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.