Whatever comes to mind before I alter it with the overpaint of time. Mostly satire, poetry and fiction but occasional unreliable fact, as all facts seems to be today. From deepest Notting Hill. London.
Saturday 27 June 2009
Beat
In 1963 I went to a party in Chelsea with a good friend who threw shapes in a beat combo when he wasn't throwing off the shapes of his nightmares or shaping up a hangover.
I thought I was a beat poet at the time so could write shit shaped poetry like that
I had bought a new pair of sneakers that day and my bullet wounds were playing up; yeah I hung with Michael X or was it Malcolm?
I met a girl; an artist, her name was quickly forgotten but I remembered it that night... I was enthusiastic.
She could not take her eyes off my sneakers and I witnessed an idea growing.
I wonder what became of her?
I found the photograph in an old copy of IT.
There was a photograph of a naked girl in that 1960's magazine who was the spitting image of nurse Caz. I confronted her with the image and she soon confessed that it was her mother.
I now know why nurse Caz has a passion for starched white cotton and sensible shoes.
Nurse Caz being hit on by a lipstick lesbian.
Friday 26 June 2009
Chivalry and Cod Latin.
(Even when crying; normally a distasteful sight), as she sat sobbing under a hankerchief tree.
Of course I approached her and offered assistance, a shoulder, and anything else for that matter.
I asked why she cried so publicly. She replied that she wept because she could not reach the hankerchiefs that festooned the tree above her.
I smiled then and reaching up, plucked a starched white flower from above and offered it to her.
She snatched it from my hand, still sobbing. then turned and waved the handkerchief at a man standing in a window of the house opposite. 'I surrender, I surrender.' she screamed.
Moments later the door of the house opened and the most beautiful woman in the world flew into the bastards arms, He then wiped away her tears with a tissue of lies.
Sic biscuittus disintergrat!
Saturday 30 May 2009
Tuesday 26 May 2009
Betjeman, Haidoku and Carol vorderman
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!
Saturday 23 May 2009
Tap dancers, surgeons, soap and Frida Kahlo.
Friday 22 May 2009
Grayson Perry, Nicholas Serota and the Chelsea flower show
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.
Tuesday 19 May 2009
Nude wrestling and Mahler
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.
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.
Monday 11 May 2009
An Amanuensis speaks of unspeakable things
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
Friday 8 May 2009
Hygiene and wendy in bondage
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
Thursday 7 May 2009
Fluentes Maiale.
Monday 27 April 2009
Cycling lessons with nurse Caz #1
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.
Wednesday 22 April 2009
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.
Monday 23 February 2009
Impulsive action photography
Impulsively I photographed 3 of the remaining 4 biscuits... What do you think?
Nurse Caz says that licking them hurts her tongue!
Thursday 19 February 2009
Fighting with Picasso (again)
Saturday 14 February 2009
Tits and photography
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!
Wednesday 11 February 2009
Get along little dogie and the stolen Oscar.
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)
'Get along little dogie' was the song that John sang in the shower at the beginning of the film.
Sunday 8 February 2009
Nieupjur's declaration of intent.
EVERYTHING MUST BE MEMORABLE.
Tuesday 3 February 2009
Moules Mariniere
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.
Sunday 1 February 2009
Inanimate humanism and the things I know about my mother.
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.
Saturday 31 January 2009
Tala Madani, Madame Zingara and a rebel yell.
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".
Friday 30 January 2009
Annie Leibovitz and West Ruislip.
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.
Friday 23 January 2009
Morocco, Modigliani and lesbian tea.
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.
Wednesday 21 January 2009
Notes written with a noisy pen.
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!'
Friday 12 December 2008
Piper at the gates of dawn.
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.
Wednesday 26 November 2008
Barking on thin ice in search of Abstract Depressionism.
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.
Monday 17 November 2008
Friday 7 November 2008
Picasso and the anguish of sponges
'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
Sunday 19 October 2008
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!
Friday 3 October 2008
Talking turkey with the Crow
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.
Tuesday 30 September 2008
Standing at an open grave with Augustus John
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
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.
Monday 29 September 2008
FREE ART
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.
Friday 26 September 2008
Abstract Depressionism & Jackson Pollock
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.
Thursday 25 September 2008
Muse #2
Muse #3
Tuesday 16 September 2008
Monday 15 September 2008
My war.
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.
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!
Sunday 14 September 2008
My foot, Roland Crater and Dali.
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.
Monday 11 August 2008
The Guggenheim and Warhol
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.
Sunday 10 August 2008
Paint
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!
Milking a goat in a thunderstorm.
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.
Thursday 7 August 2008
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.