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!