhyme
and my hard martyrdom
conquers every style.

Tister’s song
Tister Ikomo
Najja lwambi.
Najja lwanaku nze samaanya.
Nti ebililibawo biliba biti.
Naduka okufa n´okuwoona nfune emirembe, mulutalo olwokusosoola.
Najja ne omulongo mukwano mukyala wange, mulyaato l´ekilo mutumbi.
Nelitusuula kukaziinga kwetutategeela ,nga ne k´Omunaku ali mulubuuto.
Wayiita mbale, kukazinga kwetali ffembi ,omutoonzi nasimulula.
Ow´omukwano nazaala K´omunaku kunsi nga asiimye tuube basaatu.
Namubulamu elinya lya nyabbo eyanzaala kunsi, anzaala lwe yazawuuka,
Nga nekiseera k´omunaku bweyazaliibwa, anzaala bweyayitiibwa nga.
Wuuwi yaaye nfude ndabye enaku ,ebujje L´Omusaayi gwange.
Wuuwi yaaye nfude ndabye enaku silina mata gakukuuwa.
Guma guma enjala silikaawo komunaku, ebujje lyomusaayi gwange.

The people of the village
have received good news.
The midwife accompanies the mother.
The people of the village
have received good news.
The midwife accompanies the mother.
Soon the twins will be here
Soon the twins will be here
We wait, we wait
We wain, we wait.
The people of the village
have received good news
Soon the twins will be here
The people of the village
have received good news
Soon the twins will be here
The news that the twins are here.
The midwife accompanies the mother
They have arrived
They have arrived

Marieke
Jacques Brel
Ay Marieke Marieke je t’aimais tant
Entre les tours de Bruges et Gand
Ay Marieke Marieke il y a longtemps
Entre les tours de Bruges et Gand
Zonder liefde warme liefde
Waait de wind de stomme wind
Zonder liefde warme liefde
Weent de zee de grijze zee
Zonder liefde warme liefde
Lijdt het licht het donk’re licht
En schuurt het zand over mijn land
Mijn platte land mijn Vlaanderland
Ay Marieke Marieke le ciel flamand
Couleur des tours de Bruges et Gand
Ay Marieke Marieke le ciel flamand
Pleure avec moi de Bruges à Gand
Zonder liefde warme liefde
Waait de wind c’est fini
Zonder liefde warme liefde
Weent de zee déjà fini
Zonder liefde warme liefde
Lijdt het licht tout est fini
En schuurt het zand over mijn land
Mijn platte land mijn Vlaanderland
Ay Marieke Marieke le ciel flamand
Pesait-il trop de Bruges à Gand
Ay Marieke Marieke sur tes vingt ans
Que j’aimais tant de Bruges à Gand
Zonder liefde warme liefde
Lacht de duivel de zwarte duivel
Zonder liefde warme liefde
Brandt mijn hart mijn oude hart
Zonder liefde warme liefde
Sterft de zomer de droeve zomer
En schuurt het zand over mijn land
Mijn platte land mijn Vlaanderland
Ay Marieke Marieke revienne le temps
Revienne le temps de Bruges et Gand
Ay Marieke Marieke revienne le temps
Où tu m’aimais de Bruges à Gand
Ay Marieke Marieke le soir souvent
Entre les tours de Bruges et Gand
Ay Marieke Marieke tous les étangs
M’ouvrent leurs bras de Bruges à Gand
De Bruges à Gand
de Bruges à Gand

Oh Marieke Marieke I loved you so much
In between the towers of Bruges and Ghent
Oh Marieke a long time ago
In between the towers of Bruges and Ghent
Without love warm love
The wind blows the stupid wind
Without love warm love
The sea weeps the grey sea
Without love warm love
The light suffers the dark light
And the sand scrapes over my hand
My flat land my Flandersland
Oh Marieke Marieke the Flemish sky
Colour of the towers of Bruges and Ghent
Oh Marieke Marieke the Flemish sky
Cry with me from Bruges to Ghent
Without love warm love
The wind blows, it’s finished
Without love warm love
The sea weeps, already finished
Without love warm love
The light suffers, everything is finished
And the sand scrapes over my hand
My flat land my Flandersland
Oh Marieke Marieke the Flemish sky
Was it too heavy from Bruges to Ghent
Oh Marieke Marieke at the age of twenty
which I loved so much from Bruges to Ghent
Without love warm love
The devil laughs the black devil
Without love warm love
My heart burns my old heart
Without love warm love
The summer dies the sad summer
And the sand scrapes over my land
My flat land my Flandersland
Oh Marieke come back to the time
to the time of Bruges and Ghent
Oh Marieke come back to the time
When you loved me from Burges to Ghent
Oh Marieke Marieke so often in the evening
In between the towers of Bruges and Ghent
Oh Marieke Marieke all the ponds
Open their arms for me from Bruges to Ghent
From Bruges to Ghent
From Bruges to Ghent

Archi statue (Arches, statues)
Gasparo Pratoneri
Archi statue trofei colossi
e marmi,
Palme, trionfi
e spoglie oppime e rare,
Communi pregi fù delle
vostr’ armi,
Hor vi portan’ in ciel glorie
piu chiari,
Mostrandovi quà giù
le prose e i carmi,
Nume lui de la terra e voi del mare.

Arches, statues, trophies, colossuses
and marble,
palms, triumphs
and precious spoils of war,
Your weapons have deservingly expressed themselves,
and they now bring you radiant glory in heaven,
For you the prose and the poetry appear here on earth,
He, the god of earth, and you of the sea.

Slaet op den trommele (Beat the drum)
A. Vos
Slaet op den trommele van dirredomdeine,
slaet op den trommele van dirredomdoes,
slaet op den trommele van dirredomdeine,
Vive le Geus is nu de leus.

Spaensche pocken, licht als sneeuw vlocken,
Spaensche pocken, loos ende boos,
Spaensche pocken, onder ‘s Paus rocken,
de Spaensche pocken groeyen altoos.

De Spaensche Inquisitie, voor Godt malitie,
de Spaensche Inquisitie, als draecx bloet fel,
de Spaensche Inquisitie ghevoelt punitie,
de Spaensche Inquisitie ontvalt haer spel.

Vive le Geus, wilt christelick leven!
Vive le Geus, houdt fraye moet !
Vive le Geus, Godt behoed u voor sneven!
Vive le Geus, edel christen bloet!

Beat the drum, dir-re-dom-day-ne,
Beat the drum, dir-re-dom-doos,
Beat the drum, dir-re-dom-day-ne,
‘Long live the Sea Beggars’ now is the battle cry.

Spanish pox, light as snowflakes,
Spanish pox, deceitful and evil,
Spanish pox, under the pope’s skirts
The Spanish pox keep growing and growing.

The Spanish inquisition, an evil before God,
The Spanish inquisition, poisonous as dragon’s blood,
The Spanish inquisition can feel its punishment nearing,
The Spanish inquisition is losing its game.

Long live the Sea Beggars, want to live a Christian life!
Long live the Sea Beggars, keep your spirits up!
Long live the Sea Beggars, may God keep you from falling in action!
Long live the Sea Beggars, noble Christian blood!

Entre Vous Filles (You girls)
Jacobus Clemens non Papa
Entre vous filles de quinze ans,
Ne venez plus à la fontaine,
Car trop avez les yeux friants,
Tétin poignant, bouche riant,
connin mouflant,
Le coeur plus gai qu’une mistaine,
Entre vous filles de quinze ans,
Ne venez plus à la fontaine.

You girls aged fifteen,
Don’t come to the fountain anymore.
For your eyes are too crazy,
Perky nipple, laughing mouth,
chubby bottom,
The heart more cheerful than that of a mistress,
You girls aged fifteen,
Don’t come to the fountain anymore.

Khalid’s wiegelied (Khalid’s lullaby)
Yalla tnam Rima
Yalla yijîha
an-nawm
Yalla thebbe es-Salla
Yalla thebbe es-Sawm
YalIa tijîha al’awafi kel yawm
biyawm.
We et-tishtishi we
et-tishtishi
wa el-khawkh taht
el-mishmishi
wa kel ma hab el-hawa
laqtof la Rima mishmishe
He, he, he Lina
destik lakink ‘irina
La nghassil tyab Rima,
wa nensherhon ‘l-yasmina.
Oh Lord, help Rima to fall asleep,
may she become sleepy,
may she grow up
and love to pray and fast.

Oh God, let her become healthier every day.
I will take you on a small journey
to a place
where there are plums underneath the apricot tree
and every time the wind blows,
I will pick an apricot for Rima.
Hey Lina,
lend us your water kettle and bowl
so that we can wash Rima’s clothes
and hang them up on your jasmine tree.

Ic truere ende ic (I mourn and I…)
Ic truere ende ic ben
van mijnnen alzo zieck,
en ic en can ghenesen niet.
Scoen lief dat doet ghij mij,
en anders niemant dan ghij.
Wat raet wildij mij gheven?
Wat raet wildij mij gheven?

I mourn and am
so sick of love
that I cannot heal.
Pretty love, you do that to me
and nobody else but you.
What advice do you have for me?
What advice do you have for me?

Een gilde jent (A servant of the guild)
Baston
Een gilde jent
reet laest naer Ghent.
Hy was wel opgheseten
Op een magher peert nau tuerscap weert.
Twas achter al bescheten,
besnot soe wast an syne muyle,
het had den ghanc ghelyc een ghuyle.
Myn zinnen stout
hevet gesmout.
Doen liept ghelyc een hinne
ghetoemt onder die kinne.
‘Lief vrient
Blyft thuys!’,
Riep tquaet gespuys.
‘Leefde Lanchals noch,
hy schreef u inne.’

An elegant drunk
rode to Ghent lately.
He sat high in the saddle
on a thin horse, barely worth the hire fee.
Its backside was covered in shit,
its mouth was covered in snot,
its gait was like that of an old nag.
My strong mood
became weak at the sight of it.
Then it started walking like a chicken
with the bridle under its chin.
‘Dear friend,
stay at home!’,
shouted the bad riffraff.
‘If Long Neck was still alive
he would lock you up.’

Or oiez (écoutez maintenant) (Run away now)
Guiard
Or oiez
les introites de taverne
Jehan Gallet dormes
vous parmy vostre corps
sus debout,
sus debout allons boire,
au petit cerf, au petit cerf,
Jehan Gallet,
Jehan Gallet venez vous
en forte rage,
Jehan Gallet allons hucher
les compaignons,
marchez gay saint Leger
ou chemin,
Buquet, Benoist, Guiard,
maistre Jacques Severin,
gobelin, Pierre Mercher,
maistre Jacques le tigneulx,
saultez maupiteur,
venez y donc
ou ou ou irons boire du bon vin,
chez Jehan Baston, Jehan Baston,
toc toc tac toc tac tac
nous voulons boire d’autant largement
bonjour l’hoste, bonjour l’hostesse,
varlet, chambrière
donnez moy de l’eau pour mes mains nettoyer,
laver les dens, laver les mains,
rainsons les dens
de vin blanc a desjuner,
du vin blanc d’Anjou
ou de Boyeux de collège.
Dominus Amen,
a desjuner la belle andouille,
les poys piles à l’eschinée,
il est par saint Jehan bon le jambon,
charlotte m’amye, apetit nouveau,
pastes à la sauce chaude,
du vin de beaulne
mon ami ou de Passi,
c’est assez mangé de bouilIy,
c’est assez mangé de bouilly.

Run away now,
the tavern prayed,
Jehan Gallet is sleeping
deeply between your bodies.
rise, rise,
to go drinking
in the little deer, in the little deer,
Jehan Gallet,
Jehan Gallet, are you coming
in anger
Jehan Gallet call
Your companions
march joyfully, saint Leger
on the way
Buquet, Benoist, Guiard,
Master Jacques Severin,
gobelin, Pierre Mercher,
master Jacques the stingy,
without mercy
come here then
or we shall go and drink good wine,
at Jehan Baston’s, Jehan Baston’s,
toc toc tac toc tac tac
we want to drink heavily
hello host, hello hostess,
servant, chamber maid
give me some water to clean my hands,
wash the teeth, wash the hands,
let us rinse the teeth
with white wine at lunch,
white wine from Anjou
or from the college of Boyeux.
Dominus Amen,
to eat a beautiful andouille:
peas crushed on little ribs,
the ham is good, at the holy Jehan’s,
delicious charlotte, renews the appetite,
pasta with hot sauce,
wine from Beaune,
my friend, or from Passi,
eaten enough porridge,
eaten enough porridge.

Un capitaine (A captain)
Antoine Barbé
Un capitaine de pillards
qui se dict de Pierroie seigneur,
surprendre la ville d’honneur d’Anvers,
mais à son deshonneur se retira,
comme une escoufle se retira
vistement monstrant avoir peur.
On ne prend point tel chat
sans moufle.
En Franc’emmenit ses larrons
en ses faictz vilains parvers
Comprit aux princes et barons,
disant j’ay bruslé lieux divers,
j’ay pillé à tort et travers
j’ay passé Walhem, aussi Douffle,)
mais j’ay failli
à prendre Anvers.
On ne prend point tel chat sans moufle,
François,
si vos deux champions
Longeval et aussi Piroye,
avec cent millemorpions
avoient mis siège au cul maroye,
et fussent tous dedans sa roye
devant le trou qui si bien souffle,
il les souffleroit jusqu’à roye.
On ne prend point tel chat sans mouffle.

A captain of a gang of robbers
who called himself Sir Pierroie,
surprised the city of Antwerp,
but to his shame he retreated,
like a swallow he retreated
demonstrably showing fear.
You don’t take a cat like that without gloves.
And he took his thieves
with their despicable acts
The princes and barons understand,
saying that I have broken in to many places,
that I have plundered far and wide
I passed Walhem, and also Douffle,
but I did not succeed in capturing Antwerp.
You don’t take a cat like that without gloves.
François, if your two champions
Longeval and also Piroye,
had besieged Maroye,
and if they were all in his castle
in front of the hole that blows so well,
then he would blow them over to Roye.
You don’t take a cat like that without gloves.

De Flamingant ne me traîtez pas (Don’t call me Flemish Nationalist)
Wannes Van de Velde
Dans mon pays de Flandre maltraité
par guerres ravageuses
Et des periodes troubleuses,
la terre est silencieuse.
De flamingant ne me traîtez,
être Flamand, c’est dur assez.
Quoique l’on dise
du glorieux passé,
l’Espagne vint à la danse,
Assistée par la France,
pour nous raser la conscience.
De flamingant ne me traîtez,
être Flamand, c’est dur assez.
Sur terre destinée aux champs de blé
on se fit des batailles,
De prétentieuses pagailles,
en nous/se traîtant de canaille.
De flamingant ne me traîtez,
être Flamand, c’est dur assez.
A cause du plus noir prolétariat,
on a vu l’allégresse
Périr
en proie de bassesse,
entre l’église et l’ivresse.
De flamingant ne me traîtez,
être Flamand, c’est dur assez.
On dit: c’étaient des collaborateurs!
Beaucoup se sont faits prendre,
Croyant faire pure
la Flandre,
c’est c’que misère engendre.
De flamingant ne me traîtez,
être Flamand, c’est dur assez.
Fascistes y’a partout, aussi chez nous,
mais comme les gens adorent
haïr ce qu’ils ignorent,
par ce refrain je t’implore:
De flamingant ne me traîtez;
je suis Flamand, fils d’ouvrier

In my country of Flanders, abused
by devastating wars
and hard times,
the earth is silent.
Don’t call me Flemish Nationalist,
being Flemish is already hard enough.
Whatever they say
about the glorious past,
Spain came to the party,
assisted by France,
to clear out conscience.
Don’t call me Flemish Nationalist,
being Flemish is already hard enough.
On the land destined for wheat fields
battles were fought,
pretentious battles,
treating us like dirt.
Don’t call me Flemish Nationalist,
being Flemish is already hard enough.
Because of the blackest proletariat,
We have seen joy
perish as prey of insolence,
between the church and drunkenness.
Don’t call me Flemish Nationalist,
being Flemish is already hard enough.
They say that they were collaborators!
Many were captured,
thinking that they purified Flanders,
that is what brings misery.
Don’t call me Flemish Nationalist,
being Flemish is already hard enough.
There are fascists everywhere, also in our country,
but just like people like to
Hate that which they don’t know,
with this refrain I beg you:
Don’t call me Flemish Nationalist,
I am Flemish, son of a labourer.

Adieu Anvers (Farewell Antwerp)
Noé Faignient
Adieu Anvers,
adieu la noble ville
contraint je suis,
de toy me separer
non pour mal faict,
et non pour chose vile,
Adieu Anvers,
adieu la noble ville
contraint je suis,
de toy me separer
non pour mal faict,
et non pour chose ville
mais las pour une’a
qui point comparer
on ne devroit Venus
ni Helaine,
tant est la grace,
qui gist en elle
Adieu Anvers,
adieu la noble ville
contraint je suis,
de toy me separer
non pour mal faict,
et non pour chose vile,
dont le partir me fera
doulce paine,
estant acompaigne
d’une chose tant belle
adieu Anvers,
adieu Anvers.

Farewell Antwerp,
farewell to the noble city
I am obliged,
to part from you
not due to bad behaviour,
and not due to anything despicable,
Farewell Antwerp,
farewell to the noble city
I am obliged
to part from you
not due to bad behaviour,
and not due to anything despicable,
but due to a woman
who is beyond compare,
not with Venus
not with Helena,
so great is
her grace.
Farewell Antwerp,
farewell to the noble city
I am obliged
to part from you
not due to poor behaviour,
and not due to anything despicable,
my departure causes
sweet pain
accompanied
by such a beautiful thing
Farewell Antwerp,
Farewell Antwerp.

Ach Vlaendere vrie (Oh, free Flanders)
Thomas Fabri
Ach Vlaendere vrie, hedel aert,
wilen werstu verre bekent.
Zo ziis tu noch, maer te di waert
draghet niit menich fel serpent.
Du wes omtrent langhe gheschent.
wertu van herte sonder sy.
Ach Vlaendre, Vlaendre, wat let dy?

Oh, free Flanders, noble in nature,
once you were famous in distant lands,
You are famous still, though many an evil snake
envies you.
You have long been wronged,
defend yourself wholeheartedly, unconditionally.
Oh, Flanders, Flanders, what keeps you back?

Literature
De Leeuw van Vlaanderen (fragment)
Hendrik Conscience, 1838
De rode morgenzon blonk twijfelachtig in het oosten, en was nog met een kleed van nachtwolken omgeven,
terwijl haar zevenkleurig beeld zich glinsterend in elke dauwdruppel herhaalde.

De blauwe dampen der aarde hingen als een onvatbaar weefsel aan de toppen der bomen,
en de kelken der ontwelkende bloemen openden zich met liefde om de jongste straal van het daglicht te ontvangen.

De nachtegaal had zijn zoete liederen reeds meermalen gedurende de schemering herhaald,
maar nu verdoofde het verwarde geschater van mindere zangers zijn verleidende tonen.

The red morning sun shone uncertainly in the east. And was still enveloped in a garment of night clouds,
while its seven-coloured image glistened in every dew drop anew.

The blue mist hung on the earth like an impervious veil on the tops of the trees,
and the buds of the blossoming flowers opened themselves with love to catch the first rays of daylight.

The nightingale had already repeated its sweet songs several times during the twilight,
but now the confused chirping of inferior singers overpowers its seductive tones.

Boodschap van de vogels (fragment)
Guido Gezelle, 1854-1855
Gij, die kwinkt en gij, die kwedelt,
Gij, die schuifelt en die vedelt,
Gij, die neuriet, gij die tiert,
Gij die piept en tiereliert,

Gij, die wistelt en die teutert,
Gij, die knotert en die kneutert,
Gij, die tatert en die kwettert,
Gij, die klapt en lacht en schettert,
vezelt, orgelt, zingt en speelt,
lispelt, ritselt, tjelpt en kweelt,

Gij, die kwinkelt lijk de vinken
en alom gaat slaan en klinken,
met uw bekken licht en los,
dat het kettert in den bosch:

Fluiters, zangers en de slagers,
Kermers, kriepers ofte klagers,
Vogels die, op Gods geleê
Hier ten lande of over zee,
jaagt dat uwe vleren zoeven,
achter ’t gone u mag behoeven,
achter ’t gone uw voedsel is,
kooren, vruchten, vleesch of visch,
vliegen, motten, andre kerven,
al wat gij maar kunt verwerven.

Gij die, op uw lange been,
diep in’t slijk zit, met uw teen,
g’reed staat, met den hals gestopen,
tot dat iets komt uitgekropen
dat gij seffens vastesnakt,
gij, die elk ende een verwijt
met hetgeen gij zelve zijt.You who click and you who chirp,
You who ruffle and who coo,
You who hum, you who cheep,
You who pipe and peep-peep,

You who whistle and who toot,
You who chit and who chat,
You who tattle and who babble,
You who chat and laugh and rabble,
murmurs, pipes, sings, and plays,
lisps, ruffles, tweets and brays,

You who warbles like the finches
and flutters around and cheers,
with your hips light and loose,
so that it sparkles in the bush:

Whistlers, singers and the crooners,
squirmers, fussers or the whiners,
Birds who by Gods command
Here over sea or on land,
chases so that your feathers buzz,
going what you may need,
after what is your feed,
grains, fruit, fish, or meat,
flies, moths and other critters
everything that you can devour.

You on your long leg,
sitting deep in mud, with your toe,
ready with your neck curved
until something crawls up
that you grab soon enough
you who blame each one
for what you yourself are.

Ways of Seeing (fragment)
John Berger, 1972
A man’s presence is dependent upon the promise of power which he embodies. Women are depicted in a quite different way from men, – not because the feminine is different from the masculine, but because the ‘ideal’ spectator is always assumed to be male.
Take this image for example. Transform the man into a woman, either in your mind’s eye or by drawing on the reproduction. Then notice the violence which that transformation does. Not to the image, but to the assumptions of a likely viewer.

To be born a woman has been/ is to be born within an allotted and confined space, into the keep of men.

The social presence of women has developed as a result of their ingenuity in living under such tutelage within a limited space.
But this has been at the cost of a woman’s self being split in two. (See) A woman must continually watch herself. She is almost continually accompanied by her own image of herself.
From earliest childhood she has been taught and persuaded to survey herself continually.
And so she comes to consider the surveyor and the surveyed within her as the two constituent yet always distinct elements of her identity (as a woman). She has to survey everything she is and everything she does, because how she appears to others/people, (and ultimately how she appears to men), is of crucial importance.

One might simplify this by saying: men act and women appear. Men look at women. Women watch themselves being looked at.

This determines not only most relations between men and women but also the relation of women to themselves. The surveyor of woman in herself is male: the surveyed female. Thus she turns herself into an object and most particularly an object of vision: a sight.

Deporteerbaar
Amina Belôrf, 2020
Hier zijn ze dan
de kinderen van de kinderen van hun kinderen
bij grootvader op schoot
en zij
zij aan zij
in rij
vlees gekeurd
afgestempeld
heen vervoerd

daar staan ze dan
biddend
om levend terug
boven te komen
tijdens het afdalen
in het diepe donker
van de mijnen

steenkool wacht niet
boten varen weg

de tijd knaagt
net als uw geweten
laad en los de dozen
en laat los
uw gemis en uw bergen
daar hebben wij
geen boodschap aan
hou dromen groot
en zwijg uw rug kapot
oui chef non chef
tout va bien chef

hier zijn ze dan
de kinderen van de kinderen van hun kinderen
en zij
zij aan zij
vlees gekeurd
afgestempeld
afgevoerd
vanaf heden deporteerbaar

Here they are,
the children of the children of their children.
on grandfather’s lap
and they
side by side
in line
inspected meat
stamped
transported

there they are
praying
to come back up
alive
while descending
into the deep dark
of the mines

coal doesn’t wait
boats sail away

time gnaws
just like your conscience
load and unload the boxes
and let go
your loss and your mountains
we don’t care
about that
keep dreams big
and shut up your broken back
yes sir, no sir
everything is OK sir

here they are
the children of the children of their children
and they
side by side
all approved
stamped
deported
from now on deportable

Monoloog bij nacht (fragment)
Herman Teirlinck, 1956
Mijn wereld is van kindsbeen af uitgegroeid tot een wereld van vormen die zich als een zelfstandige verborgenheid heeft ontwikkeld, om ten slotte niets gemeens meer te hebben met de andere wereld.

Nadat ik had ondervonden dat de vertrouwdheid met de andere wereld mijn wereld van vormen niet meer verrijkte, heb ik mij van die andere wereld afgewend. Het is het leven zelf dat de vormen van mijn wereld vermenigvuldigt en vermogend maakt.
Ik heb de winsten geschift en opgestapeld. Ik heb in spelonken van mijn wezen een toenemende voorraad opgedaan, waaruit ik weet te mogen putten aan de hand van mijn geheugen.

Ik kan er lange ketens herinneringen bovenhalen, een automatische
ontschakeling van associaties, die mij tot in het diepste onderwuste leeg maakt.
Niets is zaliger dan de bedwelming, die telkens op deze leegheid volgt en de geboorte belooft van nieuwe vormen. De weelde van mijn beeldende wereld maakt de andere volkomen bespottelijk.

En te weten dat ik haar zelfstandigheid meester ben en te allen tijde kan
beletten dat nog ooit een brug tussen beide wordt geworpen, is de zegening van mijn dagen.
Is zulks een roeping te noemen?

Maar misschien lijd ik een dubbelleven? Want ik ben voor de andere wereld niet ongevoelig. Alleen weet ik dat mijn wereld van vormen, ten aanzien van de andere, geen de minste afstand doet, terwijl zij aan die andere haar eigen suggestieve kracht, haar beeldende kracht ontleent.

En ik kan het heelal in de wolken lezen.

My world has grown since childhood into a world of shapes that has developed itself as an
independent mystery, until it finally had nothing more in common with the other world.

After I had experienced that the familiarity with the other world no longer enriched my world of shapes, I turned away from the other world. It is life itself that multiplies and fortifies the shapes of my world. I split and piled up the profits. I have in the caverns of my being accumulated an increasing store from which I can draw from my memory.

I can bring up long chains of memories, an automatic concatenation of associations, that empties me into the depts of my subconsciousness. Nothing is more glorious than the intoxication, that always follows this emptiness and promises the birth of new shapes. The wealth of my visual world makes the other utterly ridiculous.

And to know that I am master of its independence and can prevent at all times that a bridge will ever be built between them, is the blessing of my days. Could we say this is a calling?

But maybe I’m living a double life? Because I’m not insensitive to the other world. Only I know that my world of shapes, with regard to the other, does not have the slightest distance,
while it derives its own suggestive power, its shaping power, from the other.

And I can read the universe in the clouds.