We had been working together on a small side project he initiated. You’d never say no to Joachim. As all side projects we took it slow. So slow in fact that he got tired of waiting and left me alone to finish it. Damn.

In his honor and his family’s, I thought it would made sense to publish this posthumous version of his original idea, but make it all about him. He would have hated this, humble as he was. But I think he’d have understood.

If you are interested, here’s the background of the project as Joachim conceived it:

Another Special Project
December 2024

“Upward Downwards” is a collaborative project by creative director Joachim Baan and Tokyo-based illustrator Luis Mendo. At its core lies Images de l’Himalaya, Encyclopédie Alpina Illustrée by Italian mountaineer and photographer Vittorio Sella. These historic pages—once celebrating the heroic ascent of mountains and the Sherpas who bore the heaviest loads—are reactivated as living canvases.

On these historic pages, Luis Mendo layers new drawings of figures bent under impossible loads, not of survival, but of objects, possessions, and distractions. His illustrations transform the photographs from heroic admiration into uneasy reflection, confronting us with the Sherpa as a timeless symbol: no longer just carriers of life’s necessities, but mirrors of the invisible, unnecessary weight we all drag along today.

Because our climb has not ended. Only the mountain has changed. In the age of capitalism and consumerism, we are urged ever upwards, towards more possessions, more distractions, more illusions of progress. Yet each step upwards deepens the downward pull. We rise, but under the crushing gravity of excess.

Learn more about the Encyclopédie Alpina illustrée by Vittorio Sella (Italian photographer and mountaineer) HERE >

The post Upward Downwards & Upwards again appeared first on Another Something.

Joachim started Another in 2007 as his personal creative outlet, in the midst of the blogosphere. I joined him as an intern in 2012 and basically always stayed by his side in different capacities. Learning about “creative” work. And learning that you are never too old to learn, because, as he used to say, he “didn’t know anything himself, either.”

He imprinted in me the belief that creativity is about making choices based on finding your own take on beauty, wherever you are. And that being distinctive comes from personal taste, rather than giving in to what is expected or what others might think.

Through this shared fundamental belief, I felt in my gut that I had found my natural place next to him: as a second pair of brains and eyes, the conceptual thinker and the words to his elegant graphics and photographic captions. Over the years, this resulted in client work, in-house work and numerous side projects that we co-created. And eventually in our shared brand consultancy, which we started at the end of 2024.

I can’t imagine a (creative) life without him. But here it is anyway. All I can try to do now is keep up the pace Joachim taught me (or lovingly forced my doubtful self into). To keep chasing beauty and interesting ideas wherever I am. To keep carrying the Another flag.

As he will surely be planting a new Another project wherever he is now: beginning a new side project, rushing toward new loving encounters and making the world around him a little more beautiful.

I will miss him for the rest of my life.

Christoph

The post No Circling Back appeared first on Another Something.

In these circumstances, we continued to hold on to our ambition to slow things down where we can. Always searching to make things intentional, at least for ourselves. If necessary (it always is), present our creative point of view in the projects that we instigate ourselves. With the people that need little explanation of what we have in mind, because they share the perspective. And as a result, the first full year of Another Everything felt less like sprinting and more like what Hugo Hoppmann calls the Bamboo Rule: five years of invisible growth before six weeks of visible transformation. Most people want the 25-meter bamboo shoot, nobody wants the five years underground. What sometimes feels like waiting or boredom obviously can get frustrating and confusing at times (it was), but as we take this moment to reflect, we can only conclude that there’s always some reward in this state when you continue to nurture ‘the soil’ and keep things growing. Even on the bad days.

In our work for clients, we have always expressed our refusal to play the short-game, in some way or form. Aiming for distinction rather than sameness. And where possible, always try to get to a point of otherness. It is what we do best, and if this year taught us anything, it might very well be the new (old) way to durably stand out again. We worked with brands like Ikea, Zenology, Tenue., HEMA, FPM Milano, Atelier Munro, and more, all circling the same question: how to (re)connect with people in a world where everything feels predetermined and manipulated. Our answer always focusses on finding connection in the things that are messier, more unexpected or slower over time, than the usual. And as a result making those clients nervous and the ROI more ‘insecure’. Still, it feels hopeful that in the current world, brands without real roots seem less and less capable to mask this through short-term methods, as we will see more and more business models implode as the (venture) capital will dry up and/or get restructured into market that are less ‘creative’.

As mentioned earlier, our side projects are our way to uncompromisingly show how we see the world. Create what we want to create and truly show what we are capable of. ‘DE POLDER’ project with de dam foundation and Lennard Kok, LMNOP’s magazine Absolute Zeitgeist, the Theo Schokker’s exhibition project and our first project of 2025; ‘ANOTHER CANVAS’ with Sergei Sviatchenko. We basically ended the year as we started it. Celebrating a side project that no one asked for, but we wanted to create ourselves, with people we want to work with. Projects that don’t really fit into individual case studies, but eventually compound over years into a collection of ANOTHER projects that we felt needed to exist. Creating our own reference points.

This was also another year full of travel (enjoy fav images and moments of this year at the bottom of this post). Both together and individually, Italy to Sweden, India to China. Learning about the state of culture, meeting makers with long and short heritages, fabric mills, a lot of people who still believe how something is made matters more than how efficiently it can be produced. With a lot of different conversations underlining a refusal of the idea that faster equals better. And a lot of these business (maybe all?) built on relationships. The part of the human condition that will forever be idiosyncratic (and will never be replaced by AI). There are no real shortcuts there. Even money can’t really mask a lack of trust and understanding in the long term. In many ways giving us direction in our way forward.

So, it really feels that 2025 was a year of nurturing. Between the two of us, and in a more general sense to keep growing our systems necessary to navigate the world that we work and live in. Always showing up, in some way or form, even when nothing seemed to move. Choosing the five-year foundation over the six-week sprint. Always trying to build our own slow foundations, in an environment that seemingly only rewards what it can see immediately. As there’s always something to be found inside and out that will make it worthwhile.

Here’s to many more years of doing things the ‘inefficient’, but impactful way. The way that doesn’t make a lot of immediate sense in a quarterly meeting, but makes perfect sense when you’re building something meant to last. A way that doesn’t scale an awful lot short-term, but somehow keeps opening doors we didn’t know we were looking for. Because sameness moves fast, in the footsteps of what came before. Difference takes time to figure out its path. And we’re playing the long game, to the end.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Also a final word to all readers and followers of Another Something and the newsletter: thank you for 2025! For reaching out and showing your appreciation and sharing your own views, stimulating us to share more of what we believe in, and continue the dialogue and find other ‘ways in’. Which is more important than ever, for us at least!

Because this year, you helped us find another way in.
Or perhaps another way out,
depending on how you see it.
Out of the sameness.
Into something more compelling.
You opened doors we didn’t know existed.
Unlocked others we thought were closed for good.
Whatever the case, thank you.
For the collaborations,
the conversations and the new combinations.
For refusing to settle for the easy answer.
For helping make 2025 anything but predictable.
Here’s to opening more doors in 2026.

The post Another Imperfect Year appeared first on Another Something.

Every artist on both ‘sides’ made 2025 harder to ignore. Fontaines D.C. didn’t make another post-punk record, they made something their fans would have to reckon with. Tyler didn’t make streaming-friendly singles, he made a 28-minute provocation about why we stopped moving in public. Dean Blunt and Elias Rønnenfelt kept making love songs that sound like they’re falling apart. Lambrini Girls put “cunt” in a song title 40 times and called it self-love. bar italia named their album after a Marilyn Monroe film and made it sound like three people arguing in the dark. Alex G took a major label deal and still made it weird.
What connects both lists isn’t genre or sound, it’s intention. These are artists who could have optimised for passive listening and chose not to. They’re the ones who, when faced with the choice between frictionless and memorable, picked memorable every time. As Liz Pelly wrote about refusing Spotify’s version of your year: “rather than letting a streaming service tell you what records were important to you simply because you played them the most on one app, consider taking the time to write a list based on what you actually connected with”. Burial’s still making 12-minute tracks that demand you sit with them. Blood Orange made an album about grief that refuses to be background music for your sadness. ROSALÍA got Björk and Yves Tumor on a track and conducted a symphony instead of chasing a TikTok moment.

This is what curation actually means. Not counting plays, but making choices. Not what the algorithm surfaced, but what we kept coming back to because it refused to let us forget it. These lists are what happens when you refuse to let technology do the thinking for you. When you treat music like it still matters which records shaped your year, not just which ones you happened to stream most on one app. (Full disclosure: I do have this annoying tendency to skim the internet, blogs, publications, etc. for new interesting music and then listen to it a few times before abandoning it again. And those publications I consult are probably pushed to the surface for me by the algorithm anyway… )

But here’s the thing: every single one of these artists is doing what we try to do with Another Something/Everything. They’re opening doors instead of closing them. They’re making things that are deliberately difficult to ignore, to playlist, to background. Like Dijon said: “if I can be a sore thumb within the thing, just by making the music a little bit more difficult to just sit there…. Why not do that?”. They’re choosing new combinations over safe bets. They’re proving that anti-sameness isn’t just our philosophy, it’s an act of resistance for anyone who refuses to be flattened into content.

Because when streaming platforms become “testing grounds for machine learning”, the act of choosing what matters becomes resistance. When consumption metrics replace critical judgment, curation becomes radical.

In short: Music that made 2025 feel less like a data point and more like a year worth remembering.

Another Playlist 2025 A Apple Music / Spotify

Another Playlist 2025 B Apple Music / Spotify

The post Another 2025 Playlist appeared first on Another Something.

John’s work is rooted in Dutch cultural heritage. It informs his references and his designs, which carry that influence into the third millennium and into a slowly evolving wardrobe. Understated, made to the highest standards, often produced in his country of birth South Korea, always shaped by a recognisable oversized unisex aesthetic. We wanted to add a perspective on “our own” The Netherlands that differed from his, both critical and curious, forcing ourselves to rediscover something in a country we thought we knew. It did not take long. We found what we were looking for in the artificial hydrological entity that were invented in The Netherlands: the polder. Land pulled from the water and kept alive by machines and patience. A space where survival and design share the same ground.

The Eemnes polder, partly inspired by the song of poet/comedian Hans Dorrestijn about that particular place, with its flat horizons and long silences, became the starting point for our collaboration, which we eventually aptly named “De Polder”. Time slows there. The kilometers stretch. The air carries a stillness that can unsettle or soothe. Hans Dorrestijn described it as a place that tests patience before it reveals its beauty. That same tension between desolation and quiet grace became the core of the project.

The coat is unmistakably a de dam foundation work of art. Crafted in South Korea, from an extraordinary dark khaki Japanese cotton gabardine with a subtle red hue woven into it. The silhouette is oversized and anchored by a signature high-neck collar for extra protection against Dutch rain. The six-panel cap follows the same principle. Medium-weight double-ply cotton. Clean shape. Nothing unnecessary. Inside the coat, an oversized label holds a single hand-drawn image by Lennard Kok, a figure in deep shadow walking (below sea level) through the polder. Inside the cap, a smaller drawing waits like a quiet secret beneath the surface.

The campaign was shot in the Eemnes polder itself. Belgian actor Mistral Guidotti steps into the role of the lone walker, making his way across the reclaimed land. The film by Milan van Dril, created in close collaboration with us, extends the atmosphere of Lennard’s drawing into motion. Joachim photographed the series, capturing the calm severity of the place. Music by De Rivier keeps the momentum, a haunting guitar-driven score that seems to push the walker forward.

“De Polder” is about endurance and observation. About seeing the subtle poetry of a landscape that tests patience. Garment, drawing, film and music converge into a lived experience. The Dutch polder becomes both subject and stage, precise and quiet

After launching the project at JUKI in Amsterdam last weekend, the pieces are also part of the de dam foundation pop-up store, that will run until december 8 at Prinsengracht 234, Amsterdam. Go visit!

And finally, we are also planning a small event during Paris Fashion Week at the end of January, when de dam foundation will have its showroom there. Stay tuned!

The trench coat and cap are also available to order online here >
We also created a little zine for the project which is availble online here >

The post “DE POLDER” appeared first on Another Something.

Bringing Lennard together with de dam foundation felt natural from the start. Their languages meet in the same place: clear lines, shared references, similar sources of inspiration. From that first meeting eventually came “De Polder”: a trench coat and a cap with Lennard’s hand-drawn work on the inside of the label. For Lennard, the project felt close to home. He grew up in a polder and knows its unusual mix of calm and pressure. Leaving it to live in Utrecht, and now outside the city, has not erased it.

It felt like the right moment to sit with him again. To talk about the years between our collaborations. To look at “De Polder” and the fit he found in it. To explore how the landscape that shaped him still shows up in the work he makes today.

Here are some of the things we talked about >

Our previous project together, the porcelain “Fallen Bird” figurine, dates back to 2017. That was a different time for both of us. Do you ever reflect on where you stand in your career?

Yes, I think about it constantly.

Can you compare today to back then?

Yes. I was thinking about life just yesterday. I said recently: the age I am now is the age I always looked forward to being when I was younger. I really appreciate being able to do things I enjoy, to buy things I like. Realizing that I’m here now gives me a sense of calm. In 2017, I had graduated five years earlier, so I was still at the start of my working life.

You were still teaching back then too, right? Which you continued quite a few years after. Looking at it from my perspective, you’ve maintained a certain flow throughout almost your entire career, even then.

Yes, I think it helped that I’ve always been open to different projects and looked beyond just paper. Since then, I’ve done one or two projects a year that had nothing to do with paper: a book, a curtain, a wine glass. Some things come naturally, others I initiate myself.

Is that strategy?

More a feeling. I enjoy commercial work, and structure suits me. But I also miss freedom. I don’t want to be completely autonomous, so I look for that combination. The lack of that mix during the pandemic made clear how important it is to be with others. Illustrating can be lonely. Around 2017, I still did many exhibitions and activations. I do that less now. And yet it’s so fertile: celebrating that something exists. I need to seek that out more.

One of your first global clients, The New York Times, came to you organically.

Yes. My zine The Witch Has a System with Draw Down Books (2015) was at Printed Matter. And my Apartamento Magazine coloring book (2017) got broad attention. I’ve always been selective about what I show on social media, for instance. I show the work I want to receive back. So one day, an art director from The New York Times contacted me, and soon after I did my first editorial illustrations.

And eventually more global clients followed.

Yes. I’m guessing that art directors look at each other. If your zine is at Printed Matter or you worked with Apartamento Magazine, it can be a checkmark. My agent also helped a lot. I had a few big clients in recent years for which I’ve worked repeatedly.

Hugo & Marie was more or less your only choice for representation, right?

Yes. They were always at the top of my list. Mario [Hugo] approached me, and it clicked immediately with the team. I rarely doubt choices anyway. If something doesn’t happen, I’m okay with that. But this particular choice was a no-brainer. Seeing how well it worked for Merijn Hos, who was already with them and someone I admired, made me realize I wanted to make that step at some point in my own career.

What’s their role in your development?

Taking care of business matters. Time to think about how I present myself externally. Feedback, analyses of the creative world. Two big reviews a year. They’re also the closest thing to colleagues for me.

A lot of your corporate work you did in recent years is internal, and therefore invisible.

Because I don’t have to show internal work to the world, it still feels very free. It has to be beautiful within constraints, but I don’t need to reinvent the wheel. That often hinders my own work. In these corporate assignments, I produce things in a day that would take so much longer on my own. Constraints work very well for me.

The world has changed quite a lot as well over the last years. How do you see the much-discussed influence of AI?

AI forces me to keep making unique things. To differentiate myself from things that “work.” For example, this project of ours, or an upcoming series of ceramic plates with Suzan Becking. Sometimes moving from lines to shapes, because that has a more complex dynamic. Honestly, I don’t feel anxious about it. Five years ago, all illustrators were told they had to learn animation. Now that doesn’t seem the case anymore. I may respond slowly to trends, but because of that I never feel pressured either. Focusing on myself is my goal, always. I trust it will work out that way.

Speaking of our project “De Polder” — the jacket and cap, with your hand-drawn labels, are also tangible.

Yes, making something tangible interests me: fabric, translucency, scale. Building something. I enjoy making something together with John and you. It gives me energy. It forms a mirror for my practice. Even when we were in the studio and John spoke humbly while we were super enthusiastic, I recognized that in myself. You see how others wrestle with their own critical eye.

How did you come to know de dam foundation?

I guess via Another Something. I met John in the first meeting we had for this project. But I felt an immediate connection. His references are close to my interests: simplicity, the Netherlands, Rietveld, architecture.

And you’re a fashion lover.

Yes, definitely. And now there’s a bit more budget to spend. I really enjoy beautiful clothing — not seeing it only as functional. A jacket as a work of art. That’s a nice thing about getting older: I’m freer in what I allow myself. I love dressing in a certain way, and today I have space to choose.

I also realized only during the process that you literally grew up in a polder, in Lelystad.

I mentioned that in the Apartamento interview: Lelystad was really built from nothing. And the aesthetics of the time it was built — the 1970s style — is still what I find most beautiful. I have a sort of love for that distinctiveness. Also, for example, the old hall of pop venue Tivoli in Utrecht, with its cement tiles and stones combined with wood. It makes me very happy, though that doesn’t apply to most people from Lelystad. Maybe it touches me because it carries the sentiment of my youth.

Also the long views you get growing up in Lelystad — or in any polder, probably — I have a lot of love for. Cycling through a polder makes me happy. We lived in the suburbs, and my friends too, so cycling was normal: long stretches against the wind across flat land. When you do, everything you see makes sense. Everything is carefully constructed. For example, you can’t take your driving test in Lelystad — or even lessons, if I’m not mistaken — because it’s so built around cars, not representative of more challenging driving conditions. Traffic lights are optimized, everyone can merge easily. It’s a system designed to control things. Almost everything is predictable.

What’s also fascinating about Lelystad is that the “project” started to decay fairly quickly [read Lelystad by Joris van Casteren for context]. The moment someone thinks they can fully control everything, brings in young families, and lets new ways of thinking run free, it quickly becomes a messy place with all kinds of undesirable behavior, despite all the planning. That’s maybe a good metaphor for what we want to do with this project. A polder is impressive, but also terrible.

Yes, there’s an edge to a polder.

We of course know your deep love for Dick Bruna. But that clear, sharp line is also just the polder in you, which has taken deep root.

Yes, I can imagine that. Especially the thoughtfulness, the lack of romance, the simplification of everything. It’s also the most Dutch thing I can think of. It expresses itself without any frills. That also applies to me in many ways.

It’s also totally constraining, a sort of straitjacket. And at the same time, it has given you clear frameworks where you can experiment fully. Or critically observe the world, but still within limits.

Yes, I see a parallel in my own work. When I work autonomously, I can think of a million ways of doing things, but eventually it doesn’t make my work better or I get stuck in the process. Mostly it doesn’t. I need to figure things out within the constraint of my mind, and fail many times, for it to eventually be right. That’s Lelystad too: you can want to plan and control everything, but in the end, it will go wrong — and that’s the true nature of the place.

So it really doesn’t matter whether you plan it meticulously or let it go. Humanity will always mess things up at some point, and that’s where the truth lies.

Yes, that’s a beautiful law of being human. In the end, it will crash or fail in some way or form, and I also see that in my work. That’s why this collaboration with de dam foundation fits so perfectly: the polder is a striking metaphor for the modern human condition.

Keep track of Lennard Kok’s work here >

The post Lennard Kok appeared first on Another Something.

And yet, I hate buying new things now. Not hate in the absolute sense, I love stuff, I love making new stuff, and I love putting our creativity to work to get more stuff out there…. I just hate the act of buying. That small lie each purchase tells: that this will complete something. The dopamine flicker that fades before the box is even empty. It started years ago, when I learned that quality is a hollow phrase, even for many luxury brands. But it went further. It’s really the realisation that we, as a society, have enough things and that it is a problem.

But then… there are so many nice things made, by lovely brands and friends… We love to see there are still many interesting things being made and sold. Things of real quality and intention. This list is something like that. Or at least those things Christoph and myself are getting excited about. It’s our way of loving things without needing to own them (ok, maybe some things we actually do need…). You can have a look. You may appreciate it. You may even understand why someone made this particular belt or coat or book. You can even buy it, if you actually need it. With need being subjective: replacing something broken, completing a collection, it being a thing that you think about for six months and it still means something. This isn’t the need: the algorithm showed me, I pay for it with minimum clicks and never look at it again.

Here’s the paradox: we’re about to recommend 60+ objects while advocating you buy less. We’re working on pushing more stuff into the world ourselves, brands we’re working for, the collaborations we’re about to launch, things we’re building. We’re far from perfect. I think we’re pretty good at creating desire, actually. It’s what we do. So what gives us the right? Nothing. That’s the point. We’re not standing outside the system pointing in. We’re in it, loving it and questioning it simultaneously. The anti-capitalist who makes beautiful things that cost money. The post-growth advocate with a studio full of stuff. Or as a good friend of mine always says: Something something the duality of man…

This guide isn’t permission. It’s not absolution through curation. It’s an honest catalog of tension: between wanting less and loving more, between critique and complicity, between the world as it is and the world we’d prefer. Buy less. But if you buy, buy this.

The list itself tells the story. Japanese matcha in recyclable tins. An enamel sign that says ‘Go Slow’, your call to find craft in the task at hand. A physical habit tracker called Nudge Counter because maybe not everything needs an app. The Internet Phone Book, a printed directory of personal websites as antidote to algorithmic feeds. Handmade oyster plates and this crazy incense. Initialled pendants cast in heavy metal. A book of insects from a faraway galaxy.
Bags built to last decades, woven leather from Hereu, canvas from Tanner Krolle, technical gear from Raide and Db. Clothing from makers who’ve abandoned seasonal drops: MAN-TLE’s fleece jackets with flat seams and bound edges, gnuhr’s powe hoodie, Auralee’s organic cotton barn coat and these brushed wool trousers by Cas Atlantic. A crochet hat handmade in Peru by female artisans, designed to be worn until it becomes you. The beautiful new perfume bottles from Abel and an Hermès scarf with artwork by our fav Viktor Hachmang because sometimes luxury is just choosing one perfect thing.
What connects them isn’t price point or aesthetic. It’s intention. Things made by people whose names you can find. Objects designed to age rather than date. Replacements for ten cheaper versions. The kind of stuff that makes you stop buying other stuff.

The full list + links is available on are.na. Enjoy!

The post Want less and love more appeared first on Another Something.

Exploring what it means to be bored in an age that relentlessly monetizes our attention, together with LMNOP and Martijn Ros, Joachim developed six distinct lenses to examine boredom from multiple perspectives. For which then Wisse Ankersmit, Jorn Bartelema, Mark Hinch and Christoph were invited to reflect on each of these lenses through original contributions.

The magazine is available for purchase [here]. Joachim’s introduction and Christoph’s essay are included below.

FORWORD
The Power and Necessity of Boredom in 2025

A Personal Note on Boredom
I can’t remember the last time I was bored. My days are carefully packed, like a game of Tetris—every idle moment filled, every trip and holiday meticulously planned. I like to be in control, to know what’s next, where we’re going, what we’re doing. It keeps things efficient and predictable. But working as guest curator on this issue of Zeitgeist, I’ve come to realise just how much I’ve been missing out. And maybe—even more provocatively—how boring this whole capitalist Tetris game actually is.

This issue is, in many ways, a confrontation with myself. It’s made me reconsider my relationship with boredom and what its absence really means—creatively, emotionally, and intellectually. I see now that boredom, in all its forms, is not just inevitable, but essential. Especially in an age of hyper-optimisation and the rise of AI, where machines can generate and automate so much, our uniquely human capacity to idle, reflect, and imagine might just be our greatest advantage.

Six Lenses of Boredom
Prompted by that realisation, we decided to explore boredom through six interwoven lenses—each revealing a different facet of how it shapes our lives today. These perspectives don’t stand alone; they form a composite portrait of boredom in our culture, our habits, and our technology—deeply embedded in the zeitgeist.

We looked at how boredom can be something we deliberately choose (as a verb): a conscious slowing down, a pause we allow ourselves to create space for something new. At other times, we find ourselves at its mercy (as a victim), caught in a restlessness that signals misalignment or emotional fatigue. Then there are those moments when boredom becomes something we actively seek (as a state), a rare and necessary emptiness in a world overflowing with input. Increasingly, boredom is also emerging as a form of quiet resistance (as a movement)—a rejection of burnout culture, a refusal to be constantly optimised. At the same time, we acknowledged how, for some, boredom is a fleeting luxury (as a privilege), while for others it’s virtually unthinkable in the constant noise of daily survival (the absence of boredom).

These six lenses largely emerged from the relatively safe, creative space we work in. We’re aware there are forms of boredom that are far more destructive—mentally wearing, socially destabilising, and emotionally numbing. Boredom that isolates and disempowers. In this issue, we chose to focus on our own lived experience—and we acknowledge that it comes from a limited, and often privileged, point of view.

Taken together, these perspectives remind us that boredom isn’t one thing. It’s a spectrum, a signal, a space. And maybe—just maybe—it’s something we all need a little more of.

A More Interesting Life
Ultimately, the value of boredom lies in its power to make us more interesting people. When we embrace boredom, we become more attuned to our inner lives. We cultivate curiosity, imagination, and depth. We learn to find beauty in stillness, joy in creation, and meaning in the mundane. In a world that often feels overwhelming and superficial, boredom offers a path to authenticity—a way to reconnect with ourselves and the world around us.

In 2025, as we navigate the complexities of a hyperconnected, overstimulated society, boredom is not a relic of the past—it’s a resource for the future. It reminds us that sometimes, the most important thing we can do is nothing at all. By carving out space for boredom, we unlock the infinite potential of our own minds—and with it, new forms of creativity, resilience, and meaning.

Thank you to all the incredible creatives, artists, writers, thinkers, and contributors from around the world who added their voices, images, ideas, and imagination to this issue of Zeitgeist. Your boredom has become our inspiration.

— Joachim Baan

INTO THE NOISE
(OBSERVATIONS ON THE ABSENCE OF BOREDOM)

In Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World, boredom has been systematically eradicated. With soma, the perfect happiness drug, citizens are kept in a state of constant stimulation and contentment. Pain, longing, introspection—those volatile, deeply human things—have been swapped out for pleasure on demand. What’s lost, of course, isn’t just suffering, but the very structure that allows for growth, resistance, and any meaningful sense of self.

Our current world increasingly resembles Brave New World—not through pills, but through platforms. These algorithmic (social) media are our digital soma—offering us bite-sized joy, fed through a straw. Infinite doomscrolls, sequenced dopamine, curated glimpses of other people’s performative shiny moments. It doesn’t just entertain—it anesthetizes. It wraps your brain in bubble wrap and hums a catchy little tune—something you’ve heard before, but you can’t remember when and where—while your deeper thoughts simply evaporate.

This is the world that the great Adam Curtis describes in HyperNormalisation: a society where everything is so mediated and so complicated that we stop seeing the seams. We live in a blur of carefully constructed content—endless news cycles, filtered “reality,” slick, glowing distractions. The illusion of stability becomes the truth we accept. It feels normal, even as it erodes our sense of agency and real connection. We keep scrolling because it’s what we’ve been trained to do. We’re told to look for meaning in each flickering image, but in the end, it’s just noise.

This noise, this constructed reality, is what one of my favourite writers and thinkers about contemporary culture, Kyle Chayka, calls the “filterworld”. In the filterworld, we exist in a bubble, an environment shaped entirely by an ever-growing web of invisible algorithms that govern our experience online. It’s not a random stream of information—it’s a curated, finely-tuned cascade of images, ideas, and advertisements designed to keep us engaged, distracted, and docile. Our every click is tracked, our every preference noted, creating a virtual world that reflects, reinforces, and often distorts our desires. We no longer stumble across ideas or faces by chance; instead, we’re guided through a maze of ever-more-precise inputs that deliver exactly what we think we want—or rather, what the algorithms know we want.

Joshua Citarella’s remarkable work on digital communities and ideological subcultures taps into a similar dynamic, researching deep into the context of the filterworld—the dark corners of our algorithmically-curated, digitized environment. Citarella highlights how social media platforms have not only become spaces for entertainment but have also created hyper-engaged, often polarized, ideological bubbles. These bubbles thrive on constant participation and performance, much like the panoptic system, where individuals are not only watching others but are also watched by others, especially within these digital communities.

In Citarella’s analysis, platforms encourage us to curate our identities—we are constantly presenting and editing versions of ourselves, knowing that others are observing, judging, and responding. Just like in the panopticon, we are self-policing. The performance of our identity becomes a constant feedback loop: we perform for likes, comments, and followers, constantly aware of our visibility. The gaze of the other—whether a community, an algorithm, or an audience—is internalized, shaping how we present ourselves. In effect, we become our own surveillants, continuously optimizing our digital presence.

And here, like a thread pulled through the fabric of our digital lives, The Godfather of Digital Thinking; Jean Baudrillard’s work emerges, intertwining the concepts of surveillance and the quiet dance of self-regulation. Baudrillard’s interpretation of Michel Foucault’s panopticon concept is crucial for understanding the dynamics at play in the digital world. It personally also reminds me of the Radboud University Nijmegen Library, that has (or maybe had at this point) a cafetaria above and between the two large reading halls, where I spent many study breaks with my dear friend Henk to observe the studying crowd and establish in what stage our hangover was in—but that is a completely different story.

Baudrillard describes how, in a society dominated by surveillance, individuals no longer need an external authority to regulate them. Instead, we internalize the gaze of the state, the institution, or the system that watches us. In a digital age, the algorithms themselves become this gaze, invisible yet omnipresent. They curate our experiences, nudging us toward certain behaviors, reactions, and thoughts. Much like the panopticon’s ability to manipulate behavior through constant surveillance, the filterworld manipulates behavior by constantly presenting us with controlled stimuli, pushing us toward predefined responses.

Citarella’s work on digital subcultures aligns with Baudrillard’s panopticon, despite being written in different stages of the digitalization process. Both theorists highlight how technology has turned us into self-surveilling beings. Citarella observes the fracturing of identity within online spaces and how individuals perform in ways that fit within narrow, algorithmically-defined niches. These digital spaces, powered by social media and its algorithms, function much like the panopticon, creating conditions in which individuals feel compelled to perform, conform, and be watched. The constant feedback loop of likes, follows, and shares reinforces this dynamic, just as the panopticon’s invisible gaze encourages self-regulation.

Even though Baudrillard’s reflections on the panopticon were written long before the age of social media, they feel remarkably prescient in this new digital context. The filterworld is not just a place where we consume content but also where we construct and project our identities for the world to see—constantly aware that we are being observed and evaluated. The space where individuals are “watched” becomes the space in which they watch themselves. This mirrors Baudrillard’s concept of self-regulation through surveillance, suggesting that even though these ideas come from different digital eras, their core observation remains startlingly similar: technology has restructured society to the point where we no longer need outside forces to control us. We do it to ourselves.

And yet, in this constant state of performance, we’ve quietly erased the conditions under which real thought might emerge. Because boredom—good, honest, uncomfortable boredom—is not failure. It’s a starting point. The slow atmosphere where half-ideas bump into each other and weird, beautiful things happen. It’s where existential questions seep through the cracks of everyday life. It’s where you stop asking “what should I post?” and start asking “what do I believe, truly?”

This space—the one where you don’t have to be anything or anyone—is vanishing. One estimate making the rounds claims that by 2030, 90% of online content could be generated by artificial intelligence. Nearly everything. Machine-fed, frictionless, soothing. Content incapable of challenging. Strictly created to charm. We’ll be cocooned in content. Gently suffocated by it. We are entering a world where content will be engineered to keep us at a constant state of consumption—or the anxiety that precedes it—constantly seeking validation without even realizing we’ve stopped creating.

Pop music, too, has become something entirely different today. What was once the domain of maturing counter-cultures and blooming niches is now drained of its energy as it is completely absorbed and commodified. Major festivals have become un-curated spectacles of different genres and styles, endless iterations of what was once novel, now flattened into a cycle of “album campaigns.” Hit songs, instead of reverberating with lasting influence, are reduced to brief sparks of global attention, consumed and discarded in rapid succession. Nothing sticks long enough to make real, lasting change. Pop culture has become a salesman of traction, instead of the potential mind-shifter it once was. Nothing stands out. It’s all noise.

But in this new reality, Citarella’s exploration of radicalization feels especially true. As we fill our digital worlds with distractions, we stop questioning how we got here. In the constant noise, the self is erased—not by some tyrannical force, but by our own increasing need to be fed. The radical fragmentation of communities online has eroded collective thinking, and it’s leaving us with little more than a series of hyper-individualized, emotionally charged bubbles. And most of us don’t even realize it’s happening.

Josh Harris, an early internet pioneer turned artist and creator of Quiet: We Live in Public, warned of a “fractured brain”—a state where the self is split between public performance and private interior, until even that private space is colonized by performance. His experiment in total surveillance eerily foreshadowed our present: a world where even solitude must be performed to feel real.

Adam Curtis, in his Can’t Get You Out of My Head, in similar fashion explores how the increasingly complicated and mediated world of the 21st century has similarly fractured our sense of self. Curtis suggests that the dizzying mix of media, political manipulation, and technological control has left us with a fractured and disillusioned psyche—unable to find our bearings amidst the noise. We’re pulled in so many different directions, unable to make sense of our reality, our identities, or even our thoughts, just as Harris warned: the fracture becomes not just an individual experience, but a collective one.

In this world, ironically so, prison may be the last refuge for reflection. Cut off from the constant noise of digital life, the incarcerated might inherit the last fragments of stillness. The one place the filterworld doesn’t completely influence. Their isolation may be the final, rare opportunity to experience boredom in its truest form—not curated or manipulated by an unseen algorithm. In that silence, free from the constant pressure to perform or consume, real thought might begin to stir again. The punishment becomes a blessing. While society at large is captured by invisible forces.

Huxley feared a world lulled into apathy by pleasure. But maybe, in a world so thoroughly distracted, so comfortably numb, we’ve lost something far worse: the ability to simply be. To exist without performing.

Boredom, long dismissed as a useless ache, now reveals itself as a radical act—a last, precious space where we don’t need to refine ourselves. We don’t need to prove we’re happy. We don’t need to be anyone but us.

So maybe the question isn’t anymore: how do we avoid boredom?
Maybe it’s: how do we save it?

Because in boredom, we might finally become real again—unfiltered, uncurated, not for the algorithm, not for the external gaze.

And in that silence, we might still find the universal truth of what it means to truly be.

— Christoph van Veghel

The post Bored appeared first on Another Something.

Together with Keith White, San Ming, Thomas Moody, and the Schokker family, we curated a small yet meaningful exhibition that offers a rare overview of his sculptural practice. Alongside it, we created a publication and a companion website to shed light on his remarkable story and body of work—much of which has quietly endured outside the spotlight. The exhibition is still open (by appointment only) to see in Amsterdam.

After the click, you’ll find an intimate interview Christoph had with Theodor, offering insight into the making of a singular artist—and the man behind the metal and stone.

Hello Theodor, thank you for receiving me here in your studio in Amsterdam.

You are welcome.

Let’s go back to the very beginning. What are your earliest memories of your childhood?

It was a good, carefree time. I grew up in the Staatsliedenbuurt, which was then called the “Koperknoopbuurt” — the “copper button neighborhood” — because so many civil servants lived there. And they wore those buttons. My father had steady work — which wasn’t something to take for granted back then. My mother also worked outside the home at one point. We never really lacked anything. So yes, it was quite a carefree time for me as a child.

Did your parents have any ideological interests?

Yes, they were socialists, and therefore other socialists would also visit our home regularly. And as a child, you’d just be there for those conversations. You’d look around and listen. That’s how you’re shaped, really, by what you see and what you take in. You hear from your parents what’s right and wrong. That’s really where your first encounter with those ideas happens — with the language and the thinking. The identity of the proletariat was presented as a given. And capital — that was the opposing force, the one that exploits.
You’d also read about it in the papers we were subscribed to. That was still possible back then; there was no censorship yet. You could read De Waarheid, or De Vrije Socialist.
From 1940 on, when the war began, it all became forbidden. Just like how wearing the yellow star was forced upon people — everyone was being put in their place.

How did you perceive that downward spiral?

As a kid, I was also curious about what was happening. You sensed: these are things you’ll need to understand later in life.

So, you were open to what was going on in the world around you?

Yes, I was. The Staatsliedenbuurt was similar to the Kinkerbuurt or the Dapperbuurt. I mean, working-class people dominated it. And that, of course, was also a source of information. Everyone was more or less in the same situation, so we would share amongst us what was going on.

Then the Hunger Winter began. Do you have specific memories of that time?

Yes, it happened gradually. There was less and less food. My mother would go out on her bicycle to look for food. She would head out with neighbors — into the countryside, into North Holland, to see if they could find anything.
What I remember myself, I wandered the city with friends. Sometimes a baker’s cart would be raided for bread.
There’s one moment I remember very clearly. It was the end of the day, everyone had gone home. I was walking alone through the city. And in the Willemstraat, I saw something lying in the gutter. An onion. I remember it exactly. I picked it up and brought it home. My mother cooked that onion. And that was our dinner.
It was six o’clock — dinner time. We had nothing — just that one onion. And what struck me so deeply: we had an acquaintance who wandered the streets. He’d go from one household to the next, asking if anyone had anything to eat. So he came to us too.
My mother had cooked that onion on an emergency stove. We were sitting at the table, my parents, my little sister, and me. Everyone got a quarter of that onion.
And that acquaintance saw how a little piece of onion skin fell off. He looked at it and he asked me: “Can I have that piece of skin?”
That was such a moment of total desperation. Even today, it still hits me hard. It’s a very deep memory.

You really registered that, even as a child?

Yes. That someone had so little, that they asked for a bit of onion skin… Nowadays you’d just throw it away. But back then…
And I didn’t give it to him, because we were extremely hungry too. Everyone had their share of that one onion. It’s almost unimaginable now, within the framework of today, how literal the shortage of food was back then.

And that helps you really understand what hunger means — also in today’s world?

Yes, absolutely. In Palestine, for example. If you have known it, you can truly feel that.

You also left Amsterdam for a while during the Hunger Winter.

Yes. My sister went to Drenthe, to Assen, to a foster family. And I went to Groningen, to Appingedam, to foster parents. I was very well taken care of there. I have very good memories of that. I also kept seeing them after the war.

To leave Amsterdam, as a child, that must have been frightening?

Yes, maybe. But the message was clear, there things were better. There would be more food. Our parents told us, you’re going to the farmers. That kind of message also circulated in the neighborhood — everyone knew it was happening. So, I knew, we’re going to the farms. There would be more food there. But in the end, I didn’t end up on a farm. I went to Piet Buurma’s family, who was a spray painter.

And that’s where you spent the winter, so to speak?

Yes, until the winter was over.

Right up until the end of the war?

Yes. My parents picked me up again after that. What I still remember well — maybe I already mentioned it — is that at one point we were walking down the Damrak. The weather was beautiful, I remember that very clearly, because we were liberated. And there was someone squatting in the middle of the street, with a pot of kale. How he got it, I don’t know — maybe through the public kitchens — but there he was, just sitting in the street, squatting, eating kale. And as a child, you see that. Because it’s so unusual, it sticks. That image has always stayed with me.

And after that, you went back to school? What was that postwar time like?

Yes, gradually you went back to school. I don’t really remember exactly how that happened. But what I do remember: sometimes a little dish would be brought out — extra food or rations. But not everyone got that.
The teacher barely had any food himself. Every day, one child — a different one each day — would get that dish.

Yes, it is often forgotten that the postwar years were also full of poverty.

Yes, definitely. For many people, it stayed that way for a long time. There were huge shortages, there was still poverty. Even employment — for workers, but also for women — had to slowly get going again. Everyone had to find their place again.

And your parents? Did they remain ideologically tied to socialist ideas? Maybe more than ever?

Yes, that actually became more visible. My parents read De Vrije Socialist. I remember that I delivered papers too, on the Jacob Catskade. Later, everything became more free again. Papers like De Waarheid and Het Parool came back into the open. What had gone underground during the war became visible again.

And the struggle of the working class simply continued?

Yes, definitely. My parents immediately joined the EVC — the Unified Trade Union Federation. That group also worked again with other trade unions. That whole worker’s network became visible again, and also more accepted. And the same went for socialist thought.

How did your adult life begin? What came after primary school?

I hadn’t fully finished sixth grade during the war. So after, I completed it. And then a seventh year was added as well.

And after that?

Then I went to the MULO. That was unusual, because normally you’d go straight to MULO after sixth grade. But of course, these were wartime years. So maybe that seventh year was also meant as some kind of preparation. The MULO was a secondary school that followed primary education. You had the ULO — “extended primary education” — and the MULO was a more advanced version of that. The ULO lasted three years, the MULO four. A bit more theoretical, with more depth.

What did you do after that?

I started working. I learned welding — not at school, but at a company.

Which company was that?

At Eland Brand, a metalworking company on the Elandsgracht. They also had a branch in Amsterdam-Noord. One day I was walking through the city with my mother and she said, “You should start working now.” We walked past that company, and there was a sign saying they were looking for someone for metalwork. She said, “Go work there, it’s close by.” But yeah, I had to go to Asterweg in the North of Amsterdam — that was actually quite far.

By bike?

Yes, by bike. And sometimes you’d get a flat tire along the way.

What was it like for you to start working?

I probably had a technical knack from a young age. I made a good impression on the supervisors, precisely because of those skills. I got that from my father too. I just naturally took to metalwork.

You developed further as a person there?

Yes, absolutely. And looking back, that work
really laid the groundwork for my later art. You could say it was almost a kind of prelude. It really contributed to my artistic development.

What did that do for you? Did the work also make you more independent? Did you feel: I want to chart my own course?

No, I didn’t feel that way at first. In the beginning, you just worked. You earned some money, shared it with your family, and you did what you could. But later, I really started to develop more of a mind of my own. Thanks to people around me who were involved in art. They encouraged me and said: “You should join that art group.” Or, “Become a member there.”

They inspired you?

Yes, exactly. And that’s how I eventually got involved with the government’s Artists’ Grant Scheme.

You were encouraged to go that route?

Yes, that’s how I started down that path.

Can you mention a specific influence, movement, or person that inspired you?

Nothing in particular. I know I just had the urge to start exploring this interest.

You started your family fairly soon too?

Yes. During that time, I was mainly focused on work. On developing myself in metalwork. And indeed, the family came fairly quickly. Life just carried on. And slowly art presented itself as something that I was interested in.

Could you elaborate on the role of the acquaintances in your first encounters with art?

Colleagues of mine started talking about art. And it was during that time they urged me to join certain art groups, which put everything in motion. It opened up my world to what art is and what it could be.
And that’s how I started. First at home, in the attic, I made my first pieces.

It all started at home?

Yes, in the attic. And thanks to those acquaintances, I learned that you could submit work through the city. They would review it. And fortunately, they bought something from me right away.
That didn’t just bring recognition, but also financial breathing space.

That made further development possible?

Exactly. Those purchases allowed me to continue. Later, the Visual Arts Scheme (Beeldende Kunstregeling) came along too — that gave me the space to really work as an artist.

And those schemes, like the BKR — were they, in a way, also a kind of right that you believed in? That as a citizen, one was entitled to them?

Yes, you’re right about that. In a sense, it was also acknowledged by the municipality. They opened certain opportunities — including that wing of the Stedelijk Museum, which no longer exists — to exhibit work there.

The Stedelijk Museum also bought work from artists through the BKR?

Yes, they bought some of my work. How did they come across it? Well, the municipality organized exhibitions, including in that new wing of the Stedelijk. From there, they purchased pieces — mine and others’.

What did it mean to you that the Stedelijk acquired your work?

It gave me the opportunity to create new work again, so yes — I was very pleased.

You also continued to exhibit during those years — within associations, and wherever else it was possible?

Yes, definitely.

the late ’70s you also became increasingly active in protests. Alongside that, did you feel a drive to say something about the Netherlands through your art?

No. My activism was mostly reflected in my memberships in certain associations. Not in my art directly. I had this idea that what I find beautiful, the viewer might also find beautiful.

A kind of enriching motivation, then?

Yes, exactly what you said.

Do you remember when you first used the term physioplastic for your practice?

I don’t know when I first used it, and it only applies to those pieces where I try to depict something that, in a way, isn’t really possible. Physioplastic means: “based on the observed.”
They are the works that evoke a feeling of “this shouldn’t really be possible.”

Your practice is a search between what is and isn’t possible? What “makes sense” and what doesn’t?

Yes, that’s pretty much what it’s aiming for.

A kind of alternative reality being suggested.

Yes. I’m trying to create form that makes people think: “Wow, that looks interesting. I’ve never seen that before.”

And if we talk about context again — we’re now in the late 1970s. Amsterdam has changed tremendously?

Yes, those were very turbulent years. Looking back, it was exciting to witness what was happening. Not only socially, but also in the art world. There was an enormous development — new artists emerging.
Older artists were being rediscovered. A whole group of artists came to light doing entirely new things. Classical art, in a way — which is also what I make, more or less — but then in new forms and approaches.

The different associations, social institutions, and circles you were part of — would you say that Amsterdam at that time, on a broad scale, had this immense drive to explore, and maybe even a broader interest in art?

Provo, the Lieverdje, all that — there was so much going on. The “anti-smoking magician” and things like that. It was also still the tail end of the hippie era. Everything was allowed again, in a way. There was more tolerance — the police didn’t beat you up for everything anymore. Let’s put it this way: society was becoming more democratic. And it couldn’t really be stopped anymore, you know?

But many of those protest movements were of a younger generation than you, right?

Yes, but you felt it across the entire city. It went through all the generations.

If we zoom in again on those associations — especially the BBK — you fairly quickly took on a kind of leadership role there. Did that add an extra dimension to your art practice? Or maybe to the socially engaged spirit of the time?

Yes, more the second one. It was mainly focused on the artist’s income. That’s been a struggle throughout the centuries.
That’s what attracted me, of course. The social aspect. But I also got that from home. It carried through. I already had that when I was in metalwork, in terms of being part of unions.

The insights and experiences you had — did they have any impact on the moments you created art? What you wanted to show as an artist?

Well, I did look around me in those times. I saw what was happening, both culturally and socially. But I can’t say it consciously influenced my art. I didn’t paint a Guernica. So, in that sense, my art practice was done in isolation.

There is no direct connection at all between your activism — for instance, as chairman of the BBK.

No, in my experience those things were completely separate.

How do you look back at the 1980s in terms of your art practice?

At a certain point, I withdrew more. I still made work, but it became less public.

A lot of things declined in the 1980’s. Fewer exhibitions. I still made works, like any artist, but it remained in the studio.

Perhaps that also reflects the changing sentiment — the energy of the 1970s slowly fading during the 1980s?

That sense of freedom, experimentation, did disappear. And now, of course, it’s completely gone. But it already started back then, especially with the recession in the 1980s. That’s when today’s form of capitalism really began, I think.
Starting in the ’80s there’s been a trajectory that continues to this day. Capitalism doesn’t stop at exploitation — it’s built on it. And that’s never changed.

Have you seen changes in the city in the decades since?

Yes, on different levels. First in traffic — that’s a whole topic on its own. But also violence has increased. And tensions among the population.

You mean that social cohesion declined?

Yes, I think so. You used to see that through associations or neighborhood groups — there was still work being done on the human aspect. That’s diminished.

We live in individualistic times. And in that light, it’s all the more interesting how your artistry came out of a social network, a connected community. That atmosphere where people found each other and created things together… it stands in contrast with now, where you’re mainly encouraged to do it all alone as an artist, without being overly connected to what’s happening around you.

Yes, I agree.

Stone eventually entered your practice, next to aluminum. Do you remember when that was?

That was much later, about 20 years ago. So actually quite recently. Through an architect I got in touch with a stone workshop. He said: “You should go check that out.”

Looking at those most recent works — with the last works dated to 2016— you’ve essentially always continued making?

Yes. Until I no longer had the technical means or the space. If I still had those, I’d probably still be working—even now, sitting here with you.

That maybe also says something about the development of the city — that it became increasingly difficult to find a place.

That’s always been the case. But in my time, people still put up a fight for it. Now it’s become a personal matter.

When that ending came, did it take on a different meaning, or did you look back differently?

No. The guiding principle of my work has always been technically connected to my workspace. If I can’t work anymore, it stops. The end had no symbolic meaning for me. It was just: I can’t create work anymore.

So, if you’d still been able to, you would’ve kept going?

Yes, definitely.

And when you look back like this, do you see anything over the years? Do these different phases of your life bring back memories? Do you see certain developments?

Yes, I do. It helps you to put things into perspective, to bring them together. I do see developments, but what I’ve always wanted to do is make things — physioplastic work. Constructing objects you don’t see in everyday life. That’s basically what I’ve always done.

So, there’s no real desire to see the work as a kind of summary of a life phase?

Not really. Look, I started somewhere, and at a certain point I got the idea to start making other things. Where that impulse came from exactly, I don’t know.

The work doesn’t really take you back to the time in which it was made?

No, not really. For me, they are objects that stand on their own. They are separate from the time in which they were created.

No reflection of society?

Nor of my personal life. I can’t say that a better or worse income, or certain events, had any influence on the work. They stand on their own.

You wouldn’t have done anything differently?

No. I know plenty of artists who switched to something. I didn’t, and I wouldn’t. This is where I ended up in my art practice.

This is what you had to say, in this way?

Yes, this is it.

In many ways, it feels that it was meant to be like this, in terms of your work. It represents a sense of certainty.

Yes, I feel fully connected to it. But I can’t predict how it might have gone differently. I already said, it’s impossible to say how the development would’ve
continued if I still had a studio.

No, and maybe that’s the interesting part — that the development and growth has now, in a physical sense, come to a stop. But perhaps it’s up to this “body” of work to continue evolving on its own. Even beyond your lifetime.

The body of work will carry on, yes — because my own body won’t be able to anymore.

—
Interview conducted on April 28, 2025 in the artist’s studio. 
This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.

The post Theodor Schokker appeared first on Another Something.

I work with many fashion brands, and every time the conversation turns to how a product or brand is “better,” more responsible, more sustainable, even circular, I always say, the only thing it is, is less harmful. But harmful it still is. That may sound like nuance, but it is actually a fundamental difference. As long as we keep talking in terms of “better buying,” we preserve the idea that buying itself is fine, that the only question is how, not if.

The tricky part is, I am part of the system too. I love beautiful things. I wear pieces made with thought and care, things that last. But even then, who gets to decide if that is really “good”? During a conversation with a friend, I caught myself saying, “If people just bought one well-made item every now and then, they’d save money in the long run compared to endless Primark runs.” But that is a privileged perspective.

So how do we talk honestly about consuming less, without judging people or sounding superior? How do we show that even platforms pretending to offer sustainable alternatives, like Vinted, still push people toward more buying, more desire, more noise, more dopamine?

As Reint Jan Renes argues, this is not a failure of individual willpower, but a systemic problem. And the real ethical question is this: when do we call something “good” behavior? When it fits within the system that is making us sick, or when it dares to challenge that system?

Alec Leach’s The World is on Fire but We’re Still Buying Shoes exposes that uncomfortable truth. The issue is not that we don’t know what’s happening. It’s that even while the world is literally on fire, we still seek comfort in something new, something pretty, something for ourselves. Because that is how capitalism works. Because it soothes our craving for dopamine. Because it numbs us, just a little. And honestly, who can blame us, in a world where everything around us screams that buying equals existing?

To challenge this, we need a different language. A language that doesn’t speak in terms of green growth or responsible shopping, but in words like enough, slowness, reuse, sharing, revaluing. Maybe those are the first steps. Taxing returns. Don’t open shops for 7 days a week. Banning algorithms that push us into yet another purchase. But above all, we need an honest conversation about the fact that what we often call “good” is really just what feels comfortable, not what is right.

Maybe it’s time for an ethic where not doing has more value than doing. Where not buying something becomes an act of care, for yourself, for others, and for whatever might still be left.

And really, keep this in mind – as Soulwax recently put it, flashing the words during live shows and across billboards in Paris and London: ALL SYSTEMS ARE LYING.

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In earlier stages of his career, Bart’s mentality led him to become a partner in a high-end menswear boutique in his adopted hometown of The Hague at a young age (21)—a venture that came to an unfortunate end due to bankruptcy. After that, he worked several jobs in fashion, varying from design to branding. Eventually, his Steiner-trained mindset landed him, seemingly out of the blue, a senior marketing role at a major corporation during the pandemic. While working part-time in that role, he began laying the foundation for what would become JANYAN. He wanted to explore a modern interpretation of the traditional man’s wardrobe, on a small and personal scale. In the beginning, most of his time and savings were spent on traveling and prototyping. Knowing his designs fully rely on their skill, it felt crucial to build direct relationships with the (near-extinct) workshops that still master the old crafts. Step by step, the brand took shape, working toward the launch that took place at the end of last year, debuting his first collection in a month-long pop-up concept in The Hague, which was succeeded by a temporary showroom in London.

Now, as he slowly expands the brand’s universe, his Steiner education continues to shine through in every aspect of the operation. On the creative side, he’s a self-taught designer who sourced all fabrics and manufacturers himself. Literally by knocking on doors in countries like Romania, Italy, and the Netherlands. He also does nearly all the brand’s photography himself. Simultaneously, he’s exploring the business model entirely on his own terms—not by following the beaten track, but by deliberately maintaining an intuitive approach. There’s plenty of debate about whether Waldorf education truly prepares one for life in Western late-stage capitalism. In our eyes, Bart is a perfect example that unshakable self-belief and an inherent inventiveness to realize your vision are vital entrepreneurial traits. Those, without a doubt, are direct results of the Steiner way.

Bart has a clear philosophy for his brand, where everything revolves around the concept of a “one-meter wardrobe”—a curated selection of garments that cater to all seasons and occasions. This modular approach emphasizes versatility and simplicity, allowing individuals to build a cohesive wardrobe with minimal pieces. JANYAN’s designs are characterized by clean lines, spacious silhouettes, and a focus on functionality. Garments feature half-raglan constructions for ease of movement while maintaining a refined appearance. Natural materials sourced from Europe’s heritage suppliers ensure both quality and sustainability.

The brand offers both ready-to-wear and made-to-measure, with the first sets of clothing ranging from exquisite merino-mohair tailoring and fine leather goods to boxy Goodyear-welted leather mules and shoes, and even an excellent model of glasses. Each piece is crafted with great attention to detail in different parts of Europe, reflecting his deep love for and commitment to traditional craftsmanship infused with modern sensibility.

In essence, JANYAN presents a refined, minimalist approach to menswear—evocative of Lemaire and Auralee, but with more pronounced lines and a boldness resulting from its silhouettes and, more so, his choice of fabrics. Even now, with only the first designs public, the brand exhibits the kind of idiosyncrasies that will continue to make it stand out. And as Bart charts his own path to the very end (there is no other way, to quote him directly) we feel the only way is up: for JANYAN and its inevitable worldwide stage, far beyond the Netherlands (the brand being “un-Netherlandishly good,” as they like to say here).

Here are some of things we talked about >

The overcoat from the debut collection really caught our eye. What’s the story behind it?

I had a Mac from my grandfather straight front, raglan back. Lots of freedom of movement, but still clean. That coat was my starting point, trying to find a modern take on that cut and construction set the foundation for JANYAN.

And it’s remained unchanged since then?

Yeah, this is the base coat. The whole execution is really old-school tailoring—cupro lined, finished with horn buttons—but raglan at the back.

It looks really good.

The half raglan really works. Raglan is a typical utilitarian feature, invented in the army. Mixing that with traditional tailoring—it’s the clash of JAN and YAN. I’m always looking for some kind of contrast. And I’m not talking about a quirky red button or something, but I like it when a sharp cut can feel spacious too, or when something very fine can still be bold and lasting.

So, that also influenced making raglan your signature?

In some cases –or in most– you land on a design standard by accident, or through restriction. Money was tight, and making garment variants on existing patterns is cheaper than creating a whole new garment. So— as I already had the coat, that half-raglan construction was applied to all tops, which then became a signature feature in my range. Even the poplin shirts have a half-raglan shoulder. It makes for a nice rounded silhouette.

It is quite an androgynous silhouette too.

Yeah, the raglan allows some flexibility in sizing, which helps if you sell to both men and women. But there is also the option to have it made to measure, select custom fabrics, change the construction. In principle, anything’s possible for our clients. To a certain extent, of course—my limit is: I still have to like it myself.

How did you go about finding your supply chain for JANYAN?

It’s a rather closed world—especially the traditional craft workshops, which are hard to find. They’re often too small to present at fairs or trade shows, and they’re not very active online, so you need a way in. A lot of brands work through production agents, but I wanted to visit the workshops myself. So I spent a lot of time traveling, visiting workshops or their suppliers, and then asking if they could refer me.

That makes sense.

It was very difficult to find a leather goods partner, for instance. I wanted to work in the Veneto region, known for its ancient leather-crafts heritage. I was too small for the big manufacturers, but the artisan ateliers were hard to find and not easy to approach— craftsmen don’t do email. So, instead of searching workshops, I decided to visit the tanneries. One was so kind as to introduce me to a friend, a local master, taking small orders via via.

Some weeks later I had my first prototypes of the Lobby bag. So, that’s a tip from me: if you can’t find the workshop, try going through the material suppliers, much easier to approach. Via production-agents I would have gotten it much faster. But doing it this way really makes the project worth it. You learn so much about crafts, culture, and about food too! Want to know where to eat? Ask the workers.

Do you produce mostly in Italy?

Italy is great for many reasons, but let me endorse Eastern Europe for a moment. In the 90s, a lot of Italian manufacturers moved there – yes, a lot of ‘Made in Italy’ is from Romania – which led to this perfect clash of Soviet-roughness and Italian craftsmanship. That is perfect! And there is a down-to-earthness that is uncomparably easy to work with. And Bucharest is great too. But yes, most of the partners I work with are in Italy, mainly in the North.

How is it to run a brand from The Netherlands?

I often get the comment that JANYAN feels un-Dutch, haha! The fact that this a compliment perfectly explains how we, in Dutch fashion, tend to look up to the world and look down on ourselves. You see it in food too, and in cinema. But, that is changing. A lot of nice things are happening, and I am trying to be part of it.

So, do you consider it a Dutch brand?

The brand turned out very sober, and functional, so that’s very Dutch. But it is also pricey and serious, which is sort of forbidden in Dutch culture. Right? Don’t be too serious! Be FUN, HAHA! You might end up as the country’s prime minister for 14 years… I don’t know. It is very personal. I design for myself, and apart from the actual crafts, I do it all myself. I do my own photography, created a website, I designed this shop interior, this table, build it with my dad, who then also models in my campaigns.

You’ve kept it all to yourself for a while. At what point did you feel ready to start sharing things with the world?

Well, my initial ambition was to build the entire brand first—stealth mode—and then launch full force. But the longer you hold onto things, the harder it becomes to let go. That’s not ideal. So now, I’ve started sharing what’s ready, and I’m open to seeing where it takes me. I still believe it was the right call to create a full range first, rather than going live with just suits or shoes. It allowed me to showcase the complementary features from the beginning. But working toward that perfect starting point became a bit of an obsession—it started to feel forced. So last year’s pop-up was a good first kick-off.

You’re in it for the long term.

Exactly. But a few weeks before the launch, I still didn’t really want to do it.

But you did. Good call?

Yes! A good first weekend helped a lot too.

Your goal is to go as big as possible? Multiple stores—that’s the vision?

Well, let’s say that I am happy with the outcome of my designs. Now let’s see what I can do on the business-end of this project.

What were you doing in terms of sales before going live?

There was a little lookbook of the designs that I already had, and that just went around on WhatsApp. That’s how I built up some great relationships. There’s this woman who wears my clothes. When we first met, she said she loved the tailoring but wanted it in workwear fabrics too—for her job as a shepherd. Turns out, she’s the toughest person ever. She’s got 300 sheep out in the fields. Drives a white Toyota Land Cruiser. And she’s basically built an entire JANYAN wardrobe.

You were her personal tailor, in a way?

Yeah, the only thing she asked when she made her first purchase was: “You do repairs too, right?” At one point, she came back with a coat—she completely wore it apart! Unbelievable. And I had jeans at that point, a 17-ounce Japanese slub denim. And she wears it out, man. She destroys it. Amazing!

We are going to publish a film we made about her life in the fields, in full JANYAN. I also love the fact that it’s an authentic endorsement. I did not style her for a branded feature, we will capture her unique take on JANYAN.

It’s beautiful that you’ve built these first relationships, almost on an atelier level. And now it’s available for everyone. With lots more coming in the near future!

Yes, it’s great to be able to share everything we have now with the world, and I’m glad I could celebrate the launch with my friends and partners. Now it’s time to write the next chapter.

For everything JANYAN see here >

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