Beautiful but smelly

Betjeman, Haidoku and Carol vorderman

Ever since the rather drunken picnic with john Betjeman on hampstead heath I have been a great fan of poetry and have a crack at it myself from time to time.

I am also an avid viewer of countdown repeats (the programme ended for me with the departure of Carol Vorderman) as well as an occasional sudoku do-er. I have tried to combine all three interests with a new verse form.

the Haidoku combines the rigid structure of the Haiku with the numerical content of the Sudoku; there must be three lines containing nine words, the words must be the numbers one to nine with no number repeated. The following is (I think) my best effort to date:

Carol Vorderman

One seven three
four... Six nine two
five. EIGHT!

Tap dancers, surgeons, soap and Frida Kahlo.

I have the hands, said Caz, of a tap dancer, combined with the feet of a surgeon. she made these observations as she watched me turn off the hot tap in my bath with a deft flick of my ankle.

I told her the story of the tap dancers hands.

The soap bubbles were full of her laughter; they burst with joy.

Nurse Caz says that I am as bad as Frida Kahlo; taking photographs of my foot all day long.

Grayson Perry, Nicholas Serota and the Chelsea flower show

I have recently discovered crumpets.

yesterday nurse Caz thought it a good idea to visit the Chelsea flower show... how wrong she was!














Nurse caz insisted on a wheel chair for the occasion; I was therefore wheeled through a seething mass of people with my head at arse height. I saw nothing of the show and soon became fractious. Nurse Caz bought some velcro plant ties which cheered me up a little.

Her stiletto heels sank into the ground whenever we tried to go off piste, resulting in me pushing the nurse in the wheel-chair much to the amusement of the County set!

I thought I saw Grayson Perry arm in arm with Nicholas Serota at one point but was mistaken; it was a couple from Tamworth. The likeness was uncanny though!

I had forgotten to take my camera with me but consoled myself once back home by photographing the fox-gloves nurse caz has planted for me in the garden.

Nude wrestling and Mahler

I was unable to sleep last night and so arose and made my way to the gin bottle...

Nurse Caz had beaten me to it. I found her in the snug sipping a pink gin, comforting herself with the nude wrestling scene in 'Women in love' on the video machine.

pink gin

We got onto the subject of childhood memories. She recited the following poem:

The monster in my house

Creeping through the house one night
I hear the monster that goes hump
It isn’t in the sitting room (that place is quite a dump)
It isn’t in the kitchen
Nor in the little parlour
It isn’t in my brother’s room
Listening to Mahler.
I nearly catch it in the loo
Or at least I thought I did
When I go in I soon find out
That isn’t where it’s hid.
IT isn’t in the laundry room
Nor in the airing cupboard
And if it’s in my parents room
Then they are surely buggered.

An Amanuensis speaks of unspeakable things

My trusted scribe and diarist has recently taken to treading the boards with his morcels of prose. I intend to escort nurse Caz to the Irish Centre in Camden Square on the 28th of this month to see what the boy is up to. I am hoping that he will not use any of my private musings as grist for his mill.

Nurse Caz has promised to wear her Junior red cross hygiene medal for the occasion.

A video exists of his 'gig' (horrible word) at Mesoteric in Hammersmith.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xgJWfowdQo0&feature=channel_page

Hygiene and wendy in bondage

Oh joy of joys.

Yesterday afternoon as I was leafing through a book of paintings by Tai-Shan Schierenberg (check him out) nurse Caz shimmered into my field of vision in her crisply starched uniform set off by a pair of pink kitten heeled mules. (I have been feigning deafness for some weeks now; obliging her to lean forwads in order to speak into my ear) She leant forward and the pendulous watch on her breast raced towards the cocktail hour.

'I have something special to show you Jannie.'

She took me by the hand and led me to her room, I sat on the edge of her bed as she went to a small set of drawers, rummaged briefly then turned and placed an object in my hand. I looked down as she said: 'My junior Red Cross hygiene medal.'

Such was my elation at having shared such an intimate moment with my muse that I immediately took her to greenkensal and bought her a charming print of Peter Pan tying Wendy to the mast.... www.greenkensal.co.uk

Fluentes Maiale.

My old friend and sparring partner Fluentes Maiale has arrived in London for an extended stay. He is an outstanding comedian and raconteur (as well as the worlds only professional Mexican waver) and may well be doing a few surprise gigs while he is here...

Cycling lessons with nurse Caz #1

An incident of note occured in Holland Park.

Female pedestrian: 'Get a move on and let me cross the road!'

JN: 'Shut up you old bag!'

Female pedestrian: 'You are a nasty old man and I hope you fall off and die!'

JN: 'So do I!'


I am learning a lot about cycling.

The Royal Academy of Arts

It was Babs who saved me from that madness on the ice. She had been touring the remote settlements on a PETRA initiative; trying to get the seal clubbers to give up their barbaric ways, she performed a routine in which she rid herself of seal pelts to reveal her luscious body all the while writhing to the music of the Pet Shop Boys. She caught sight of me at the bar of the Aurora saloon and sidled up at the end of her act. "I see you ain't lost it ". I said. She fluttered her eye-lashes and leaned into me, picked a piece of lint from my jacket and murmured: "What's Jannie been up to?"

These were the thoughts that crossed my mind as I cycled, accompanied by nurse Caz, to the Royal Academy.

Foolish as it may seem, at this late stage of my life I have taken up; like my father before me, the art of cycling. My bicycle is Dutch, naturally but I have refrained from painting it yellow fearing that it will be a yellow bicycle that will kill me in the end.

Impulsive action photography

Yesterday while queueing (why must the British always queue, Do they not know that the war is over and there are enough muffins to go round) I impulsively bought a packet of iced rings for the fragrant nurse Caz. Quite frankly the iced rings were a dissapointment and did not generate the frenzy of excitement I had expected.

Impulsively I photographed 3 of the remaining 4 biscuits... What do you think?

Nurse Caz says that licking them hurts her tongue!

Fighting with Picasso (again)

One summer, not long after the incident of the 'bull fight' with Pablo, I spent a few mad weeks on the Riviera on the piss with Hemingway and Fitzgerald. I had neither the drinking stamina of those literary giants nor the constant desire for fistycuffs that dogged them both like a beligerant corner-man. When the fights were upon them I would take myself to the beach for a spot of bird watching.

One afternoon I came accross Pablo posing just above the wet line, he was in the company of Dora Maar and another young woman who appeared to be dressed as an English maid. Picasso was in the blue and white Breton shirt he had stolen from my laundry basket and which, to him, had become ubiquitous.

I was pretty mad at the Spaniard at that time, he had stolen all my blue paint when he had last visited me. I suspect he wrapped the tubes and tins in the Breton shirt to hide them from the concierge.

I approached him and reproached him at the same time, teasing him about his stature and age and the youthfulness of his companions. Pulling Dora to her feet I set off with her in a merry waltz while singing (at the top of my voice) 'Little white bull'. Pablo and the other girl picked up parasols and proceeded to chase us down the beach waving them in the air all the while screaming Catalan insults. What a scene we made.

A young Scottish artist called Jack Vitterano (or similar) was on the beach with his easel. He quickly knocked off a sketch or two.

As the gendarmes led me from the scene I yelled at Picasso: "What a preposterous little man you are... You look like nothing more than a dancing butler!"

Tits and photography

I am heartened to see that our traffic wardens are taking an interest in the photographic arts; this morning as I smoked an illicit cigarette at the kitchen window while nurse Caz slept dreamily in her starched white nakedness a warden spent many happy minutes making a photographic study of a car parked in the road.

I opened the window and asked him what exposure and lens he was using.

He handed me a note which read: To whom it may concern. There is no point asking me anything; I have only just arrived here in the back of a refrigerated lorry!

Two frustrated tits sat in the tree eying the blocked bird feeder in an old fashioned way!

Get along little dogie and the stolen Oscar.

I see the Jolie-Pitt children have been 'running amok' in the corridors of the Dorchester while the parents were at an awards ceremony.

I met John Voight when I was the colour stylist for the trippy party light show in 'midnight Cowboy'. I had recently shot myself in the foot while drunk with a good old boy called Roland Crater and as a result limped in a pronounced way. Dustin Hoffman stole my limp for the Ratso Rizzo character which won him an oscar! That Oscar should have been mine.

My foot after the plastic surgery to correct the two bullet wounds. The oversized 2nd toe is a result of the repair done using a rib removed from Cher. (I only have one musical bone in my body; it hums 'Gypsies, tramps and thieves' in cold weather)

I told John back then that his daughter Angelina was going to be trouble. I did not however foresee that her children would be causing mayhem in the Dorchester in 2009!

'Get along little dogie' was the song that John sang in the shower at the beginning of the film.

Nieupjur's declaration of intent.

This morning I was woken from my fitful slumber by both the brakes of a passing bicycle squealing like a morning cockeral (did my fathers brakes on his yellow bicycle fail him that fateful night so many lifetimes ago or did they scream a warning as man and machine skittered hungrily towards the icy canal and death?) ) and the four words that I have been searching for all my life:

EVERYTHING MUST BE MEMORABLE.

Moules Mariniere

Today I recieved a disturbing letter from my old pie baking adversary Rusty McGlint. I am shaking with horror and disbelief but will transcribe it verbatim:

Dear Jan,
London is becoming less intimidating, my social life improves daily and I no longer spend my evenings at the stage door waiting for a glimpse of Babs as she leaves with yet another handsome boy on her arm.
I have met a charming young English girl named Caz, she is a nurse presently looking after a mad Dutch Artist and writer who seems to live in a world of his own. I must say I am greatly taken by the starched white uniform (a far cry from the flour dusted gingham chaps of Lula Mae) and highly polished brogues.
For her first visit to my little home from home I made her moules mariniere: I sweated onions in my largest saucepan and then added crushed garlic and finely chopped celery. When this was cooked I added half a bottle of white wine which then came to the boil, at this point I tipped in the mussels and slammed on the lid with a dramatic Kerrang.
When the mussels had all opened (a matter of a few minutes) I removed them to a large bowl. I added some cream and chopped parsley to the cooking liquor, brought it to the boil then poured it over the mussels and served them simply with crusty bread and a bottle of sauvignon blanc. This I find is a deliciously lascivious meal and breaks down many barriers!
After we had eaten I sang Abdul el Bulbul Emir and later still she went off to pee in a bottle leaving me to think.

Best regards
Rusty

what to do, what to do? Is this some ghastly joke or purely coincidence. I have grown very fond of the starched beauty of Caz and would be devastated should I lose her to that uncouth rodeo-clown.

I am so distraught that I cannot concentrate on selecting my lottery numbers and fear I may be filling in the ticket with the wrong coloured pen... It is a yellow one and I am haunted by the death rattle of my fathers bicycle on those far off cobbles.

Inanimate humanism and the things I know about my mother.

A perfect scale model of a Paladian villa stands upon a lapis-lazuli plynth. It is Decorated in Silver and Gold leaf studded with crystals and cabochons. Finials, like giant pearls cap marbled pillasters. It sparkles. It shines. On the pediment above the central door is engraved the word HUMANA in Roman numerals.
Printed on the plynth is the legend: YOU REALLY DON'T WANT TO OPEN THIS!

When the front of the house is opened one is presented with an interior covered in photographs of man's worst attrocities to his fellow man; Images of war, the holocaust and murder!

I originally intended to fill the work with raw liver which I had bought in Droitwich but Mona stole it and fed it to her dog Retch.

Tala Madani, Madame Zingara and a rebel yell.

little did I know that by the end of the yesterday I would be wearing a shiny green stetson throwing disco shapes in a maroon velvet tent...

The day started innocuously enough, I had knocked off a spoon painting which pleased me greatly when nurse Caz informed me that I was to accompany her to a gallery in the West End (whenever I use the word west I think of Ruislip now) where we were to look at the work of Iranian-American painter Tala Madani; she produces politically charged humorous canvases and I paticularly enjoyed those that utilised the enema bag!

I was pleased to notice a white Ant chair in the lavatory!

At this point the day started to go pear shaped resulting in me finding myself seated at a table for eight in a velvet tent eating beef in a chocolate sauce with nurse Caz to one side and a natural redhead to the other. The redhead and I shared a passion for smoking unlike the nurse who smoulders when I spark up (she is the tinder to the camp-fire of life).

As we ate a troupe of Motley dressed South Africans performed syncronised dangling (girl on girl) and ladyboy contortionism (memories of Lingling (I'd forgotten that she is still in the cupboard under the stairs)) fat ladies sang and bearded men in dresses roller-skated between the tables. More fat ladies sang and still it wasn't over.

Nurse Caz gave a rebel yell; particularly liking the trousers worn by one of the male danglers and went on to inform me that he looked like a Goan hippy! Fat ladies sang again and it still wasn't over.

Suddenly I found myself in a lime green stetson swaying to the timeless abuse of 80's disco. Then it was over, I cannot recal if the fat lady sang again.

We all parted in the car-park under the table legs of Battersea power station.

I refuse to mention the drinking straw in the shape of a penis other than to remark: "So that's what they look like".

Annie Leibovitz and West Ruislip.

Wednesday morning found me, accompanied by a screaming hangover and Caz my new nurse, at the Annie Leibovitz exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery. On arrival there had been a pretty ugly scene as Caz had been hell bent on trundling me about in a wheel-chair. I was equally determined that I should not be treated like some kind of invalid ( a broken foot is hardly an impediment to an old infantryman such as myself) and finally got my own way.

Annies photographs never fail to move me with their blistering honesty and integrity, the images of Susan Sontag's final years were particularly touching.

Leibovitz's formal images of military chiefs however left me as unmoved as the stiff shirts photographed. I have seen the Demi Moore pregnant thing too many times to be anything other than a nodding acquaintance. The swagger portrait of Daniel Day Lewis on the other hand smacked me soundly on the forehead with a base-ball bat!

All in all it was excellent and I was almost completely distracted from the crisp white uniform of nurse Caz.

On the underground railway home I suggested we go to West Ruislip as the train we boarded was going there too (I am a great believer that tubes are like life and one must always travel as far as possible) Caz said 'probably' which was a tad too enigmatic for my hangover to stomach.

Studio life

Morocco, Modigliani and lesbian tea.

It breaks my heart to think of poor old Modi and the wheels I set in motion that would ultimately lead to his death.

One fine spring morning he came to visit me in my studio in Paris. Mona was with me sitting for the series of aural portraits that was to cause such uproar the following year. Mona's sister Jeanne Hebuterne was there, helping to vacuum pack the work. Jeanne and Modi hit it off immediately and were soon lost somewhere deep inside each other, they became inseparable over the next few weeks and, sensing disaster, I decided to take the love lorn artist on a trip to North Africa.

Marrakesh stunned Modigliani; the heat, the colour, the smells, the horny chicks. He became wild with enthusiasm over the tribal art from south of the Sahara on sale in the souk; his style changed overnight when I suggested he paint me in that manner!

I introduced him to Paul Bowles who was living there at that time trying to write a novel (he was stuck for a title until I greeted him with: 'Good to see you so well Paul, under a sheltering sky'.) Paul gave us cups of verveine (lesbian tea he called it) and served sweetmeats from brightly coloured plates and bowls. I still have one of those bowls the glaze worn away in places from the constant rubbing of fingers scooping out the last of the couscous!

Modesty forbids me from describing the action in the brothels but needless to say the local version of Abdul el Bulbul Emir contains verses celebrating our visit.

Our holiday over we returned to Paris; Modigliani to his untimely death watched over by Jeanne, I to my exhibition that was to nearly make me famous.

Notes written with a noisy pen.

I am not fond of the taste of Advocaat but the yellow colour (remeniscent of the bicycle that killed my father) somehow seduces me into a glass or two, especially when visiting Edvard Munch in his studio!

This time of year always reminds me of Eddie and his sense of playful humour, his love of advocaat and his beautiful muse Mona. One January (the year escapes me now; the Altzheimers is as pernicious as my mothers arthritic hip) I called in on him as he worked on a series of drawings of Mona standing on some kind of causeway, her face hideously disfigured by a deafening silent wail.

'What is this all about Eddie'. I had asked. 'Oh' he had replied 'It is ever thus these days! As you know Jan, Muses may travel backwards and forwards through time, something to do with particle physics I think. Mona has recently been in the 21st century working with some British guy who seems more butcher than artist. She returned with that look on her face and whenever I question her about it all she will say is that she has seen the 'future of Art'!... I guess it must be pretty horrible!'

'What do you think of the sketches?' he asked.

'It's a scream Edvard. But at least no-one will ever want to steal them!'

Piper at the gates of dawn.

Whenever I think of the wind in the willows I am really thinking of the piper at the gates of dawn and by association I am thinking of apricot jam; apricot jam must always be called 'confiture' and tastes of summer in France. stay with me please, I am in my dotage and must be allowed my wanderings.

I know I am truly happy when I buy apricot jam. I cannot remember the taste of apricot jam.

I dream of a knock on my door, upon opening it I find my muse; Mona Hebuterne, standing there with nothing but a jar of confiture and the smell of pine forests and the sea.

Barking on thin ice in search of Abstract Depressionism.

Jan Nieupjur writes:

Some time after the incident during which Jackson Pollock splattered my yellow bicycle with black paint (the yellow bicycle that killed my father): http://jannieupjur.blogspot.co.uk/2008/09/abstract-depressionism-jackson-pollock.html I noticed that the black was beginning to deteriorate in places leaving traces of the underlying yellow. This observation started the process which led in due course to my principles of Abstract Depressionism.


Returning to my studio after a bleak period of ceiling gazing I found a can of thick bituminous paint which I used to over paint the entire body of work from my earlier psychedelic/spherist phase where I had been experimenting with the new petroleum based pigments then becoming available. As a result of this 'expetrimentation' the works were both bright and colourful and reminiscent of a child's first contact with a crayon box. The thick black paint soon put a stop to that!
Mood # 27.

I ain't ageing the way i wanted to..

Picasso and the anguish of sponges

Throughout his life Pablo impacted on mine. I cannot say we had an easy relationship but I certainly think that it was a creative one. I first met him when I was a schoolboy. Picasso and Braque had come to my little school to assess the work of the art class. That year I had become distraught at the bursting of my favourite football at the hands of the village bully. I cut the ball into various pieces and mounted them on a board in a pleasing yet seemingly random manner. It was no longer recognizable as a sphere yet somehow conveyed sphereness. Both the men took great interest in my work and Picasso asked me what I called it.

'Analytic Spherism'. I replied... Picasso took notes in a little book.

In the 1930's I shared a studio briefly with Pablo in Paris. I have to admit that the clash of egos led to us soon going our own ways. One drunken evening Pablo was determined to demonstrate his skills as a matador, to that end we needed a bull; thinking quickly I removed the saddle and handlebars from my fathers yellow bicycle (the bicycle that killed him) and wired them together to make a very acceptable bulls head with which I proceeded to chase the little Spaniard about the studio. One or two veronicas later he tired and I managed to gore him nicely on the thigh producing a plentiful stream of blood. Dora Maar turned up and while bandaging the wound she demanded that I should leave.

I forgot to take my bicycle parts such was my keenness to go! I often wonder what happened to them.

One thing I did learn from Picasso was: Never trust a vegetarian who has a sponge in the bathroom. They are dead ANIMALS!

Francis Bacon and the future

I once had a drunken conversation with Mr Bacon (we were never formally introduced) in a Soho bar. I advised him that the 8 track stereo system was the way forward... How wrong I was.

Frieze... But is it art...

As I stolled through 'Frieze' last week a chill cut me to the bone.

I came away from the thing feeling depressed and dissappointed Yet at the same time I was elated by the fact that, as I inspected the fornicating, gold plated pigs, my muse (Mona Hebuterne) had sashayed up to me, giggled, and whispered in my ear. Showing me the direction I must now take.

Some of the pieces on show were good, some were even very good but they were in a small minority. surrounding this nucleus of work by established (Old School even) Artists was a bish bash bosh of dross. an assemblage of the most tawdry, lazy and crass objects I'd ever care to shake a stick at. One enormous tin of poo. It reminded me of nothing more than the wind blown detritus in a roadside hedge. This is when Mona opened my eyes to what I was looking at; this was not Art, this was at best a collection of half resolved observations on the state of art today, a drunken 'undergraduate' discussion informed by todays obsession with 'why' rather than 'what'.

Teachers in Art schools have become preoccupied with the thought processes with little interest in the quality of the finished work. The journey is all important, the destination irrelevant. Sadly what I saw leads me to believe that most of todays 'Art Travellers' are bogged down in a scuzzy camp-site in an unknown land.

It is not the fault of the artists. The blame must be equally shared between the cynical Art establishment and those that teach students to believe the hype. A fraction of Art school graduates have got what it takes to achieve even a mediocre greatness and they are being churned out lacking even the basic skills that might allow them to work in the commercial sector.

Is it a coincidence that a great number of young british Artists live and work in Hackney? their work is certainly hackneyed!

At Frieze one of the works on show was a large piece of old rope snaking accross the floor... Yes, they wanted money for it!

Talking turkey with the Crow

I met Le corbusier in a bar in Marseilles; Pastis on an empty stomach is not a good idea!

He was holding court; pontificating about his Purism bollocks, demonstrating that the main goal of the theorist is to listen to the sound of his own voice. he talked about his bravery in taking 'a road less travelled' and his vision for the future.

I pointed out that his road less travelled was a cul-de-sac and that his constructions worked adequately as sculptural objects but the minute he put a roof on them he was in trouble.

He accused me of misunderstanding the principles of Purism. I told him to shut up and ordered another drink... The first principle of Nieupjurism.

Years later I met him again. he took me to see one of his buildings in construction. He proudly pointed out the intricacies of a monstrous lump of concrete. "Well Jan. What do you think of my erection?"

"Exactly". I replied.

Standing at an open grave with Augustus John

I sometimes feel as if i have been standing beside an open grave my whole life. In the bottom of the hole lies the uncoffined body of Art. Throughout the 20th century the grave has been visited by a steady stream of 'artists', all of whom have, in turn, thrown a handful of earth upon the naked body. Recently the visitors have, as if desperate to hide the thing, taken to throwing in spadefuls.

For a while Augustus jumped into the hole and attempted to remove the dirt with nothing more than a teaspoon. He gave up in the end.

The grave is full now... I kneel beside it waiting for new shoots to appear.

Self portrait

As a young child I was given my own set of plastic tableware: plate bowl and beaker. these objects were yellow! I did not chose the colour yellow, I was told that the yellow ones were mine. From then onwards I would frequently be given yellow things; toys, clothes and the like. These objects were accompanied by the statement that yellow was my favourite colour, that had I the choice I would have opted for the yellow.

Yellow was not not my favourite colour. I would be hard pressed to name a favourite; I was never given the opportunity nor the luxury! I have a feeling that the colour was assigned to me in some kind of attempt to introduce a little brightness into an already dark and troubled child.

Even now, years later, if I am asked what my favourite colour is I am instinctively drawn to the word yellow... not to the colour but the word, as if yellow means favourite.

twenty years ago I made a picture of my childhood; It said everything I wanted or needed to say. It was both a portrait and a summary.
It consisted of a glazed, shallow wooden box. the box was lined with silver leaf upon which were placed a black and white image of myself aged three alongside a yellow plastic spoon (which I had taken from the Hayward gallery cafe; the artistic integrity of the object was important). The outside of the box was wrapped in mattress ticking to emphasise the comfortable environment that I appeared to inhabit. Unseen to the observer the back of the box was covered with an image of a mass of writhing snakes.

The choice of the plastic spoon was important in that accurately represented MY own self-regard; It was a valueless disposable item, even the colour was chosen on my behalf yet within its context it is transformed into something lyrical and poetic in its use of metaphor!
Something of no value is suddenly imbued with emotional importance. It has something to say. the rest of the symbolism is hackneyed and obvious but no less important for that.

This image was the first of a series of portraits using plastic cutlery of various colours, all taken from art galleries to ensure the Artistic integrity, culminating in a self portrait as a black plastic spoon. This consisted of nothing more than the spoon (from Tate Modern) mounted on a stark white wall! Again the cheapness and ephemeral nature of the object was central to the work. The black is self explanatory and its placement: Unbounded, in a vast white nothingness emphasised the lonliness and insularity of the depressions I had been subjected to from an early age. I laughingly refer to this work as Abstract Depressionism.

To me something miraculous happens: An object of no worth becomes invaluable in its ability to convey the lonliness and despair of depression. It appears to speak from experience.

FREE ART

Over twenty years ago I embarked on a series of harrowing self portraits. I chose as my medium plastic teaspoons that I had collected from Art galleries around the world. the series of works culminated in a piece entitled: 'Self portrait as a black plastic spoon'. I had acquired the spoon at Tate modern while having a coffee following a Cy Twombly retrospective. Taking the spoon home I mounted it against a pure white background. To me it was the distillation of My "Abstract Depressionist' period. I also realised as I glued the thing to the wall that I had created THREE DIMENSIONAL GRAFFITI.















I AM OFFERING YOU THE CHANCE TO OWN A GENUINE JAN NIEUPJUR for nothing more than the price of a drink. Visit tate Modern and buy yourself a coffee, as you do this you will be given the opportunity to take, at no extra cost, a copy of my work. when you have stirred the coffee wipe the spoon and place it in a pocket or bag. Take it home. When you have the work safely in your possession contact me and I will email to you a signed certificate of authenticity upon which you can then mount your work of art, knowing that it once resided in the Tate.



Please do not take spoons without buying a drink as this would constitute theft.

Abstract Depressionism & Jackson Pollock

Some time in the late 40's I had cycled out to Springs, Long Island for what would turn out to be a prolonged bout of drinking and painting with Jackson Pollock. I was riding the yellow bycicle that had once belonged to my father (the bycicle that killed him) because there was no way that I was going to let pollock pick me up from the station; I'd been driven by him once in that Oldsmobile convertible of his and swore never again.

Arriving at his studio I cycled straight through the door and over a large canvas laid out on the floor; the wheels of the cycle running through the wet paint Pollock had been applying with a turkey baster. He was pretty pissed off with my addition to his work but soon calmed down when I produced my Quart of Bourbon (memories of Duchamp) and we settled down to exploring the bottom of the bottle. Later and very drunk he suddenly stood, picked up a tin of black paint throwing it angrily over my yellow bycicle.

"There". He said. "Abstract Expressionism".

I picked up another tin of black and hurled the contents over his canvas. Saying - " And that, my friend is Abstract depressionism!"

When the paint on the bycicle was dry I rode it away from that mad place. I never saw Pollock again. But I knew that something important had taken place that day.

Muse #2

I did not realise that we had met until we parted, and then all I could do was hope that she would come for tea the following day as promised.

She was early.

Her name was Mona and she had travelled some distance to arrive at my door. Little knowing who or what she was I let her in then put the kettle on... how that kettle sang!

As muses do she saw in me something that I had long lost sight of. To her it was fresh and exciting, to me it was unoriginal and lacking fire. I worked well enough for a while; moving from painting to prose to poetry as my Muse took me but soon the old doubts crept back in. I took to solitary walks late at night and fussed over old work in order to avoid going forward. Eventually I took to my bed living off nothing more than maatjes and whiskey while Mona, sympathetic at first, became more and more strident in her demands that I work.

"You will kill yourself living like this". she screamed. "And then what will I do. I am carrying your art inside me like some unborn child. If you die I shall throw myself from the window and watch my past flash before me!"

"No. It will be your unlived future that will rush through your minds eye."

"Very clever Jantje! But I know who you have stolen that concept from"

"Enlighten me." I said.

"It is the basis of a story written by Tristan Hazell in the early 20th Century!"

"That is 40 years away. how on earth can I steal from something not yet written?"

"Because it is inside me! I will be his muse too and the seeds of his work lie dormant within me. you have somehow tapped into that which is his..."

I went back to my whiskey. thinking her quite mad.

Mona, exasperated, started painting herself. in the space of three days she had finished a dozen canvases, all the while screaming at me how easy it was. when the last canvas was completed she packed her bags and left... for another artist who naturally became the darling of the London scene for his vibrant use of colour that should have been mine.

I still own those canvases of hers.

Muse #3

Muses move from artist to artist in their search for a sympathetic medium. without physical manifestation they must rely on drunken bums like me to put paint on canvas. Resentment sets in when the drunken bum gets all the attention and the muse is consigned to the sideline. From my experience that is when the muse starts feeding the artist on maatjes and whiskey and planting odd ideas in his head.

Jesus is a black woman with a red hat.

Artist not attention seeker.

The artist's studio 53

My war.

As the result of a misunderstanding - My professors wife having misunderstood the time of her husbands return from Antwerp - I was drummed out of Art school and obliged to find refuge elsewhere. The army at that time (1914) seemed a safe place to hide; had I paid more attention to world events I might have realized otherwise. Very soon, after a rudimentary training, I found myself in the trenches. I quickly resolved to remove myself from the theatre of war by any means possible.

The opportunity arose on Christmas day. An armistice had been announced for 24 hours and we were enjoying the opportunity to dwell on the horrors of war without the constant bombardment of the senses that was trench warfare. Somewhere down the line a whistle sounded and as we peered over the ramparts a troupe of Tommies marched into no-mans-land armed with nothing but a football. A corresponding team of Germans emerged from their own trenches while a French major appeared from no-where offering to referee. The leader of the tommies called to us saying they were a man short; I promptly volunteered and found myself embroiled in the strangest football match ever to have been played.

My first (and last) act in the game was to synically scythe down a German corporal whose silly little moustache offended me. Corporal Hitler was stretchered off (later to be honoured for his injury recieved in the field of battle) and I was unceremoniously sent off... I trudged disconsolately to the sideline and as no-one seemed to be paying attention, continued walking.

Some time later as night was falling I found my path blocked by the North sea. Without thinking I rid myself of my uniform and waded into the icy water placing myself at the mercy of Neptune himself. I was pulled from the water by two fishermen, close to death they lathered me in lard and wrapped me in felt blankets allowing me to live on and tell this tale. I was nursed back to health in a rudimentary hut among the sand dunes by the charming young daughter of one of the fishermen, my sojourn only ending when my young nurse and I were caught self medicating one afternoon.

I managed to find passage on a cargo ship heading for Norway.

Years later I recounted this story to a German aviator named Joseph Beuys as we sat in a Munich bar killing a bottle of schnapps. I seem to remember that he took notes.

Intellectual mis-interpretation.

By 1917 I had escaped the horrors of the war in Europe. Travelling by cargo ship from Norway I arrived in New York penniless but full of hope.

I made my way to Marcel Duchamps studio where I knew I would recieve a warm welcome and enjoy scintillating conversation.

"Mutty". He cried when he saw me at the door. He had always called me Mutt or Mutty since once likening me to a lost puppy some years before. "Mutty, come in come in, have a drink and tell me about this ghastly business in Europe".

We talked late into the night and drank a considerable amount of Bourbon which I had never tasted before; to this day if I taste the stuff I am taken back to that Night in New York. Marcel had that day bought a new urinal for the bathroom, it lay on a table in a corner of the studio; at some time I had picked it up and admired it... "It is not Art Mutty" he had said. "Oh but it is". I had replied. He asked me why I could say this with such confidence. "Because, dear Marcel, I am an artist and if I say it is art it is art!"

I thought no more of this conversation until that very urinal appeared at the Society of Independent Artists. Emblazoned with the signature: R. MUTT.

Nearly ten years later, back in belgium, I recalled this incident to Rene Magritte. Rene asked me if i really did think it was Art... "Well it certainly wasn't a pipe!" I replied.

"Oh the treachery of images." He said!

My foot, Roland Crater and Dali.

I am often asked about my limp. More often than not I joke that it is the result of shooting myself in the foot. But I'm not joking.

Back in the early 60's I'd taken a road trip accross the United states of America; I will probably refer to that trip many times in these memoirs; It was eventful to say the least. Stopping for gas somewhere in Arizona I decided to cool down with a beer at a roadside bar and got into conversation with a local who went by the name of Roland Crater. One beer turned into many beers as the afternoon listened in on our wild stories and pretty soon the evening strolled by and decided to settle a while and hear himself some fine talk too.

I cannot remember who came up with the idea of shooting at cigarettes held between our toes but we soon had our boots off and were taking pot shots at our own feet. Roland was a dead shot and hit the cigarette every time.

I walk with this limp!

The following year I was in northern spain, staying with my old friend salvador Dali and his strange wife Gala. Sitting in the garden one morning I told him of my sharp shooting experience in Arizona and removed my espadrille to show him the bullet hole. Dali excitedly ran into the house and returned with a silver topped cane which he presented to me with much flamboyance. I use that stick to this day. He then produced a Luger that he claimed once belonged to an SS colonel, and demanded that we play the game. Dali was a crack shot and hit the cigarette every time.

I needed that stick.

On returning from the hospital Dali mixed martinis on the terrace and we fell to talking about art. We talked about the accusations being put about that Salvador was selling signed blank sheets of paper which were then introduced to fake etchings and sketches. He denied this vehemently and wished for some sort of revenge on the art world... To this end we decided that Dali would produce some drawings which I would then sign in his name, these works would then be introduced into the market-place through a well known dealer in Paris.

"Let us see if those ponces in Paris can tell their arse from their elbow. And can they spot a genuine Jan Nieupjur signature when they see one?"

Needless to say the artworld was happy to accept my signature as Dali's. I am not at liberty to say what those drawings are but they hang in major collections!

My limp?.. Sometimes I joke that it is Arthritis.

The Guggenheim and Warhol

My memories are like motes of dust; occasionally they sparkle and when they do I must capture them and pin them down like formaldehyde stunned butterflies. Sometimes the memory itself stuns me; as if I too have been dipped in the capture jar. Old Nabokov always liked a drop of his Killing fluid.

I am reminded (by an annonymous message (although I know who the message is from; how could I forget her)) of my performance at the Guggenheim in the mid 80's, I had intended to roller-skate all the way down the ramp at the gallery. Warhol was to film the event on super 8 and we intended to present a copy of the finished film to all the major galleries around the world apart from the Guggenheim itself. The purpose of the act was to create a 'fast forward' of my life and hint at my impact on modern art...

Warhol of course did not turn up! He had been pissed off with me for some time and just didn't bother. I was nabbed by security as I made my uncertain way down ( I had never roller-skated before) and unceremoniously removed from the premises. As I sat undoing the laces of my skates I was joined by a young French/Italian woman who had witnessed the whole thing. We talked about art and literature. We talked about Dylan and Springsteen. Her Name was Mona Hebuterne (Ithink I have spelled it right) and she gave me a pebble she had found on a beach in Devon; the pebble had a hole through the centre... I still have that pebble in my studio; when I need to focus on a single object or image I view it through the hole in the pebble. The pebble also reminds me of that day and of a magical woman who vanished as suddenly as she arrived.

It also reminds me my old friend Warhol.
Andy and I had had a mercurial relationship. I had met him in the sixties, he was working on his soup tins and stuff like that. I had arrived at the studio we shared to find Andy gone and a set of monochrome prints of Marilyn Monroe on the table: they looked unfinished to me so I applied bright overpaint to the prints; lips, eyelids and hair came alive... I was elated. Andy was not. We had a blazing row upon his return:
'Pop'. He said ( he always called me pop). 'I do not think that is art, pop'.
'Andy' I replied. 'One day the world will be clamouring for my 'popart'.
Well I guess Andy made a few bucks from that idea. But I'm not bitter. Andy then took to stealing my wigs and wearing them in public. He also airbrushed me from all the photographs of us in the studio... The rest isn't history.

Paint

Even before I could talk I would love to paint... We were poor and my mother would not spend money on paint or paper so I was obliged to beg what materials I could from the artists who regularily set up their easels alongside the canal. I suspect that by the age of six I had probably shared paint with some of the great artists of that time.

At school I was briefly instructed by Pieter Mondriaan (long before he removed an A from his name and moved to Paris). He asked us on one occasion to paint a picture that expressed our first memory...I painted this:

The black lines are the tram tracks my fathers bicycle wheels caught in; the yellow of course is the bicycle; the red is his blood and the blue is the water of the canal in which my father drunkenly drowned. Mr Mondriaan asked why there were no wheels or circles. I was obliged to state that I was developing a style of painting that did not rely on convential perceptions!

"You cheeky little cub" he replied. "Yes" I said, quick as a flash. "I shall call it CUBism!" Mr Mondriaan of course was greatly influenced by my early daubings and made a pretty sum from it I'm sure.

Milking a goat in a thunderstorm.

My mother developed eczema upon the death of my father, the doctor instructed her to avoid dairy products; not easy in our village, so she bought a goat. She called it 'Pomkin'. My job as a small boy (amongst all the other jobs) was to milk the damn thing. I loathed that goat.

In the November of my fifth year I was obliged to fetch milk for my mothers tea; a monstrous thunderstorm raged across the Low countries that night; The orchard momentarily lit by blinding flashes of lightening. Explosions of thunder would boom bronzily like Nabokov's dinner gong. Pompkin was in two minds as to which she hated most; the thunderstorm or my clumsy yanking at her dugs (the thought of those distended teats appalls me still). She chose to target me, lashing out with her hooves she landed a splendid kick to the centre of my forehead, rendering me unconscious for a short while. In falling I knocked over the milk pail and spilled my mothers precious milk, guaranteeing a beating when I returned to the house empty bucketed.

Since that day I have worn a triangular scar on my forehead and have had problems with my memory.

My father

My first act on entering this world was to kill my father.

Such was his excitement upon my arrival that he departed the house on his yellow bicycle with a box of cigars in the wicker basket hung from the handlebars and headed for his favourite bar to wet the babies head. Such enthusiastic head wetting had not been seen before in our little village; even the teetotallers gathered at the window to admire the debauchery.

when the bar had been drunk dry my father set out for home on his yellow bicycle much to the amusement of his many friends. 400 meters from home the wheel of the bicycle caught in the tram track alongside the canal, my father was pitched head first onto the cobbles cracking his skull open and rendering him unconscious. He then rolled into the canal, where he was discovered the next morning, face down and most certainly dead .

The yellow bicycle and the empty cigar box were returned to my mother by the gendarme who had been instructed to inform the widow. It was noted that the gendarme was smoking a cigar as he broke the news.

My mother naturally enough laid the blame for her husbands death squarely upon my new-born shoulders. I have carried that crime like a back pack ever since.

I faked my own life and then helped cover it up.