There’s something that has always fascinated me about the very first line on paper. That silence before it. That moment when nothing exists — except possibility. The tension between the pencil tip and the white surface. A touch that hasn’t happened yet, but already promises everything.

Long before Live Lines had a name, I was already drawing with an audience. Not in theaters or grand halls, but in places where people came together without expectation.

In a squat building on Zuidplein in Rotterdam, I organized my first exhibitions. A space that still smelled of concrete and memory. That’s where I drew — on walls, on tables, on paper. Sometimes in silence, sometimes surrounded by people asking questions, laughing, thinking.

That’s where I learned what it meant to be seen while something is becoming. Not just the final image, but the process. The hesitation, the corrections, the breath between two strokes.

Later, I continued this at Podium O950. A place where experimentation was embraced. I felt safe enough there to be vulnerable. I remember the smell of coffee, the echo of voices in a half-empty room, the trembling of my hand as I began. I often sat at a simple table, with people gathered around on benches. No spotlight, no show. Just graphite, charcoal, paper — and me.

Then came the evenings at Baroeg. We called it Downw_ards — a gothic dance night with themed events. The music was loud, the visuals dark. And yet — in the shadow of all that stimulation, I sat quietly in a corner. Drawing. On large sheets, sometimes on doors, sometimes even on people. The interaction there was different. Fewer words, more gazes. People leaned in, let themselves be moved, nodded silently. It was rawer, more direct. But still: real.

And somewhere in those nights, the awareness grew that drawing — live, in the moment — was something larger than myself. It created connection. Not because I was making something extraordinary, but because people saw themselves in the movement. In the searching. In something slowly revealing itself, where before there was nothing.

After the hum of live drawing faded from my world, another rhythm took over — one of keystrokes and screens. It started small, with questions from fellow artists: “Can you help with a portfolio?” “Do you know how to build a website?” I did — and I enjoyed it. Helping others become visible online felt honest and useful. So I built. And built. Until lines of code replaced lines on paper, and what once felt like art became architecture. Deadlines replaced exhibitions. Syntax replaced intuition. I was good at it. From the outside, life looked steady. I had a home, a child, a future. My life clicked into place like the clean logic of well-written code.

But something quieter was happening underneath. My fingers, once stained with charcoal, forgot their softness. My thoughts narrowed into functions and loops. I stopped drawing. Not because I decided to, but because I didn’t notice it slipping away — until it was gone. And then came the collapse. My body refused. My mind fell silent. The rhythm broke. I burned out, slowly and thoroughly, like a candle left unattended.

In that stillness, I found something unexpected. One day, I opened a drawer. There was a pencil. A sheet of paper. I picked them up not out of ambition, but because my hands needed to move — not type, but glide. The first marks were unsure, trembling. But they breathed. My breath found them. And as the graphite met the page, I remembered. Not through thoughts, but through motion. My hand knew the way before I did.

Drawing gave me back time. It slowed my heart, cleared my mind. I started to wonder: What had I loved about drawing? What had I truly valued in programming? Where had I felt most like myself? My thoughts drifted back to those evenings in the Baroeg — the deep bass of the music, my corner lit by a single bulb, and a shape slowly forming under my fingers. I remembered afternoons at Podium O950, surrounded by echoes, soft conversation, and people who watched a line emerge and stayed until it became something. Not because I explained it — but because they felt something too.

I realized I didn’t need the same physical spaces. I needed the connection. The shared silence. The moment of becoming. And so I turned to the only space left that still allowed for live presence: the internet. YouTube, of all things, offered me a window. A camera. A breath held in real time. And just enough room to draw — not only on paper, but back into the world.

It took weeks of quiet planning before I felt ready to go live. Not just to test the cameras or prepare the Random Box — but to prepare myself. Drawing in silence is one thing. Drawing while others watch, from across the world, is another.

It took weeks of quiet planning before I felt ready to go live. Not just to test the cameras or prepare the Random Box — but to prepare myself. Drawing in silence is one thing. Drawing while others watch, from across the world, is another.

I knew what I wanted: no filter, no edits, no forced smiles. Just the truth of a line being born. I set up my lights, adjusted the angles, tested the contrast. I chose the paper carefully. I tested my materials with the kind of nervous attention you give a loved one’s suitcase before a long trip. Everything had to feel right. And still, none of it could quiet the thudding in my chest.

The clock ticked toward eight. Amsterdam time. The soft glow of the camera ring lit up. I checked the stream. It worked. And then — I saw them. Six people already waiting. Six names in the dark, holding space for me. Not passersby at a gallery or guests at a party. No — they had come for this. For me. For the line. And suddenly, I wasn’t so alone anymore.

I breathed in, and spoke:

“Good evening, sentient beings. Welcome. Good evening from the Netherlands. Today, we’re drawing something random.”

I reached for the Random Box. My fingers brushed folded papers. I picked one, opened it. The word: film. Vague. Intangible. Difficult. How do you draw a film? What shape does memory take?

I started anyway. Two ovals. A beginning. My hand trembled. The lines wavered. My fingers moved like they were underwater — slow, unsure, disconnected. It was as if the pressure of being seen had pulled all certainty out of me. My breath faltered. I spoke aloud:

“Wow… this is hard. My hands are really shaking.”

And then, magic: the chat responded.

"Take your time.”

“It’s already beautiful.”

“We want to see more.”

Their words settled into me like warm cloth. I smiled. Wiggled my fingers loose. And began again.

The drawing unfolded. Slowly. Line after line. I found rhythm in the act, even if it wasn’t perfect. I wasn’t performing — I was existing. With them. For over two hours, we shared space. Not just over a stream, but in a moment. In a creation. Something real.

Later that week, I walked into a Starbucks. One of the baristas looked up and lit up.

“I saw your livestream,” he said. “I watched the whole thing. From beginning to end. I never do that.”

His words didn’t flatter me — they anchored me.

They reminded me of what I had almost forgotten:

that drawing, when shared in its rawest form,

can become more than marks on a page.

It can become a meeting place.

A quiet bridge between people.

A line that doesn’t just describe — but connects.

The first session had left me full — and spent.

My nerves, once loud, had softened into something tender. After signing off, I closed my sketchbook, turned off the lights, and just sat there for a while. Quiet. A little shaken. A little proud. I posted a thank-you on social media, shared a few frames — and then, I let it go. Let it settle.

Over the next few days, I watched the recording back. Not all at once. A few minutes here and there. I wasn’t looking for praise. I was watching myself with a gentle eye. Seeing what worked. Where my breath had caught. When my hand flowed, and when it faltered. It was strange — seeing myself from the outside. Strange, but helpful.

There were technical hiccups. My mobile connection had caused lag, jitter, buffering. Small things, but they disrupted the rhythm. And I realized: I needed help. I couldn’t keep one hand on the paper, one on the stream, and one eye on the chat. I didn’t have enough hands — or heads — to hold it all.

So I asked someone. Fabrizio. A friend, a calm presence.

He said yes. No fuss. No questions. Just: “I’ll be there.”

We made a plan. Moved the whole setup from my studio to the office — better light, better sound, fiber internet. We added structure without losing soul.

And when the second session began, something had shifted.

My hands were steadier. My thoughts clearer. The nervous edge that had shaped the first livestream was still there, but quieter now. Like a guest who knows where the cups are.

The Random Box revealed its new secret. I didn’t rush. I took time — to breathe, to look, to listen. Fabrizio kept the stream steady. I kept the pencil moving. There was warmth in the chat again. Familiar names. New ones.

It felt less like performance, more like ritual.

This drawing unfolded differently.

Softer maybe, but no less real. The paper felt good under my skin. The materials responded like old friends. And as the shape began to reveal itself, something inside me settled. This wasn’t just a repeat. It was a deepening. A conversation continued. A second breath.

When the stream ended, I didn’t feel drained — I felt whole. Messages came in again, from friends, from quiet watchers. “Beautiful atmosphere.” “I felt like I was right there with you.”

And I smiled.

Because that’s the thing about drawing in real time:

it asks you to be present.

Not perfect — just present.

And presence, shared even through a screen, can be more intimate than anything staged.

There’s a moment, just before I reach into the Random Box, when everything holds its breath. The lights are on. The cameras are steady. The paper lies still in front of me. And yet — nothing has begun. That pause has become sacred to me. A quiet ritual. A small doorway into the unknown.

Live Lines was never meant to be a performance. It began as a need — a way to reconnect with the act of drawing not as a skill, but as an unfolding. And now, two sessions in, it has become something more. A rhythm. A shared space. A living sketchbook with open corners.

I don’t know what I’ll draw next. That’s the point.

I’ve chosen to let go of control — to invite surprise. The Random Box decides, and I follow. And in that surrender, something happens. Something I can’t rehearse or polish. Just a line. A form. A breath taking shape in real time.

The next session is approaching. April 30th, 8 PM Amsterdam time.

I’ll be there again. Same table. Same light. New page. New word.

And hopefully, you’ll be there too.

You can take part, if you like. At mvbaks.com, you can suggest objects to go into the Random Box. You can cast your vote in the next poll. Or you can simply watch — in silence, or with questions. The chat is open. The process is open. Nothing is hidden.

What matters is presence. Yours. Mine. The line that links us.

Until then, I keep the box nearby. Sometimes I shake it softly, listening to the slips of paper inside. Each one waiting to become something.

And I wait too.

With pencil sharpened.

With paper ready.

With the quiet still in my chest.

Because every drawing begins there —

in stillness,

before the first line dares to move.