We find the only stressed people in Amsterdam in the Stedelijk Museum of modern art. They tail people through room after room of indifferent artworks (a few (mostly) minor and dull works from major artists bulked out by slews of stuff from minor artists who look a bit similar, oddities, temporary exhibits and stuff like the stuff at the Tate modern but smaller, tattier, and not as well presented) making obscure but powerfully-felt pronouncements about bags.

But they had Chagall's violinist, and enough video art and installations that some of it was really cool: a wall covered with little fairies cut out from glamour postcards, displayed white-side out, features embroidered on or punched out with a needle, pinned to the wall and tangled with coloured thread; a constellation of video monitors hanging in space showing tiny, stuttering loops of quaking action, mostly human, but including a fragment of earthquake simulation; people walking, dream-like, through a collapsing building; three cubist works (including a Picasso still life) set in a room containing vivid canvasses painted in repeating patterns against aggressively striped wallpaper (Ellé described the overall effect as "epilepsy-inducing"). And there's that guy shaking his cock at his fluffy purple dinosaur again.

But, unfortunately I can't say who anything I liked was by as the signage was minimal and sporadic, the museum guide was a single, grudging, sheet, and the postcard selection bore no relation to their actual collection. Still, at least we found out where they hide the stressed ones.