A letter from the Schinkelstraats.

I went to a pilates class first thing this morning. It's a charming group, in a lovely big space, all Dutch. The instructor talks sometimes in English "but Mark's learning Dutch". And when I said at the end I hope her expectations of what I understand aren't high, she was so forgiving and kind, and more worried that I understood, not that I should be offended or feel pushed away.

And then I went and got my eyes tested, by a gorgeous man called Jorit who had a little stutter, and we had a nice time together — a real feeling of warmth — as I sat wide eyed in my cool Brixton hoodie and pilates shorts, reading out tiny blurred or not so blurred letters in his little room, as he investigated the optics that I uniquely possess.

I went and did my laundry at lunchtime in the cool wash and go, and chatted to two ladies from New York and Bolinas. We talked about Bolinas's beautiful beach, and the way the dogs leap in the water. And another guy was asking where the powder goes. And I went to a gallery on the corner, and talked to Eva who runs it, about what they do — and how they finance artists in different ways, often through renting paintings by the month. There were some incredible photographs of lions, and some very intense portraits. Selling art fascinates me. She invited me to the Mart Visser 3.0 event on 12 October, which I'll go to.

I talked to my dad, who said I need to move beyond the rejection I've felt over recent times, and find my confidence in my talent again. He said he's able to help me as I write my CV for different posts and companies, something I must do. I haven't applied for anything these two weeks, just received a drip feed of rejections, including one firm that said I lacked consulting experience. Which made me wonder what kind of experience of consulting I should require, and what else I need to know, in order to be a credible life-long consultant.

I read my artist friend's posts on Instagram from his hitchhike and cried with their beauty. That I could draw somehow new confidence from his own questioning and doubts and strength. And references that spoke to me, that I could hold in my heart, even though they're not because of me, but feel like they are — a proper artist is he. Anyway, I laid one out on A4 and printed it in a nice colour, and put it on my wall, part of a wall of quotes to guide me along this time.

There's a man singing, in the apartment upstairs. It's rather impressive, and adds a beautiful feeling to the moment here, as I sit in my blank canvas flat, still trying to figure out what picture to paint, and how to embrace this new time — which bits, memories, attachments, identities and dreams, to carry from the old one. And what to seek out that is completely new.