#foam amsterdam

[pikasus-artenews]

PAOLO CIRIO – AI Attacks/Attacchi Intelligenza

Nella mostra di Amsterdam Paolo Cirio si concentra sulle implicazioni sociali dei sistemi di intelligenza artificiale, dei modelli di intelligenza artificiale di apprendimento automatico e dell’uso dei dati

[czarkristoff]

To Destroy Is To Build (2019-ongoing) at Foam Fotografiemuseum in Amsterdam, September 15, 2022-January 18, 2023. 

Thanks to Bram Prins, Mirelva Berghout, Foam Talent 2022 fellows and everyone at Foam. Special thanks to TBD THC and Collecting Otherwise.

First photo by Christian van der Kooy.

[paradiseisinthemind]

FOAM Talent talks 2022

Photographers: Marwan Bassiouni, Myriam Boulos, Olgaç Bozalp, Laura Chen, Kata Geibl, Lina Geoushy, Marvel Harris, Alexandra Rose Howland, Ange-Frédéric Koffi, Czar Kristoff, Yushi Li, Carla Liesching, Seif Kousmate, Pavo Marinović, Diego Moreno, Donja Nasseri, Ghazaleh Rezaei, Linn Phyllis Seeger, Ritsch Sisters, Donavon Smallwood.

[thefutureexpat]

Amsterdam - FOAM

Mosebetsi wa Dirithi

[pixelgary]

Kathie @ FOAM Gallery, Amsterdam

[secondlifep]

A play on light and shadow.

Museum FOAM Amsterdam

[camillevanneerart]

resisting - charcoal | 20 x 12

[laviedebosso]

Lucky Me I Know The Game.

[fashionbooksmilano]

Paul Koikeer Fashion

Graphic Jurgen Maelfeit

Art Papers Editions, Gent 2023, 2000 copies, 288 pages, 18,4×24,2cm, ISBN 9789464660647

euro 58,00

email if you want to buy booksinprogressmilano@yahoo.it

“Fashion” is a concept that represents what is trending at the moment. Paul Kooiker’s fashion photography, on the other hand, is characterised by its timelessness. The artist portrays the biggest fashion brands and today’s most famous faces, but transports them to a world of their own. Disconnected from time and place, his surreal images feel like film stills with stories we can only guess.

His photography transcends classic gender roles: his models adopt unusual poses and their faces are often left out of frame, obscuring their identity. At times, it is not even clear whether the subject is human or a doll. In order to capture the extravagance of luxury objects, Kooiker magnifies its means of pre­sen­tation, like for example mannequins and displays, to such a degree that it is ultimately our desire itself that is captured by his camera.

Over the span of 10 chapters, he endeavors to articulate his perspective on fashion. This commissioned work, bearing the same title, was showcased prominently in a solo exhibition at the Museum Folkwang Essen in 2021 and at Foam Amsterdam in 2022.

23/12/23

[faerygardens]

List of things that have happened at twitchcon since some of y’all may not be on twitter

A lack of planning, security, and crowd control caused a massive bottleneck outside of the dsmp panel, putting guests at risk of crowd crush

The dsmp panel was being held in an extremely small room, despite the fact that the dsmp panel at twitchcon Amsterdam had so many people in attendance that they spilled out into the vendor hall, this was the room they were in vs the auditorium directly next to it where other panels and shows were being held:

Someone showed up to the dsmp panel with a nsfw t-shirt and asked everyone what they thought of it (there were minors present and some of the people on the panel were visibly uncomfortable)

Sykkuno was kicked out

People were allegedly camping outside of streamers’ hotel rooms

At least two streamers were seriously injured jumping into a foam pit which was essentially a foot deep directly over concrete

Disabled people have been horribly mistreated throughout the entire event

Cmc is present

Aimsey and crumb have been misgendered at their panel, when people pointed this out in the panel’s twitch chat they would be timed out

Con staff was clearly not trained (letting people in early before kicking them out bc they weren’t supposed to, not knowing where things are, not knowing the streamer they’re controlling a meet and greet line for, and apparently laughing at fans)

Those doing covid screenings didn’t actually check guests’ covid information and just let them in

If a guest is under 18 an adult had to be present but staff was not checking IDs, meaning there were several unaccompanied minors around

Dream apparently got possessed in his sleep???

[pikasus-artenews]

Missing Mirror. Photography Through the Lens of AI

Mostra collettiva nell’ambito del progetto di riflessione del Foam sul rapporto tra fotografia e Intelligenza Artificiale

[silverstonesainz]

regret & whatever love is

of everything said and left unsaid frat!george x reader 2.8k words warnings: toxic relationship ; mentions of alcohol 

d rambles. . . i wrote this in one sitting and i think thats super apparent but YAY, i wrote smth. this is for two requests that i received months ago, so two birds one stone. hope u like this, and as always feedback is always appreciated!!

you find that these days, it’s easier to be further from george than right by him. but that isn’t a truth you could ever cough up to. 

it’s obvious though, you think as you babysit a cup of warm vodka and flat sprite. he’s on the opposite end of the room, laughing at a joke and entertaining people without you. he talks to the whole room like he doesn’t have a care in the world, truly, you’ve never seen him so relaxed. it irritates you to no end, and you almost walk over to watch the tension weave back into his shoulders, watch that stupid smile fall off his lips and remind him that you exist.

you sip on your drink, down the rest of it even if it burns. you excuse yourself from the group, walking back into the kitchen to pour yourself another drink. the kitchen island is a mess of half-empty bottles of soda and even emptier bottle of liquor. there are already three bottles pushed aside, empty, in the first hour of the post-social shenanigans. You reach for the blue bottle of plain new amsterdam vodka, pouring what you can only guess to be three shots worth before adding sprite. it bubbles, fizzes close to the brim, and you watch as the foam subsides before dripping in a little more. the soda does a shit job at masking the putrid taste of liquor, and for once you accept that. 

foot steps move closer into the kitchen, followed by laughter and promises that he’d be right back. you know it’s george, you know by how light his steps are. it’s like he walks on air, floats. you don’t look up from your cup, more interested in the clear mix swirling in your cup. it washes against the stain of your lipstick, and the color doesn’t budge. 

george walks around you, reaches over you, moves about like you’re not even in the room. it hurts. you turn, lean against the edge of the sticky island, bringing the cup to your lips but your eyes trained on the red stain on the dingy tiled floor. the fridge opens and closes, something is poured and another bottle added to the stash of empty ones. then you see a pair of worn brown loafers, the same one he wears when he wants to put effort, but not too much. the leather is begin to peel and you make a mental note to get him new ones. 

“you okay?” george asks. 

you scoff, sipping the drink again before setting it by you, “sure.”

“you wanna talk about it?”

did you? you’d been fighting for so long you aren’t even sure where to begin. honestly, you hoped it would fizzle out like all your other fights have in the past. but fizzling out means someone has to give in, and neither of you are really ready to give up having the upper hand this time around.

maybe to some, the fight was stupid. hell, your girlfriends thought so too. but they only knew of this one instance, and not the three others you’ve made a point to keep hidden. he’s a good guy, it’s an honest mistake, they said. one time is an honest mistake, but catching him talk to his ex four times isn’t. 

“you want to talk about it now?” you ask, eyes wide and disbelief weaved into your features. 

he shrugs, sipping on his cup before placing it on the counter. “yeah. might as well.” 

you scoff again before mocking him. “yeah. might as well.” 

george runs his fingers through his hair, already vexed by a conversation that hasn’t even happened. you bite down on your lip, feeling the tension begin to rise. the air is thick, dense, just like molasses. the tension oozes out into the room, drips slow and thick, sticky and hard to get rid of. the kickback happening in the next room, the messy chorus of conversation and the low hum of music, does little to break it. you shift uncomfortable, foot to foot, not sure if you should speak up first or wait on him to say something.

“i honestly forgot how we got here,” george mumbles, twisting his body in search of his drink. 

“we got here because i caught you talking to sabrina again,” you say, hands coming up behind your neck and fingers reaching into the roots of your hair. you tug softly, let the soft ache distract from the one in your chest. it feel like a ball has grown in your throat when you say her name and remember the circumstances in which you found them. 

to the naked eye, it looked like two friends catching up. but to you, to his girlfriend, you picked up on the glimmer in her eyes as she stared up at him. you notice the subtlety of her body language, how loudly it screamed for your boyfriend. all of her was turned to him, leaned towards him. she looked so comfortable and so did he. he wasn’t antsy, wasn’t looking for an out of the conversation, you bet you weren’t even a thought in his mind even after you had begged him not to talk to her again. 

“you’re still mad about that?” 

you jaw falls open as you stare up at your boyfriend, searching for the joke and the punchline. but his face doesn’t waver that way. instead his brows furrow and his lips pout. both your expressions, though different, ask the same question: you can’t be serious?

“of course i’m fucking mad about it george,” you say through your teeth, “why wouldn’t i be when i asked you not to talk to her anymore.” 

you see a ghost of a smile on his lips, but it’s hidden as he brings his cup up to his mouth. he shakes his head into his drink, exhaling loudly through his nostrils. it’s clear he doesn’t take this as seriously as you do. you watch him drink, the way his adam’s apple bobs up and down as he gulps whatever is in the red solo cup. you wait even though you want than to push the bottom of the cup up and watch its contents drip onto him. you’d love nothing more than to watch his perfect white t-shirt get stained with alcohol, watch his face contort in anger because then maybe he’s feel just an ounce of what you do. 

“i haven’t talked to her since,” he finally says, crossing his arms. “if it’s any consolation.”

“it’s not. of course it’s not, are you kidding?” you push your fingers through your hair, inhaling sharply. you fill your lungs until it hurts, exhaling loudly before releasing the grip on your locks. “you don’t even care, do you?”

“of course i care—“

“just not enough?”

he presses his lips into a thin line, nostrils flaring. he breathes in through his nose, eyes squeezing shut as he tries to suffocate the irritation rising in his chest. “i fucking care. i just don’t see what the big deal is.” 

“the big deal is, is she’s your ex george. she’s your ex girlfriend who is so clearly still into you. and i’ve asked you not once, but three time to stop entertaining her and you still do!”

“sabrina is not into me.” you shake your head when he says it, speaking over him immediately. “sabrina is definitely into you.” 

george huffs, “so what? you want me to ignore her?” you blink, hard, before nodding your head. your eyes are wide, lips agape, and a crease in your forehead wondering if he’s really asking that ridiculous question. “it’s rude.” he says.

“i could give a shit,” you reply quickly. 

he digs his tongue into his cheek, nodding his head as he looks you up and down. “well i give a shit. i wasn’t raised to be fucking rude to people, and i sure as hell am not gonna start just to appease this delusion you have in your head about me and sab.” 

you freeze, the words render you stiff. your heart falls apart, falls at his feet piece by piece. tears begin to brim at your eyes. you wonder if he regrets it, you can’t tell as he hides behind his cup.

“i should smack the shit out of you,” you whisper, voice quivering. 

george scoffs, unamused, as he empties the cup down his throat. “yeah, maybe.”

tears blur your vision before falling onto your cheek. you have to turn away when you hear another set of footsteps walk into the room. you make quick work to wipe away any evidence of heartbreak, listening to george ask one of his brothers how it’s going. you fumble for your drink, bringing it up immediately to take another gulp of it. you see pierre just above the rim of your cup, his back to you as he talks to george. 

pierre turns to you, smiling, “hey there,” he greats. he extends his arm to you, and you lean into his side for a brief hug. you avoid looking up at him, and when he releases you, you take george’s cup and move to the opposite end of the island. you try to play the doting girlfriend, the girlfriend who knows him so well, well enough to know that his cup is nearly empty. you refill his drink— vodka and mountain dew. you feel george watch you, half paying attention to whatever it is pierre is talking to him about. you don’t meet his gaze, instead reach for the blue labeled bottle of vodka and pour another shot or two in your half empty cup. you take a sip. it tastes terrible. 

you hand george his cup, leaning by him against the counter while he and pierre converse. he doesn’t put his arm around you, or even kisses your forehead like he always does. he just mumbles a thanks and looks at his brother. and though his arm presses against yours, it feels like he’s miles away. you both stand there, even if your hearts had already left the room. you felt empty, a shell of a girl you both loved. 

pierre eventually leaves, returns to the kickback that had picked up since you and george had found yourself stuck in the kitchen with even bigger problems than you led yourself to believe. 

you return to your spot on the kitchen island, back still to him. your elbows rest on the counter, hands supporting your head as you allow yourself to let go of the tension you’d been holding. you cry softly into your palms, letting the tears smudge the makeup around your eyes. you’d look crazy by the end of this, but maybe you always did anyways. george calls your name softly, slightly defeated and maybe even resigned. you wipe your fingers against your eyes, wipe away the tears and the mascara that fell with it. you use every clean bit of finger to wipe your eyes until it no longer leaves streaks of black on your skin. then you turn to george, who looks a little more guilty than moments earlier.

“i’m sorry.” he says. 

“you always protect her,” you stammer softly, “you always find a way to defend her and make me feel fucking crazy george. you always do this.” 

“because you worry yourself over nothing!”

“it’s not nothing!”

alex walks in, and you both have to bit your tongue. he must’ve felt the tension in the room, because he only smiles over at the two of you before grabbing an unopened box of seltzers from the fridge and a stack of unused red cups. 

“we’re uh,” alex clears his throat, “we’re playing rage cage, if you guys want to come.” 

“yeah man,” george’s lips curve up, almost a smile, “we’ll be out in a sec.” 

alex nods before walking out. you wait until his footsteps drown in the music before continuing. 

“it’s not nothing,” you start again, softer this time, “it’s not delusion, even if you want to believe it is. i know she’s into you, a girl always knows.”

“we’ve been broken up for nearly a year,” george is so clearly exasperated, growing tired of the topic. you see it in his green eyes, in the way he presses his lips into a thin line. 

“doesn’t mean she stopped caring about you.” you sniffle. you look up at your boyfriend, who has his gaze cast down at his beat up loafers. he is probably looking at the creases in the leather, the threads holding it together beginning to fray. maybe he’s even acknowledging he needs a new pair. “do you still care about her?”

his body goes rigid. and he opens his lips to give you the answer you want to hear but then he bites down on the words. his head coils back slightly, and his face grimaces because he can't say it. for whatever reason, for every reason, he can’t say that he doesn’t. 

but he should’ve said it. he should’ve been sure, shouldn’t have left a second of space between your question and his answer. 

you whimper, the tears come back. “oh my god,” you whisper. 

you have to walk out of the room, you have to get out of the space and find way to breathe. you can hear george calling behind you, following you with heavier footsteps. no one notices you walkout of the house, but they do notice george. you try to close the door behind you, but he catches it before it can slam shut. he reaches out for you, fingers curling around your arm and pulling you into his chest. you can feel the words vibrate in his chest and into you. i don’t, i don’t, he chants. i’m sorry. i swear i don’t. he holds onto you so tightly, and you find it hard to slip away from him no matter how hard you try. you push and writhe, but george holds on. but you get away, panting and red in the face. 

you stand with a bit of a distance between you two. you find it easier to be further from george than right by him. it’s easier to breathe, easier not to hate him or yourself. distance might make the heart grow fonder but not here. between you and george, distance makes the relationship bearable. but love isn’t supposed to be this way. love should make the distance hurt, it should make standing a foot away from him burn your skin. but to you, a foot of space isn’t enough.

george takes a step forward. you take a step backward.

the words, the tension, the soft admittance that a bit of space might be beneficial for the both of you is stuck in your throat. but the tears, the tears keep falling. they fall and fall and fall, dripping onto your chest. 

the guilt, the regret, is evident in george’s face, even more so now than you had ever seen. “i’m sorry.” he stutters. 

this is the part you’re supposed to say that you know, that it’s okay. but it’s not. it’s not okay. you know he’s sorry, but you also know that nothing about the last fifteen or so minutes is okay. 

“i’m sorry.” he says again. 

“i know.” your voice breaks.

is this even love anymore?

“i’ll— i’ll block sabrina. i won’t speak to her, i’ll be rude to her, fuck whatever it takes. i’m sorry baby, you have to know how sorry i am.”

maybe this is love. a skewed, fucked up version of love that works for you and george. maybe that’s why you hold on, because it works. even if it’s toxic and wrong and goes against every single thing written about love, even if it’s a kind of love that needs the threat of leaving to find a bit of compromise— it works. 

“don’t put me in the position again george.” your voice barely carries above the wind. but george hears it, nods profusely when he does. “please.” 

“i won’t,” he reassures. 

you should’ve said it was over. you shouldn’t have given him another chance, because you’d already given him one too many. and you know what this will all succumb to, you’d been down this road before. maybe you’ll regret this one day, when george will say things he’ll apologize for when its too late, and talk to a girl you’d already begged him not to. one day you’ll regret walking back into his arm and accepting that maybe this is what love ought to be: a lot of heartache and just enough compromise to quell it. 

george holds you so tightly you struggle to breathe. you drown in his scent, in his hold, and in the threat of all this coming back to punch you in the face. you drown in regret and whatever love is supposed to be.

[harrylovesspaezle]

There are currently protests at the UVA(university of Amsterdam)

150 arrests total, people being beaten up, the fucking military is there, my fucking friends are there.

Translation This feels like some sick dream. One moment there are images of a peaceful protest, a tent encampment with a library. There is food being shared, speeches given. Teachers are there to support. There is even a pet. The next moment it switches over. There is a group of men who out of nowhere attack on the protest. They are trying to light everything up with fireworks. The police looks at it and does nothing. 0 arrests. Panic starts: we need to protect ourselves. Barricades are being secured, stones are being ripped out of the ground, why? are they going to throw with them? no. they are writing out "free palestine" in the sand below it. People are tired, trying to sleep. And then the ME(riot police) arrive after all. Panic again, barricades secured, yowling police dogs. "we are peaceful, what are you?" Some sort of foam is being dispersed over the protesters. One of the barricades gets bulldozered over. The military police runs onto the island and starts hitting around them. People with bleeding heads are on the floor. At the other barricade there is people sitting. They are being beat up with batons and sticks. "we are peaceful, what are you?" One by one they are being pulled apart and dragged by their legs. The police mows tents over. The remaining protestors are standing, arms hooked together. "we are peaceful, what are you?" Even with all this violence, all this panic, there is organisation. Not by the police, but by the protesters. The police is just kind of standing there, staring. People are caring for each other. With hands raised people are asking for help, but there isn't any. Who's safety are they maintaining? Who are they protecting? There is a small group being formed. "we are following your instructions". The group gets brought to buses. 125 arrests. An institution that is responsible for teaching the younger generations, an institution with a place of authority and example, is choosing to fix conflict by using violence. Afterwards they dare to claim that you can say what you want, as long as it's peaceful. How ironic. It's almost funny. But it isn't.

by @/kakelversememes and @/amsterdam.encampment

[desimonewayland]

Exhibition at Foam Amsterdam

Sade in NYC, 1983

Photograph by Janette Beckmann

[sextonsharpwinhalstead]

The black woman,/white man thing is so infuriatingly true, I stopped watching Sleepy Hollow because of it. Like, Abbie was the fucking *lead*, how the fuck are you gonna kill her off and pretend it's still the same show?!? The chemistry she had with Ichabod was undeniable; like tell me you've ever cradled a platonic friend in your arms and whispered into their hair to remember the bond you share. Or run into the arms of someone you're just friends with to be scooped up and twirled as if it had been ages since you'd seen one another. Or wiped latte foam from their lip and received the loudest heart eyes ever in response. Augh!!!

Sleepy Hollow was my first foray into fandom and into seeing a show burn itself down because of religiosity, misogynoir, and white supremacy.

Sleepy Hollow was scary, and fun, and there was mystery, and intrigue and it was kind of playing off the darker vibe and scary legacy of Tim Burton's movie. But then Christians started making a stink about the occult nature weaved into historical American fiction.

Then came the whitewashing. The show had pretty diverse cast, but more importantly than them being diverse they were fucking talented. Orlando Jones, John Cho, and Nicholas Gonzalez revolved AROUND Nicole Behari's character but held there own. John was amazing in his short stint and Orlando was captivating AND smart. (BTW American Gods made the same mistake with Orlando). Then they wiped them all out like they were nothing.

They overemphasized on Tom's/Ichabod's popularity, didn't know that their audience was a TON of Black women who knew Nicole was a lead. They left her off the commentary for the DVD and really pretended that they didn't understand that people were fans of hers.

Then came the WW, that resentment over the CLEAR desire Ichabod had for her, over the clear undeniable chemistry. They got NASTY in the comment sections and on Twitter. They started out with Abbie having an established ex that was John Cho's character. (Even half-dead we ALL know Cho is fine AF) and then Nicholas Gonzalez as another potential love interest but nothing romantic took off for her. She couldn't be seen as desired. Articles were written about her lack of love interests so they introduced Lance Gross but by then the damage had been done. They didn't want her to have ANYONE. That ol' resentment meant that she needed to take a backseat and let Ichabod and his story be the lead. We aren't even getting into the rumors that were made up on set to blacklist Nicole.

All this meant no more story about her and her sister and their potential witchcraft lineage, they derailed the story, added Katrina gave HER the arc and of course Ichabod as her husband and didn't give a good god damn what was in front of them.

Fans tried to tell them how much they loved the show and what they loved about it and the chemistry between Ichabod and Abbie but they decided that they didn't need Abbie and they leaned more into Ichabod and then we got Betsy Ross and that was it. They really believed people were going to watch that show. It fell off the cliff as everyone was screaming that they were walking backward into it.

The parallels to New Amsterdam both in front and behind the scenes is UNCANNY and AWFUL. Nicole wanted to leave, Freema wanted to leave.

The desire-resentment cycle continues.

[artlimited]

Collective Exhibition | Photography through the lens of AI https://www.artlimited.net/agenda/collective-exhibition-photography-through-the-lens-of-ai-exhibition-foam-amsterdam/en/7585895