Nieuw-West feels like a world of its own. It doesn't match the postcard-perfect, touristy image of Amsterdam, with its canals and gabled houses. Shaped by post-war urban planning, the area is marked by wide streets, open public spaces, and mid-rise housing blocks. Its multicultural residents bring a different rhythm and visual identity to the city.

I remember the first time I passed Plein '40-'45. It felt like stepping into a completely different city. The neighborhood reminds me of The Hague South-West, where I worked before. The same pattern emerges: artists are brought in during periods of transition. Empty spaces are handed over to creative projects, temporary funding is allocated, and art events are organized “for the community.” But what does that actually mean? And what happens after it's over?

At the Nieuw-Makers meeting, a cultural officer said something that stayed with me. Grown up in the neighborhood in a migrant family, he questioned the logic of bringing in artists for short-term projects, then expecting them to leave. What gets left behind? Who follows up?

This is something I keep returning to in my own work. Community art projects are often constrained by limited funding and short timeframes. The temporary nature of these efforts is rarely acknowledged. The artists are asked to create visible outcomes—something tangible for funders or the public. But that pressure can draw the projects away from deeper reflections. What is the long-term impact? Who are we really accountable to?

Artists arrive, do something, and disappear. We're visitors. Temporary. So how do we make space for that awareness? How do we approach a community in the first place? And more importantly, is the community’s voice truly being heard?