Even back then, there was already one of those Delft-blue tiles hanging above his desk that read: I don’t invest in friendships, but in expenses.
I am Madame Boissevin, and I belong to NORDEN whether there is a plus sign in the title or not. I had already made a fine pattern for a leather mask, specially for this issue. This could easily become the Knipmode for leathermen. I am, by origin, a seamstress, and I still have one of those old Singer hand-crank machines. It goes through anything. The thickest leather without hesitation, even if the client is still in it, so to speak.
I was therefore deeply offended to be told, quite casually via WhatsApp by Mister T., that there was really no place for a woman in this issue. Had he said that to my face, I would have taken my large fabric scissors, which I once stole from the atelier of Frans Molenaar, and in one swift motion cut that little tuft off his head. There would not have been much left of him.
What a dominant little man. No women… Pfff. I immediately pulled open all my drawers and produced an old perforated passport, still marked with an M for my sex, something I had corrected years ago. I will admit it hurt, but I am not about to be pushed off the platform by some cheerful train conductor.
At first I thought he was quite a pleasant man, patiently explaining to me what BLUF stands for. I only knew the term from literature: bottom line up front, though I no longer remember what that stood for either. It has been a long time since I studied Dutch for two months, back when computers were fed with pallets of punch cards. That rather gives away my age, which is not very proper for a lady, I know, but I am also quite upset.
Half of those leathermen are drooling over the Eurovision Song Contest and worship Willeke Alberti, Zangeres Zonder Naam, and a few other dusty relics, which to me looks suspiciously like imploded misogyny, but in this climate of compartments you won’t hear me say that out loud. When I spoke to him in person, he turned out to be more tolerable. He has a remarkably high-pitched voice, and with it he explained that BLUF stands for Breeches and Leather Uniform Fan Club, quickly adding that he himself was one of them. But, he added, I’m not that strict. I sometimes do a little joyful hop, and I think that should be allowed too.
Yes, I could picture that quite well. It suited that high voice, perhaps even better than a leather cap. No, give me Van der Kamp instead. He spends his entire day complaining that he already works a 36-hour week over the weekend alone, and that anyone with a smartphone is rapidly developing dementia. I don’t quite follow that last point. I just bought a Samson 14 or something like it from provider BEN, and I can do quite a lot with it. Especially for wireless phone calls with my vicious partner, it is very convenient. I had to call Ben himself a few times, but now I also know where the mute button is. Why it has to be called mute instead of silence, I do not understand, but I am not going to complain about buttons that actually work for once.
Ah well, that Van der Kamp is of course an asshole, I know that, but we both lived through the train hijacking at Wijster, and we shared the same general practitioner until he retired. That creates a bond. He is also easy to manipulate. He falls for anything that is a woman, as long as there is a penis attached. And deadlines are no problem either. I simply send in my piece when the magazine should already have been at the printer, and he grumbles something like: Good work, Boissevin. Then I am done with NORDEN again. A real publisher. He does not read a single word written by anyone else. I could easily write here that I intend to shoot him in the head on July 17, 2024, and it would not register at all. And there is no one to point it out to him either. Not because the magazine is not read, but because everyone secretly dislikes him.
I have known him longer, and I do understand it, in a way. Not that I excuse his behaviour, but he has his reasons. I still remember him from the time he was editor-in-chief of High Society and managed to bankrupt the magazine within a year. Even then, there was already one of those Delft-blue tiles hanging above his desk that read: I don’t invest in friendships, but in expenses.
That is how he truly saw it, I think. Friendships took too much time, and he never had time, because employees who disagreed with him were dismissed on the spot. Once, I ran into the entire design staff and art director on the staircase, carrying boxes of personal belongings. They could just about manage the courtesy of offering me their condolences for not being on the list. How is this supposed to continue, I asked him, somewhat in panic. “We don’t need designers anymore, because we now have desktop publishing!” he said. I had no idea what he was talking about at the time either, but the final issue of High Society was produced on the same computer he had proudly shown me earlier. The man was years ahead of developments in publishing by burdening the remaining staff with ten times the workload. Later editions of his magazines generated high profits. Back then he was a visionary, and now it works like this everywhere. If you are a cleaner at de Volkskrant, you are expected to write at least two columns and service the editor-in-chief orally without complaint.
Madame Boissevin
Part of the Madame Boissevin archive →