Catching Dogs
With Dogs

Catching Dogs With Dogs

Catching Dogs With Dogs

Catching Dogs
With Dogs

Catching Dogs With Dogs

Grounded SF from
The Netherlands
and Flanders
no. 1

Grounded SF from
The Netherlands
and Flanders
no. 1

AUTHOR

Rob van Essen

PITCH

In the aftermath of a vicious flu epidemic that has wiped out much of the population, the survivors struggle to restore some semblance of order to society. Monuments to the dead are sprouting up all over the city, and, surprisingly enough, it seems that the only ones immune to the virus were the elderly, now the most hated demographic group. As the government prepares to return from its self-imposed exile, the streets have been taken over by growling stray dogs.

PITCH

In the aftermath of a vicious flu epidemic that has wiped out much of the population, the survivors struggle to restore some semblance of order to society. Monuments to the dead are sprouting up all over the city, and, surprisingly enough, it seems that the only ones immune to the virus were the elderly, now the most hated demographic group. As the government prepares to return from its self-imposed exile, the streets have been taken over by growling stray dogs.

Grounded SF

Translated by: Kristen Gehrman

This afternoon, I went to Johanna’s to help her with the dogs. I took a little detour along the Martin Luther King Park, because I was curious how high the monument to the flu victims had gotten.

This afternoon, I went to Johanna’s to help her with the dogs. I took a little detour along the Martin Luther King Park, because I was curious how high the monument to the flu victims had gotten.

This afternoon, I went to Johanna’s to help her with the dogs. I took a little detour along the Martin Luther King Park, because I was curious how high the monument to the flu victims had gotten.

This afternoon, I went to Johanna’s to help her with the dogs.
I took a little detour along the Martin Luther King Park, because I was curious how high the monument to the flu victims had gotten.

This afternoon, I went to Johanna’s to help her with the dogs. I took a little detour along the Martin Luther King Park, because I was curious how high the monument to the flu victims had gotten.

I could hear the hammering before I’d even reached the park. It sounded like the shipyards must have sounded in the past. The monument started out as a few bouquets and wooden crosses around the largest mass grave, but it has since grown into a wooden tower extending in all directions. All kinds of people are out there working on it, each one with their own memorial to add.  There’s been a lot of bickering over it, and in the meantime, the thing just grows higher and higher. It’s now poking out over the treetops. They’ve even got scaffolding around it now, I noticed. Hanging on the wood are cards, photos, and faded bouquets, and in the black sand covering the mass grave, grass is sprouting up here and there.

An old man was looking on. “They have no idea what they’re doing,” he said. “That thing is going to collapse if this keeps up.” He told me that he had helped fill the graves himself.  There was something triumphant in his voice. I’m struck by the fact that so many elderly people have taken up this conceited tone. They act like it’s to their own personal credit that they are immune to the flu. Implicitly, what they’re really saying is that the younger generations are a bunch of pansies who let themselves be caught off guard.

---------------

A lot of people are still absolutely convinced that the epidemic was started deliberately in order to decimate the world’s population. But naturally, this begs the question: why the hell would any world government or extraterrestrial invaders want a planet populated predominantly by people over sixty? But the conspiracy theorists have an answer for that one too. The fact that the old people haven’t gotten the virus is undeniable proof that their theories are correct: by intentionally sparing only those who can no longer reproduce, the viral attack can still effectively wipe out all of humankind without bringing down everyone at once. After all, somebody’s got to bury the dead.

---------------

As I stood there watching, part of the monument caved in. “See, what did I tell you?” the old man said. “They’re just doing whatever, they don’t have a plan.”

No one seemed particularly bothered by the collapse. They pulled a groaning person out of the rubble along with a few seemingly lifeless bodies, and the hammering continued. It’s all completely useless, but the sound of all those hammers is invigorating, as if we’re building something that might actually help us. The old man looked at me and asked, “How did you survive it?”

You can’t have a conversation with anyone anymore without this question suddenly popping up. And I admit, it’s one I ask myself all the time. As someone under sixty, there’s really only one right answer I can give: “Evidently, I was in reasonably good shape, and beyond that, I was just lucky.” But that’s not what they want to hear. They want specific information that can be useful in the event of another epidemic.

“Lemons,” I usually say, “three times a day.” (It’s true actually. All four of us did it, the kids ate them with honey. It only worked for me.) “Ah, lemons,” they say nodding thoughtfully.

But this time I didn’t answer. The how-did-you-survive-it question only works if you can ask it back, and that doesn’t work with people who are immune because you already know the answer. (“How did I survive it?  It’s obvious, isn’t it? I’m too old for all this nonsense. The flu? Come on, when we were kids we had to just grin and bear it.”) In other words, if an old person asks you how you survived it, what they really want is to prove their own superiority. They ask in this condescending tone, and the underlying message is “what are you doing here, shouldn’t you be dead?”

Nowadays, the elderly are without a doubt the most hated demographic group. Apparently, it’s next to impossible to find volunteers to keep the nursing homes running. “We’re the new Moroccans,” I heard an old man say on the news, after which the reporter promptly hit him in the face with the microphone. Not too hard, of course, he was just playing around, but you’d never have seen that kind of thing on the news before. Every now and then, you hear stories about old people getting beat up. Naturally, that’s taking things too far, but their self-satisfaction is so insufferable that yeah, they get slapped around a bit. The other thing that’s on the rise is the suicide rate among survivors—but no, not among the elderly. You’d almost think they were having the time of their lives, that their immunity makes up for their pariah status. 

I could hear the hammering before I’d even reached the park. It sounded like the shipyards must have sounded in the past. The monument started out as a few bouquets and wooden crosses around the largest mass grave, but it has since grown into a wooden tower extending in all directions. All kinds of people are out there working on it, each one with their own memorial to add.  There’s been a lot of bickering over it, and in the meantime, the thing just grows higher and higher. It’s now poking out over the treetops. They’ve even got scaffolding around it now, I noticed. Hanging on the wood are cards, photos, and faded bouquets, and in the black sand covering the mass grave, grass is sprouting up here and there.

An old man was looking on. “They have no idea what they’re doing,” he said. “That thing is going to collapse if this keeps up.” He told me that he had helped fill the graves himself.  There was something triumphant in his voice. I’m struck by the fact that so many elderly people have taken up this conceited tone. They act like it’s to their own personal credit that they are immune to the flu. Implicitly, what they’re really saying is that the younger generations are a bunch of pansies who let themselves be caught off guard.

---------------

A lot of people are still absolutely convinced that the epidemic was started deliberately in order to decimate the world’s population. But naturally, this begs the question: why the hell would any world government or extraterrestrial invaders want a planet populated predominantly by people over sixty? But the conspiracy theorists have an answer for that one too. The fact that the old people haven’t gotten the virus is undeniable proof that their theories are correct: by intentionally sparing only those who can no longer reproduce, the viral attack can still effectively wipe out all of humankind without bringing down everyone at once. After all, somebody’s got to bury the dead.

---------------

As I stood there watching, part of the monument caved in. “See, what did I tell you?” the old man said. “They’re just doing whatever, they don’t have a plan.”

No one seemed particularly bothered by the collapse. They pulled a groaning person out of the rubble along with a few seemingly lifeless bodies, and the hammering continued. It’s all completely useless, but the sound of all those hammers is invigorating, as if we’re building something that might actually help us. The old man looked at me and asked, “How did you survive it?”

You can’t have a conversation with anyone anymore without this question suddenly popping up. And I admit, it’s one I ask myself all the time. As someone under sixty, there’s really only one right answer I can give: “Evidently, I was in reasonably good shape, and beyond that, I was just lucky.” But that’s not what they want to hear. They want specific information that can be useful in the event of another epidemic.

“Lemons,” I usually say, “three times a day.” (It’s true actually. All four of us did it, the kids ate them with honey. It only worked for me.) “Ah, lemons,” they say nodding thoughtfully.

But this time I didn’t answer. The how-did-you-survive-it question only works if you can ask it back, and that doesn’t work with people who are immune because you already know the answer. (“How did I survive it?  It’s obvious, isn’t it? I’m too old for all this nonsense. The flu? Come on, when we were kids we had to just grin and bear it.”) In other words, if an old person asks you how you survived it, what they really want is to prove their own superiority. They ask in this condescending tone, and the underlying message is “what are you doing here, shouldn’t you be dead?”

Nowadays, the elderly are without a doubt the most hated demographic group. Apparently, it’s next to impossible to find volunteers to keep the nursing homes running. “We’re the new Moroccans,” I heard an old man say on the news, after which the reporter promptly hit him in the face with the microphone. Not too hard, of course, he was just playing around, but you’d never have seen that kind of thing on the news before. Every now and then, you hear stories about old people getting beat up. Naturally, that’s taking things too far, but their self-satisfaction is so insufferable that yeah, they get slapped around a bit. The other thing that’s on the rise is the suicide rate among survivors — but no, not among the elderly. You’d almost think they were having the time of their lives, that their immunity makes up for their pariah status. 

“Lemons,” I usually say, “three times a day.”
“Ah, lemons,” they say nodding thoughtfully.

“Lemons,” I usually say, “three times a day.”
“Ah, lemons,” they say nodding thoughtfully.

“Lemons,” I usually say, “three times a day.”
“Ah, lemons,” they say nodding thoughtfully.

“Lemons,” I usually say, “three times a day.”
“Ah, lemons,” they say nodding thoughtfully.

“Lemons,” I usually say,
“three times a day.”

“Ah, lemons,”
they say nodding thoughtfully.

If you follow the news, you can’t help but notice that all the virologists have survived too. They always look insecure, which isn’t all that surprising since they’ve been attacked from all sides for not sufficiently scaring the shit out of us. There will undoubtedly be committees appointed to investigate what went wrong, but first the government will have to return from its self-imposed exile. The day before yesterday they almost did. A plane full of politicians was supposed to land at Schiphol Airport, but there were so many angry demonstrators that it refueled and headed back to Iceland.  It was probably a bit naive of them to announce their return. What did they expect? Flowers? A marching band? I can see it already: in the coming weeks, the government plane will try to land at Schiphol every single day only to be sent back again and again. It’ll become this nice running gag, something to open the news every night.

---------------

I left the park. The monument builders’ hammering still ringing in my ears, I walked to the Uiterwaardenstraat, where Johanna ran her day care center for pets.  She’s opening more and more branches these days, all of which are—like this one— in former children’s day care centers. We just don’t need that much child care anymore. Each branch takes in dogs that have been found roaming the streets or in abandoned apartments. People who find themselves alone due to recent events and in urgent need of a pet can come take their pick. Last week, I asked Johanna if she wasn’t afraid that people would take advantage of her work. After all, she offers a simple solution for anyone who wants to get rid of their dog. All they have to do is toss it out on the street, and her employees will take care of the rest. “So, what?” she said. “Does everything have to be perfect?” She’s right, you’ve got to start somewhere.  Sometimes I think it’s a shame that she takes care of the strays; I dream about growling packs of dogs roaming the streets in a city where no one dares to go outside.

Whenever I visit her at work, I see the men and women staring in the windows. They must be parents who used to drop their kids off here every day before work. Zombies, Johanna calls them. But they aren’t really; they do show emotions. Some of them peer inside in bewilderment, as if we used some kind of dark magic to turn their children into dogs. Others have this pleading look, imploring us to break the spell.  My kids went to a different day care center. I don’t walk down that street anymore. I also moved to another house; there are enough empty ones to go around. Sometimes I wonder why I haven’t left the city. Apparently, I still want to stick around the neighborhood—just in case. But there’s no way, so it’s really not that rational.

--------------- 

As soon as I walked into Johanna’s place, I knew why I’d come. There was life here—that rich, exhilarating smell of the will to eat and procreate. Here there was no sorrow and no reflection. After the quiet of the street, which was only underscored by the hammering in the distance, the racket inside was deafening. It came as a benediction. There were more dogs than ever, some in old playpens, others roaming freely. In the courtyard, there were giant cages containing even more dogs. Inside, the walls were decorated with colorful paintings of butterflies and gnomes.

Johanna greeted me with a nod. She was busy with an elderly customer looking for a dog. Old people all want a big dog, the scarier the better. It makes them feel safer on the street. I have no idea what Johanna does with the dogs she can’t get rid of. I also don’t know why she does this, whether she’s driven by a love of animals or if she gets money from some sort of organization trying to make the streets safer. I don’t need to know. The most important thing is that I’ve got something to do. Otherwise, I’ll end up next to a mass grave with my own little hammer, building a monument, and that’s a moment I’d like to put off as long as possible. I wouldn’t even know which grave to go to. They’ve tried to keep track of everything, but people are complaining about all the chaos around the lists, and it is generally assumed that they are completely composed at random.

---------------  

Johanna sent me out with Ramon to round up stray dogs around Amstel Station in the van. I hadn’t met Ramon yet, but he turned out to be a big guy with a black beard. “Haven’t you got any more muscle for me?” he asked, sizing me up. “It’s been pretty quiet in the streets lately,” Johanna said as she handed him some gas vouchers. “There’s hardly any looting anymore.”

 As we headed out to the van, Ramon asked me if I’d ever done this before. “No,” I said, “I mostly work inside.”

 “It’s no big deal,” he said. “They jump right in.” He shot me a grin. “A kid could do it.”

If you follow the news, you can’t help but notice that all the virologists have survived too. They always look insecure, which isn’t all that surprising since they’ve been attacked from all sides for not sufficiently scaring the shit out of us. There will undoubtedly be committees appointed to investigate what went wrong, but first the government will have to return from its self-imposed exile. The day before yesterday they almost did. A plane full of politicians was supposed to land at Schiphol Airport, but there were so many angry demonstrators that it refueled and headed back to Iceland.  It was probably a bit naive of them to announce their return. What did they expect? Flowers? A marching band? I can see it already: in the coming weeks, the government plane will try to land at Schiphol every single day only to be sent back again and again. It’ll become this nice running gag, something to open the news every night.

---------------

I left the park. The monument builders’ hammering still ringing in my ears, I walked to the Uiterwaardenstraat, where Johanna ran her day care center for pets.  She’s opening more and more branches these days, all of which are — like this one — in former children’s day care centers. We just don’t need that much child care anymore. Each branch takes in dogs that have been found roaming the streets or in abandoned apartments. People who find themselves alone due to recent events and in urgent need of a pet can come take their pick. Last week, I asked Johanna if she wasn’t afraid that people would take advantage of her work. After all, she offers a simple solution for anyone who wants to get rid of their dog. All they have to do is toss it out on the street, and her employees will take care of the rest. “So, what?” she said. “Does everything have to be perfect?” She’s right, you’ve got to start somewhere.  Sometimes I think it’s a shame that she takes care of the strays; I dream about growling packs of dogs roaming the streets in a city where no one dares to go outside.

Whenever I visit her at work, I see the men and women staring in the windows. They must be parents who used to drop their kids off here every day before work. Zombies, Johanna calls them. But they aren’t really; they do show emotions. Some of them peer inside in bewilderment, as if we used some kind of dark magic to turn their children into dogs. Others have this pleading look, imploring us to break the spell.  My kids went to a different day care center. I don’t walk down that street anymore. I also moved to another house; there are enough empty ones to go around. Sometimes I wonder why I haven’t left the city. Apparently, I still want to stick around the neighborhood — just in case. But there’s no way, so it’s really not that rational.

--------------- 

As soon as I walked into Johanna’s place, I knew why I’d come. There was life here—that rich, exhilarating smell of the will to eat and procreate. Here there was no sorrow and no reflection. After the quiet of the street, which was only underscored by the hammering in the distance, the racket inside was deafening. It came as a benediction. There were more dogs than ever, some in old playpens, others roaming freely. In the courtyard, there were giant cages containing even more dogs. Inside, the walls were decorated with colorful paintings of butterflies and gnomes.

Johanna greeted me with a nod. She was busy with an elderly customer looking for a dog. Old people all want a big dog, the scarier the better. It makes them feel safer on the street. I have no idea what Johanna does with the dogs she can’t get rid of. I also don’t know why she does this, whether she’s driven by a love of animals or if she gets money from some sort of organization trying to make the streets safer. I don’t need to know. The most important thing is that I’ve got something to do. Otherwise, I’ll end up next to a mass grave with my own little hammer, building a monument, and that’s a moment I’d like to put off as long as possible. I wouldn’t even know which grave to go to. They’ve tried to keep track of everything, but people are complaining about all the chaos around the lists, and it is generally assumed that they are completely composed at random.

---------------  

Johanna sent me out with Ramon to round up stray dogs around Amstel Station in the van. I hadn’t met Ramon yet, but he turned out to be a big guy with a black beard. “Haven’t you got any more muscle for me?” he asked, sizing me up. “It’s been pretty quiet in the streets lately,” Johanna said as she handed him some gas vouchers. “There’s hardly any looting anymore.”

 As we headed out to the van, Ramon asked me if I’d ever done this before. “No,” I said, “I mostly work inside.”

 “It’s no big deal,” he said. “They jump right in.” He shot me a grin. “A kid could do it.”

I had imagined myself wrestling a dog and being bitten to death. Hopefully, I’d dream about that tonight.

I had imagined myself wrestling a dog and being bitten to death. Hopefully, I’d dream about that tonight.

I had imagined myself wrestling a dog and being bitten to death. Hopefully, I’d dream about that tonight.

I had imagined myself wrestling a dog and being bitten to death. Hopefully, I’d dream about that tonight.

I had imagined myself wrestling a dog and being bitten to death. Hopefully, I’d dream about that tonight.

It’s true, they jumped right in. He parked the van and opened the back doors. There were ten cages inside. Ramon tossed a bit of old meat into each one. The dogs came up to the van and jumped right in, scrambling into a cage. All you had to do was close the door behind them. I was disappointed how simple it was. I would’ve preferred it to be difficult, that there’d be nets involved, growling and barking, that it’d be the kind of tough, dangerous work that leaves you with scars.  That was the problem with the flu—it didn’t leave any scars. No one can tell whether you survived it or didn’t get it all.

“Not bad, right?” Ramon hollered. I nodded. I had imagined myself wrestling a dog and being bitten to death. Hopefully, I’d dream about that tonight. You’re better off dreaming about dogs than people. I asked Ramon where he got the bait from.

“Where do you think?” he said. “They eat each other. We catch dogs with dogs.”

---------------

Before the flu broke out, Ramon ran a restaurant. “Until people stopped going out to eat,” he said. He did home deliveries for a while, but it didn’t last long. Every deliveryman he hired ended up sick. He’d heard that during the epidemic, people with the initials F.L.U. feared for their lives. “One was dragged behind a scooter through the Rivierenbuurt,” he said. “A few others were burned alive in their homes.” I’d heard those stories too.

---------------

We drove back with a van full of barking dogs. There were almost no cars on the road. Actually, the city’s gotten too big for us. It’s shocking how few houses have lights on at night. We passed groups of kids armed with stones to throw at the windows of empty houses. “We could’ve had some fun with that back in the day, couldn’t we?” Ramon bellowed. He rolled his window down and routinely gave the middle finger to every elderly person we passed. On the radio, they were talking about all the aftershocks and consequences of the epidemic. The number of deaths is not yet known. It’s weird, but every time the count goes down, I think that they could still be alive. Completely irrational, I know, but I wonder if other people ever think the same thing.

We drove past the Martin Luther King Park, and I saw that the monument had fully emerged over the treetops. They were still working away at it. We could hear the hammering even from inside the car.

“That thing is starting to look like a giant woodpile,” Ramon said.

“Yeah, but for who?” I asked. The radio announcer reported that the government had just landed at Schiphol. “There’s your answer,” Ramon said.

I laughed. Even if it wasn’t their fault, I’d tie them to that woodpile myself if I had to.

Ramon turned off the radio. “What do you think,” he asked, “is there more or less fucking than before? I’m not talking absolute numbers, but proportionally,”

I shrugged. In my case, less, but that hardly affects the overall average.

“I think more,” Ramon said. “But without all the foreplay.” He gave me a wry look. “So, something good has come out of it, right?” he roared. “Or did you like all that foreplay?” The van filled with his loud, sneering laughter. The dogs started whining in the back. Ramon smacked the wall separating us from the cargo hold and yelled, “Your masters are all dead!” The dogs kept on whining. 

It’s true, they jumped right in. He parked the van and opened the back doors. There were ten cages inside. Ramon tossed a bit of old meat into each one. The dogs came up to the van and jumped right in, scrambling into a cage. All you had to do was close the door behind them. I was disappointed how simple it was. I would’ve preferred it to be difficult, that there’d be nets involved, growling and barking, that it’d be the kind of tough, dangerous work that leaves you with scars.  That was the problem with the flu—it didn’t leave any scars. No one can tell whether you survived it or didn’t get it all.

“Not bad, right?” Ramon hollered. I nodded. I had imagined myself wrestling a dog and being bitten to death. Hopefully, I’d dream about that tonight. You’re better off dreaming about dogs than people. I asked Ramon where he got the bait from.

“Where do you think?” he said. “They eat each other. We catch dogs with dogs.”

---------------

Before the flu broke out, Ramon ran a restaurant. “Until people stopped going out to eat,” he said. He did home deliveries for a while, but it didn’t last long. Every deliveryman he hired ended up sick. He’d heard that during the epidemic, people with the initials F.L.U. feared for their lives. “One was dragged behind a scooter through the Rivierenbuurt,” he said. “A few others were burned alive in their homes.” I’d heard those stories too.

---------------

We drove back with a van full of barking dogs. There were almost no cars on the road. Actually, the city’s gotten too big for us. It’s shocking how few houses have lights on at night. We passed groups of kids armed with stones to throw at the windows of empty houses. “We could’ve had some fun with that back in the day, couldn’t we?” Ramon bellowed. He rolled his window down and routinely gave the middle finger to every elderly person we passed. On the radio, they were talking about all the aftershocks and consequences of the epidemic. The number of deaths is not yet known. It’s weird, but every time the count goes down, I think that they could still be alive. Completely irrational, I know, but I wonder if other people ever think the same thing.

We drove past the Martin Luther King Park, and I saw that the monument had fully emerged over the treetops. They were still working away at it. We could hear the hammering even from inside the car.

“That thing is starting to look like a giant woodpile,” Ramon said.

“Yeah, but for who?” I asked. The radio announcer reported that the government had just landed at Schiphol. “There’s your answer,” Ramon said.

I laughed. Even if it wasn’t their fault, I’d tie them to that woodpile myself if I had to.

Ramon turned off the radio. “What do you think,” he asked, “is there more or less fucking than before? I’m not talking absolute numbers, but proportionally,”

I shrugged. In my case, less, but that hardly affects the overall average.

“I think more,” Ramon said. “But without all the foreplay.” He gave me a wry look. “So, something good has come out of it, right?” he roared. “Or did you like all that foreplay?” The van filled with his loud, sneering laughter. The dogs started whining in the back. Ramon smacked the wall separating us from the cargo hold and yelled, “Your masters are all dead!” The dogs kept on whining.

Rob-van-essen

ROB VAN ESSEN 

Rob van Essen (1963) was born in Amstelveen and grew up in Twente and the Veluwe. He has published seven novels, two collections of short stories, and two autobiographical chronicles. His collection Hier wonen ook mensen won the J.MA. Biesheuvel Prize for the best short story collection of 2014. His novel Visser made the short list for the Libris Prize and Winter in Amerika the long list. He reviews English-language literature for the NRC Handelsblad and lives and works in Amsterdam.


Published twice a year by Lebowski Publishers
© Lebowski Publishers  |  Amsterdam

For international rights please contact:
Oscar van GelderenTracy Fisher, Jill Gillett or Sylvie Rabineau

This literary magazine for Grounded SF
from The Netherlands and Flanders is
published twice a year by Lebowski Publishers.
© Lebowski Publishers  |  Amsterdam

For international rights please contact:
Oscar van GelderenTracy Fisher , Jill Gillet or Sylvie Rabineau

This literary magazine for Grounded SF from The Netherlands and Flanders is published twice a year by Lebowski Publishers.


For international rights please contact: Oscar van GelderenTracy Fisher, Jill Gillet or Sylvie Rabineau

© 2018 Hanna Bervoets, Willem Bosch, Rob van Essen, Jerry Goossens, Erik Nieuwenhuis, PJ Pancras, Joost Vandecasteele, Gina Hay, Joost Devriesere

© TRANSLATIONS Antoinette Fawcett, Kristen Gehrman, Thijs van Nimwegen, Jonathan Reeder, Sarah Welling, Joni Zwart, Paul Evans

© 2018 Hanna Bervoets, Willem Bosch, Rob van Essen, Jerry Goossens, Erik Nieuwenhuis, PJ Pancras, Joost Vandecasteele

© TRANSLATIONS Antoinette Fawcett, Kristen Gehrman, Thijs van Nimwegen, Jonathan Reeder, Sarah Welling, Joni Zwart

© 2018 Hanna Bervoets, Willem Bosch, Rob van Essen, Jerry Goossens, Erik Nieuwenhuis, PJ Pancras, Joost Vandecasteele

© TRANSLATIONS Antoinette Fawcett, Kristen Gehrman, Thijs van Nimwegen, Jonathan Reeder, Sarah Welling, Joni Zwart

© 2018 Hanna Bervoets, Willem Bosch, Rob van Essen, Jerry Goossens,
Erik Nieuwenhuis, PJ Pancras, Joost Vandecasteele

© TRANSLATIONS Antoinette Fawcett, Kristen Gehrman, Thijs van Nimwegen, Jonathan Reeder, Sarah Welling, Joni Zwart

© 2018 Hanna Bervoets, Willem Bosch, Rob van Essen, Jerry Goossens,Erik Nieuwenhuis, PJ Pancras, Joost Vandecasteele

© TRANSLATIONS Antoinette Fawcett, Kristen Gehrman, Thijs van Nimwegen, Jonathan Reeder, Sarah Welling, Joni Zwart

EDITORS Oscar van Gelderen, 
Jasper Henderson, Maaike Pleging

DESIGN 
Bart Heideman  |  uncanny.design

EDITORS Oscar van Gelderen, 
Jasper Henderson, Maaike Pleging



DESIGN
 
Bart Heideman  |  uncanny.design

EDITORS 
Oscar van Gelderen, 
Jasper Henderson, 
Maaike Pleging

DESIGN 
Bart Heideman
uncanny.design

EDITORS 
Oscar van Gelderen, 
Jasper Henderson,
Maaike Pleging

DESIGN 
Bart Heideman  |  uncanny.design

EDITORS 
Oscar van Gelderen, Jasper Henderson, Maaike Pleging

DESIGN 
Bart Heideman  |  uncanny.design