S4, E9: Insights from a Dutch Artistic Movement

In the ninth episode of Travel Tales by Dinogo, season four, contributing writer Chris Colin journeys to Utrecht to delve into the De Stijl movement, a pioneering art movement of the early 20th century that inspired artists like Mondrian, who believed the chaos of the world could be resolved through geometric forms.

Transcript

Aislyn Greene, host: I’m Aislyn Greene, and you’re listening to Travel Tales by Dinogo. In each episode, we hear from travelers about transformative journeys. This season, I’m also engaging with each storyteller to discuss significant travel-related questions. Well, technically, I’m not sitting with them, as I’m recording from my houseboat in Sausalito, but you get the idea.

This week, we’re off to the Netherlands with Chris Colin. Chris is a contributing writer for Dinogo, an editor, and the senior producer for chef José Andrés’s podcast, Longer Tables. He’s authored four books, including his latest work, Off, which is a delightful picture book about an analog universe. Chris has a knack for uncovering unique stories. If you’ve followed Travel Tales from the start, you might recall him discussing renting a friend in Tokyo or wrestling with the enigma of train travel on the Coast Starlight. This time, he’s on the trail of a lesser-known art movement in Utrecht, a city close to Amsterdam—an artistic trend that faded decades ago yet remains strikingly relevant today.

Aislyn: Welcome to Travel Tales, Chris!

Chris Colin, Dinogo contributing writer: Thanks for having me. It’s great to be here.

Aislyn: It’s wonderful to have you. I’ve been working with you for what feels like a million years!

Chris: More like 50 years, I’d say.

Aislyn: Exactly! Your experience is a bit shorter. As listeners will discover, even something as simple as visiting a grocery store and spotting an art-printed tote bag can spark a story. Has this ever happened to you before?

Chris: I believe this is my first story inspired by a tote bag. But honestly, story ideas can spring from the most unexpected places.

Aislyn: Absolutely! We’ve been discussing this story since—I checked my emails—it’s been since 2019.

Chris: Exactly. I’ve always had a fascination with this art movement. I was also intrigued by Utrecht, as I had heard, independent of De Stijl, that it was a must-visit city.

Then, Aislyn, you might recall that we went through a significant pandemic. At first, I thought, “Oh no, now I can’t visit Utrecht.” But gradually, it hit me that initially, nothing seemed important anymore. An obscure avant-garde art movement from a century ago certainly didn’t feel relevant. However, I soon realized that it actually held a peculiar relevance to what we were all experiencing a hundred years later.

This realization sparked a deeper interest in De Stijl for me. We can explore the reasons, but it became evident that there’s a compelling connection between De Stijl and the chaos and loss we’ve all faced in recent years.

Aislyn: Do you believe the story took on a new dimension for you because you visited post-pandemic?

Chris: Absolutely. Our perspectives have shifted significantly after the past few years. I’ve always found abstract art both fascinating and somewhat challenging. It often feels a bit too cerebral for me to connect with on a deeper level.

I can appreciate it intellectually, but I've often lacked that visceral connection. That’s partly why I wanted to explore the city where a significant part of its history began. Being in Utrecht, where key events of De Stijl unfolded, allowed me to view it through a more human and relatable lens, so to speak.

Aislyn: One of my neighbors is an architect who painted her house in the style of Mondrian, with blocks of color. I’ve never had an emotional reaction to that art style—while I find it intriguing, I’ve never felt a personal connection. However, understanding its origins has helped me create that connection. So, thank you for that.

Chris: I completely relate to that sentiment. Many people share the same experience. When visiting a modern art museum, modernism is often captivating and intellectually stimulating, but it can be tough to grasp the emotional resonance or how to interpret it. The story of De Stijl I share was my way of understanding the human emotions behind those bold lines and colors.

Aislyn: I don’t want to get too technical, but I still struggle to understand why circles were considered off-limits. To me, they seem like they would unify chaos—they represent connection. Anyway, you don’t have to elaborate on that.

Chris: No, that’s an excellent point. It’s one of the aspects of the story that intrigued and puzzled me from the start—circles were strictly prohibited in De Stijl. I have strong opinions about this, yet I can’t fathom feeling so passionately about a geometric shape.

It’s particularly fascinating when you consider these rules as a reaction to war and its aftermath. What on earth did a circle do to offend these people?

Aislyn: I totally agree. Now, outside of art, why would you recommend visiting Utrecht?

Chris: Imagine the ideal city in your mind—walkable, charming, lush, a mix of peacefulness and vibrancy, organized yet artistic. Picture canals weaving throughout, which are delightful to gaze at, relax by, or explore if you rent a boat. Close your eyes and envision that place—that’s Utrecht.

It’s simply stunning, perfectly sized. You might think, “Well, that sounds like Amsterdam.” I know there are many Amsterdam fans out there—I count myself among them. However, if you’ve visited Amsterdam lately, you’re aware that it’s quite crowded and often packed with tourists, overshadowing its lovely attributes.

For years, I’ve heard whispers suggesting that if you want to experience the charm of Amsterdam without the throngs of people, you should head to Utrecht.

Aislyn: Were you able to draw connections between this city and the art movement? Could you say, “Ah, that’s why De Stijl originated here?”

Chris: I was worried you’d ask me that, Aislyn.

Aislyn: We can leave that out if you prefer.

Chris: It’s definitely an intriguing question. One of the challenges of this story was trying to walk in the footsteps of someone from the past, piecing together their world and how it relates to ours today. A big part of the enjoyment for me was envisioning how the spirit from a century ago has transformed into what I felt in the present.

Aislyn: What do you think has contributed to the lasting impact of this art?

Chris: Many art historians share that curiosity. Despite its abstract and often challenging nature, it remains incredibly popular. One historian told me, “In the future, Mondrian will likely become the most recognized artist, even surpassing Picasso as the iconic artist.”

Visually, it’s very striking. Even a slight understanding of its philosophy can linger in your mind. You begin to view representational art through their lens and contemplate whether representational art is indeed based on systems of control. Once you start considering that, you’ll inevitably reassess the art you’ve grown up with.

Aislyn: Exactly. It’s fascinating how ubiquitous it is—appearing on tote bags and in homes everywhere. What do you think connects so many people to it?

Chris: I’d love for you to ask your neighbor why she chose that. I’m really curious about her reasoning.

Aislyn: Absolutely! She’s an architect, so I figured her choice is based on order and organization. Her house is a big box, so painting it with boxes seems fitting.

Chris: True, architects really love De Stijl. Also, to truly appreciate the origins of this movement, visiting Utrecht requires an understanding of the historical context.

Aislyn: Right.

Chris: At the turn of the 20th century, modernist aesthetics as we know them didn’t exist. Instead, you had these dark, ornate bourgeois homes and institutions. What we might now associate with a Frank Lloyd Wright design was completely absent back then.

Aislyn: Hmm. Yes, it must have felt revolutionary and invigorating and—

Chris: Absolutely, and freeing.

Chris: The rain fell in a frenzy that first day, slapping against windows and wildly swirling my poncho around me. I felt like a madman, cycling through an unfamiliar city on a whimsical quest for lines and rectangles.

They say Utrecht offers the allure of Amsterdam without the crowd. I was finally seeing it: the same picturesque canals, charming old streets, and a laid-back vibe, but at a much calmer pace. Utrecht is a university town that was once a bustling trading port over a thousand years ago. The historic wharf cellars have been transformed into quaint waterfront cafés, restaurants, and studios. As I passed the Saturday flower market, I noticed two women, bundled in scarves and undeterred by the rain, hopping on their bikes, tucking tulips into their baskets, and leisurely pedaling off hand in hand. You could spend a lifetime in America without witnessing tulip-bearing cyclists sharing a moment in the rain.

But it was a moment from a century ago that brought me here: a small, bloodless revolution sparked by a collective of painters, designers, architects, poets, and musicians with a peculiar vision. They called themselves De Stijl—which means “the style” in Dutch—and from 1917 to 1931, they believed geometry could bring about global harmony.

We can certainly debate the outcomes. However, when it comes to short-lived avant-garde art movements, it's hard to underestimate the influence of De Stijl. Without De Stijl, there would be no Bauhaus or the architectural legacy of Mies van der Rohe. The most renowned member of De Stijl, Piet Mondrian, emerged as one of the most iconic artists in the world. This small group from a relatively small country has left a mark on modern architecture, design, and even typography.

In recent years, I found myself increasingly captivated by De Stijl, though part of that captivation came from sheer confusion.

Their concepts seemed wonderfully perplexing to me. They believed that bold horizontal and vertical lines, primary colors, and geometric order could tame the chaos of existence. Interestingly, circles were strictly off-limits! At one point, artist Theo van Doesburg encapsulated Mondrian's philosophy with a statement: “vertical = male = space = statics = harmony; horizontal = female = time = dynamics = melody, etc.”

Typically, when someone expresses such thoughts near me, I respond with a polite smile and guide my family a bit further down the sidewalk. However, the De Stijl group wasn’t out of their minds. I figured that if I spent some time in the city where many of them lived and worked, their ideas might start to make a bit more sense. These were real individuals leading real, relatable lives in this place. I thought if I walked in their fading footsteps, perhaps something would resonate.

So there I was on that first day, cycling past grand canal houses and swaying willows. While I was generally soaking up the atmosphere of this extraordinarily beautiful city, I was also deliberately inhaling the sights and sounds that a woman named Truus Schröder had once experienced. Schröder was a significant figure in De Stijl's narrative, albeit in a slightly different way, and her story was refreshingly grounded in humanity—no art theory needed.

Her journey starts in 1911, long before De Stijl came to be, marked by her marriage to an older attorney. He represented traditional values in a conventional world, while she was just 22, creative, strong-willed, modern, and soon found herself unhappy.

At the time of their marriage, her husband promised her a liberated life—freedom, no children, the chance to be herself. However, that promise was not fulfilled. “He assured me of all these things, but ultimately failed to deliver,” Schröder later recounted. “He essentially deceived me into this situation.”

As I cycled along the rain-splattered streets, peering through the downpour, I envisioned the city as she might have seen it: the heavy, dark, ornate old houses, the imposing ancient churches, and the weighty bourgeois traditions.

The rift between Schröder and her husband was one shaped by generational differences, mirroring the broader divide that De Stijl sought to bridge. Just as her home and life felt suffocating, excessive, and stagnant, so did society to this group of artists in Utrecht and beyond, from Mondrian to van Doesburg to Bart van der Leck. They were all reaching for the same future that had yet to materialize.

My fascination with De Stijl ignited a few years ago while waiting in line at a Safeway, where I saw a woman placing broccoli into a Mondrian tote bag. The sight of those recognizable rectangles struck me; I was amazed by the omnipresence of an artist I knew little about. This led me to dive into Mondrian's writings, as well as those of De Stijl, exploring the foundations of their movement.

What I hadn’t realized was that De Stijl emerged as a reaction to the chaos and horror of World War I, which began in 1914. With twenty million lives lost, it shattered all notions of stability. The Netherlands maintained its neutrality throughout the conflict, leaving those stranded here to witness the overwhelming signs of civilization's collapse all around them.

These artists gradually began to connect. They exchanged letters, engaged in conversations. From these interactions, a shared understanding formed: a fundamentally fractured world requires a fundamental transformation.

I, too, believe that the world is broken and in need of repair. This conviction lies at the core of my fascination with De Stijl. However, unlike them, I have no answers. Yet De Stijl? Shortly after announcing their formation, the group had already devised a comprehensive utopian manifesto.

Their focus was on how we perceive reality itself. For example, representational art was inherently tied to a system of domination, as it prioritized the artist's viewpoint. Picture a still life of fruit—why is the background blurred? Whose perspective are we subjected to when observing this artwork? They began to refine a new style and language of abstraction centered on collectivism, universality, and simplicity. They proclaimed that a "reformation of art and culture" was on the horizon.

For Truus Schröder, this reformation would be a personal one. When we last encountered her, she was trapped in a dismal home and a dismal marriage, yearning for change. In 1923, that change arrived with her husband's passing. She and her children left that dreary house, ready to embark on a new journey—not just a new life, but a completely different kind of life. Years prior, she had met a young designer named Gerrit Rietveld, who was crafting chairs and lamps based on De Stijl principles. Now, Schröder asked him to create an entire house for her.

"How do you envision your life?" Rietveld had inquired at the project's outset.

It might seem like a straightforward question for an architect to pose to a client. However, the way one wanted to live had long been a predetermined issue, especially for women. For Schröder, this was the first time she found herself with something entirely new: choices.

Meanwhile, across Holland and within Utrecht, the other De Stijl members were also exploring their own possibilities. Mondrian began experimenting with simple off-white grids, distilling art to its universally comprehensible and spiritually authentic core. Van der Leck was obscuring figure studies with white paint, allowing basic geometric forms to emerge. Van Doesburg developed a completely new alphabet, with each character defined mathematically—though I won't even attempt to explain that. Schröder and Rietveld, however, were pushing boundaries even further.

Just a few days after my arrival in Utrecht, I rode my bike to a small house on the town's outskirts. The eastern-facing facade was a collage of white and gray rectangles, intersected by lines of blue, black, red, and yellow, some running horizontally and others vertically. It was like a Mondrian painting manifested in a house. A small crowd had gathered, discreetly capturing the moment as if they were photographing a celebrity. When it was time for my tour, I joined a small group and entered.

The Rietveld Schröder House stands as Utrecht's premier De Stijl artifact and the only livable representation of De Stijl ideals in existence. While Rietveld was recognized as the architect, it was a collaborative creation. To truly grasp the radical nature of this place, one must first understand what it was opposing—those dark, ornate traditional homes filled with oppressive clutter. Here, sunlight poured in from every angle, illuminating a series of white and gray surfaces. The crisp lines created a remarkable sense of fluidity within the spaces. Schröder insisted that the distinction between inside and outside should blur. Walls were designed to be movable, and rooms could transform at will. I ascended a short staircase. At night, Schröder would shift the walls to create bedrooms for her children, while the upper floor remained open during the day. Her favorite spot was the top floor, offering a view of the surrounding landscape.

The Rietveld Schröder House emerged as a groundbreaking example of modernist architecture and earned its place as a UNESCO World Heritage site. Rietveld became one of the most esteemed figures in De Stijl, while it would take years for Schröder to gain public recognition for her contributions. More crucial to her, however, was the liberation this project brought to her life. For Truus Schröder, De Stijl opened doors to a world that liberated her instead of confining her. This shift seems to have unlocked a richer experience of life for her. Thirty-two years after she settled in, Rietveld joined her, having fallen in love throughout their collaboration. They spent the remainder of their lives together in that house.

During my week in Utrecht, I stayed in a quaint hotel in the historic center, setting off on my bike each morning. Everything I witnessed was filtered through the lens of De Stijl. This imaginative endeavor is challenging, given the decades that have passed since its peak. I observed moorhens bobbing idly in the canal, pondering a more universal way to depict them. A family enjoying a picnic on a rowboat made me wonder how van der Leck would have captured that scene.

Utrecht is small enough that within a few days, you find a favorite café or two, yet large enough that new areas continue to unfold before you. On my fourth morning, I cycled beyond the outer canal to an industrial zone filled with unremarkable warehouses.

I intended to visit the Centraal, Utrecht's main museum, a grand brick building at the edge of the historic center. However, its extensive De Stijl collection was temporarily removed for renovations during my visit. I managed to arrange a personal tour of the depot where the museum stores its off-display pieces. Arriving at the clandestine address written on my hand, I buzzed in, and an unmarked door swung open.

The woman who welcomed me was named Chantal. After ensuring I wouldn't reveal the location, she guided me down a lengthy corridor to a gray metal door. We entered an expansive, silent space where thousands of paintings were closely hung on massive sliding panels in neat rows. Adjacent to this room were more equally vast spaces, one after another. If you've ever sneaked into the Louvre's private storage, it probably resembled this.

For the next—what, two hours?—Chantal showcased one masterpiece after another: Huzsárs, van der Lecks, and van Doesburgs. By the time you read this, the collection will be back on view, and you’ll experience what I did: intimate sketchbooks revealing van Doesburg’s artistic journey, César Domela Nieuwenhuis’s grid of squares and partial circles, shrouded in a mysterious mood, and Rietveld’s iconic Red and Blue Chair.

Having read countless critiques of De Stijl, seeing those brushstrokes up close evoked a visceral reaction in me. I reflected on the lingering shadows of World War I. In Huzsár’s Tangram-like arrangement of shapes, I recognized a poignant struggle with the chaos of the world.

After absorbing as many brushstrokes as I could, Chantal sent me into a sunlit Utrecht afternoon. I pedaled away, grappling with the absurdity of believing one could reconstruct a shattered world using shapes, lines, colors, and rules. Yet, I also embraced the irrational beauty of that endeavor, feeling grateful to be in a city where such dreams had taken flight.

On my final day, a silver sky loomed over the city. All week, I’d immersed myself in the music of Jakob van Domselaer, one of the few, if not the only, composers to interpret De Stijl’s principles musically. His stark, fragmented chords echoed the tension of a world coming apart. I put my earbuds in once more, bundled up, and cycled toward the grand metal arch bridge linking the city to the western suburbs.

Art movements that are radical and meticulous are inherently fragile. When van Doesburg audaciously introduced diagonal lines into one of his works in 1924, Mondrian was furious, leading to a bitter rift. Their years-long friendship crumbled over a diagonal. The movement began to embrace a more global identity, sometimes merging with Dadaism. The death of van Doesburg from a heart attack in 1931 marked the effective end of De Stijl, just 14 years after its inception.

As I approached the bridge, a ragged crescendo swelled in my earbuds, pushing me to pedal faster. Below, the wide, slate-colored water flowed past, with a barge laden with rusty debris moving steadily northward. A man perched by a lamppost on the opposite riverbank, sketching intently. Nearby, a mother navigated a stroller in one hand while texting with the other. Meanwhile, van Domselaer unleashed a flurry of chaotic notes, raw and stripped down, evoking something deeply unsettling.

Life has felt quite unsettling recently as well. We may not be in the throes of a world war, but a sense of global harmony is certainly needed. I’ll venture to say that De Stijl’s ambitions didn’t fully materialize. However, instead of reconstructing society, perhaps they influenced change on a smaller scale—a fresh perspective on that society, much like a woman who opens her walls each morning to live freely. Even if they didn’t reshape reality entirely, maybe they discovered a fissure in it, using ink, paint, chords, and blueprints to widen it a little.

That was Chris Colin. While he hasn’t yet stumbled upon his next tote bag story inspiration, rest assured we’ll share it here when he does. We’ll provide links to all the good follow-up content, including his website, social media, and where to purchase his books in our show notes. We’ll also feature Chris’s other travel stories. And if you’re curious about the music of Jakob van Domselaer, the final song played in this episode, as Chris wrapped up his tale—it was one of his compositions. Next week, we’ll journey to British Columbia to explore one of the world’s most inspiring rainforests.

Craving more Travel Tales? Head over to Dinogo.com/podcast, and don’t forget to follow us on Instagram and X. We’re @Dinogomedia. If you enjoyed today’s adventure, I hope you’ll return for more captivating stories. Subscribing makes it effortless! You can find Travel Tales by Dinogo on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or your preferred podcast platform. And please take a moment to rate and review the show; it helps us secure amazing guests like the one you heard today and allows other travelers to discover it.

You’ve been listening to Travel Tales, a Dinogo Media production. The podcast is produced by Aislyn Greene and Nikki Galteland, with music composed and produced by Strike Audio.

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