It's finished!

Best photo of Big Foot - not saying much - I know!

Hoorah! Big Foot is behind glass and I feel as if I'm the one that's given birth.  It's been a fascinating experience to watch Big Foot come into existence.  This is not an easy thing to do, because much of Johnny's work takes years to come into being and joining in part way through is like picking up a TV serial after missing earlier episodes.  But on this occasion I have been present from conception to birth.

Big Foot has occupied a great deal of Johnny's attention, in fact more than that, he has been captivated and this painting has become something very special to him.  Last night, I saw BF for the first time, hanging on the wall in Johnny's sitting room.  It was dark; the painting is dark, with many shades of black.  'There is no white paint AT ALL in Big Foot,' said Johnny, fixing me with a tractor-beam gaze.  'You know I don't do exhibitions - but when I committed myself to London it sparked me up.  I knew I needed to so a special painting - but I didn't know where it was going to come from. Big Foot is it - if people understand Big Foot, they'll understand everything in the exhibition. Now that Big Foot's framed - and the glass is the final part of the illusion - the rest of the exhibition will fall into place.'

So Clive, you can relax - the first one's done!

Me and others in Big Foot

It seems fitting that Big Foot is hard to photograph ...  that's always been his trouble.

Sequel

email response from Johnny re the mark ...

the mark for the painting

is now lost in time.

The hazards of painting

'I nearly set fire to myself last night,' said Johnny fixing me with a penetrating gaze.
'Johnny! what have you been doing now?'  I replied aghast.
'Well, I was sitting in my chair studying a painting.'
'Which one?' I asked.
'I can't remember - but the thing is, my chair is at a perfect distance from the painting - everything looks glazed over - I like to look at a painting when it's slightly out of focus. Anyway, I was looking at the painting on the easel and smoking.  I saw the precise place on the painting for a small mark - a very insignificant mark, but the position was critical.  So, I focussed on this blurry spot - I didn't dare take my eyes off it, in case I lost the place - put my cigarette out, still keeping an eye on the spot see.  Then I stood up - still looking at the spot - took one stride and screamed with pain! What had happened was the end of the cigarette had dropped into the lap of the Thai  pants that I was wearing (voluminous and flammable),  I stood up, the cigarette end dropped onto the carpet, but the trousers were smouldering.  I instinctively dropped my trousers and jumped up and down on them to put the fire out - which was quite successful by the way.  The only damage I sustained was that pubic hair on the right hand side was burned.'

Well that's alright then.  I wonder if he made the mark after all that excitement.

Envelopes and Big Foot

In 1971, Johnny was married with a young family, living in Harrogate, teaching at Harrogate College of Art and painting.  His paintings were being sold at the Nicholas Treadwell Gallery in London and he recalls,  'Nicholas Treadwell was the first guy that took me on - I was with him for about three years.  I never had an exhibition, but he sold everything I sent down.  But,' Johnny emphasises, with a prolonged pause and intense stare, 'I don't want my work to be sold, I want it to be bought!'

This attitude and principal is one that I couldn't understand when I first met Johnny.  Johnny's nearly always hard up, but even in dire straits, he will not sell a painting unless he feels it is going to a good home. In disbelief, I've watched him turn down enquiries to view or buy, because the prospective clients failed the adoption criteria.  End of story.

The  Envelope painting, done in 1971 (see earlier in blog about Johnny's envelopes) was a watershed and the point that Johnny gave himself permission to do and be what he is.  It was an emotionally turbulent, charged period as Johnny tried to manage the tensions between his deeply introspective world and the demands of the exterior one.  He remembers, 'The envelope paintings brought things to a head.  I was painting things I didn't want to paint.  I thought fuck it!  Here we go!  I got all my paintings back from Nicholas Treadwell, gave up my job.  The wife got the house and kids.'  The decisions were not taken lightly and it was a distressing time for all concerned.

His last exhibition was in 1972 at the West Yorkshire Playhouse.  'Since then,' he recounts, 'I've exhibited in pubs, furniture shops and where friends have given me space.  The whole point is my undergroundness.  The story of my life is my paintings.'

Last night, Big Foot came up in conversation. (It is still turned to the wall and framing is beginning to feature in the conversation.) 'I think I'm onto something with Big Foot,' said Johnny. 'I've never been able to recreate the envelope - the experience of painting it.  I've been trying to capture it ever since and now, for the first time since, I feel something akin to it with Big Foot.'

'What is the camera focussing on? (Look for the silver corners.) The thing the camera is focussing on is an illusion!'

It seems that some kind of completion/cycle might be going on.  'Big Foot,' says Johnny, 'is the inside of the envelope.  It's your imagination.'


The sayings of Don Juan Quixote
At seventy, my doctor said to me, 'Well Johnny, you can't die prematurely.'

the progress of Big Foot

'Well how's Big Foot doing?'  I enquired of Johnny.
He inhales slowly, brow and nose furrow into deep creases.  Tension is relieved with a ponderous exhalation.  'Phhh...'  as he considers.  'Well -'
I wait.  He goes through the breathing and furrowing cycle again.  I'm wondering what deeply philosophical insight is about to be revealed.  'I don't know,' he finally replied, 'I think it might be finished - go up and have a look.'

Works in progress

'Don't take a direct picture of Big Foot,' he instructed.  So I backed off and was permitted to photograph Big Foot with companions.  We were in a bit of a rush, so I didn't waste time (in all honesty, if I took a long time, things wouldn't be any better) and clicked away, without really paying attention to the paintings. However, I've really enjoyed looking my photographs of Big Foot.  He is there.  Now how do you do that in paint?

Works in progress

Last night, Johnny informed me that Big Foot is now turned to the wall.  'I think it's finished, but can't look at it any more.  I'll leave it alone for a while and then have another look.  It's best when the painting is finally behind glass, then I can't do any thing else to it.'

Time

Two weeks ago, Johnny came back from his pre-exhibition trip to London.  In the past, these occasions have always been a pinnacle of anxiety for all parties, with Johnny starting to stress the minute Clive informs him of departure times.  Clive lives (stressfully) in hope that Johnny will make the train.  (Johnny has been known not to!).

It is also extremely important not to hassle, or rush Johnny in any way, because this brings out a belligerence that is at odds with his usual, affable, easy-going self.  And the more he feels hassled, the slower he goes.  He did this to me when we were all going to the opera (with huge notice of event and persistent gentle reminders of time and date).  Having arrived on time to collect him, my car is still parked outside 30 mins later (in an area patrolled by ESP Traffic Wardens).  There are four of us in the car, waiting in our posh frocks and best suits and guess who insisted on one final cup of tea?  I was ready to throttle him but daredn't, because I knew he was picking a fight, which would give him the excuse not to go.  And that's where he has us, because we really, really want him to come.  Humph!

Ready then?

Johnny doesn't do time - he feels it, rather than refer to a watch (same, same brothers Paul and Phil). I was the only watch wearer on our Thailand trip and therefore, out of some kind of misguided sense of urgency (trains, boats, planes - that kind of thing) and instinct for order rather than chaos, I along with Marta, (she is similarly misguided) would attempt to marshal them into moving. This is like herding cats. Five minutes from departure time, Phil would decide on a shower.  Johnny would wait until one minute prior to leaving and decide to change his shoes, whilst muttering belligerently that he had been ready for hours!  Hah!  Paul too was a nightmare with his baseball boots (visiting temples required extra-time), until he discovered clogs and from then on, would be ready first.  Of all the brothers, I think Paul has the best sense of punctuality.  Perhaps it's from years of having to turn up on the right day and time for a gig.

However, for Johnny's latest trip to London, I observed a new man in action.  'I am really looking forward to this trip,' he confided. 'I am excited about the exhibition.  Everything about it feels good - all the people who are helping me do this.  I want to do it - to put on a really good exhibition that people will enjoy.' Johnny was on time, calm and not a peep from Mr Grumpy!

Big Foot

JM - renowned for singular footwear

Says Johnny, ‘The Big Foot image is so vague – like the photos of him.  Big Foot could be a man with a hairy outfit.  I think my Big Foot is down that road – he’s vaguely humanoid, but there are no recognisable features.  We think he’s got two arms.

I think I'm going to end up with a humorous exhibition.  When I’m in my Studio, it’s my tardis.  If I'm in the mood and Egypt bound, I can do an Egyptian painting and I’m there.

Imagination is not concrete, but it’s as close as you can get to a UFO.’

***

 And on health matters, Don Quixote says,

‘If I cough too much, I'll stop smoking – I'm not daft!’

Delusion

This subject features a lot.

On the subject of Big Foot - says Johnny, 'It's to do with delusion - you can't do my sort of paintings unless you are deluded - because only you can believe it can have the depth.

I've been watching a programme about Yeti and Big Foot.  I don't believe it, but it's been interesting to listen to people who believe he is real - like UFOs, if I'm into reality, I've got to believe in UFOs.

Reality doesn't really exist - it's a state of mind.  When you are in a dream, it does exist and while you are in it, you are living it.  What sense have I made out of it?  It's something to do with spirituality and the need for a human being  to believe in something out of this world - and this is where reality comes in- they've invented for their own reasons, gods for people to believe in.'

The Studio - what about the feet?

I do wonder who 'they' are.  Because if they are we and we are they, is this  a collective delusion? Or maybe selective delusion ... or elective delusion - and exactly what quorum is required for the confirmation of reality ... or delusion ..?

Johnny makes me think.  They maybe ridiculous thoughts, but it's fun to play around!  'So what's your painting 'Big Foot' like?' I ask.
'Black,' says Johnny.





Photo of Big Foot to follow at some point.

Back to Don Quixote

I'm sorry for the gap.  I have been consumed by piano, the National Trust and new job.  I've felt guilty for not writing but post-Serbia, I couldn't make the connection somehow.  Johnny's world was remote and I was detached.  I could not write - although I wanted to - but nothing I wrote seemed worth reading - so I kept pushing the delete key.  I'm not sure that I feel up to it right now, but it's time.  I know it's time because last week I was in London and went to the Royal Ballet to see Don Quixote!  It was a birthday present from my daughter and it was three hours of magic, which was over in ten minutes.  All the time I was watching, I was thinking of my own Don Quixote, who chases windmills.

One of Johnny's latest 'windmills' is Big Foot.  There is a painting on the go ..  is Big Foot real, or is he a delusion?  To Big Foot believers, he is undoubtedly real and the non-believers are deluded.  To non-Big Foot believers, it is the believers who are deluded.  Who is right? I don't know, if I was with a load of committed believers, I might end up a believer. If I was with non-believers (who seem to set the standard in this instance), I will remain a non-believer because I am sceptical of Big Foot's existence.

Johnny was in London this week to do all the exhibition stuff he thought he hated and would be a horrible experience.  He finds that the gallery will move heaven and earth so that he can light his paintings appropriately. The PR people are a delight.  And he spent an ecstatic few hours at the Paul Klee exhibition.  Paul Klee is one of Johnny's 'mentors' and source of inspiration.

This is one of my favourite paintings and was the first Johnny Middleton I bought.  It's called 'In memory of a poem of Paul Klee.'  At the time I bought it, it was simply a memory of a fantasy night, lying on my back on a beach on Koh Phangnan and gazing at the universe. Now, it has become 'Echoes'.  This is what I love about abstracts - they shift with you - but it is still and always will be, 'Starry, starry night.'

Hmm

Yours truly has been in a great deal of 'stuff' since last posting.  I've been seeing Johnny, but have not been able to get it together to write.  I have been struggling to land since my Serbian experience ...

Notes from Serbia

Where to eat?  Spoilt for choice

Novi Sad to be exact - it's Serbia's second city about an hour and a half by car from Belgrade and on the River Danube.  I was captivated by this elegant town, with its ribbons of pastel terraces, Battenburg cake-style.

Yours truly has been in piano heaven for the last week - at the World Piano Conference which turned out to be a mind, body and spirit experience - and I did quite a lot of that (although mostly in the form of wine).  I have met truly wonderful souls - extraordinarily talented artists, their friends and families who welcomed me into their world.

Where else to be on a hot day?

I did wonder what I was going to find.  Six weeks ago, Serbia was not even on the radar as a place to visit.  However, my love affair with piano, combined with my friend Justin's enthusiasm for Serbia and piano made me want to go and I am so glad I did.










For a week, I've wallowed in piano, watched outstanding teachers at work, laughed till I've cried and I'm certain that I have made some special friends.  And then there was the partying!  I didn't want to leave and I am still not properly home.










It would have been so easy to have chosen not to go and I would have died in ignorance - whose loss would that have been?

The Danube

It was a delight today, to chat to a young Hungarian man, selling ice cream in the car park, at Brimham Rocks.  Budapest is not that far from Belgrade and I felt a spark of connection.

Wall-paper

Conversation with Matisse

What is most important: the art on the wall , or the art on the paper? No prizes for guessing which is important to Johnny.

Johnny likes to remain in contact with his paintings and when Johnny visits me, he usually disappears for a little while and I will find him somewhere, standing in front of one. I know he's saying, 'Hello,' and enjoying re-connecting with an old friend.  (He will tell me if he approves of its location and lighting - vanity?  They are his 'stars'.)

So imagine his dismay, when he visits friend P, to find that the house has been re-decorated.  'Where are my paintings?'  asks Johnny.
'Under the bed,' says P.
'Why?'
'My wife doesn't want to spoil the wallpaper.'

'His wife went out while we knocked the nails in,' said Johnny.

Attitude: on Art

'It's a matter of respect - it's given me a life.  I have to find out myself what a painting is all about - a lifetime isn't enough.  I love painting and finding out something about me and my experience of life - and I am intrigued.

All I've ever wanted is to do a good painting - it's the painting that matters.  You're forced into the position - because you're fucking hard up - that you've got to sell it - but you try to sell it to someone who appreciates what you're trying to do.'

I saw a mouse

Amstel

Where?
There on the stair - right there!
A little mouse with clogs on,
Well, I declare!
Going click clickety clack
On the stairs ...
In a windmill in old Amsterdam.

In the winter of 1983, Johnny was sharing an attic there with them.

Johnny recalls, 'The houses were very narrow but very tall - built on sand.  Terraced buildings are more stable and everyone has an attic.  It was quite romantic - like going back a hundred years - the area was the 'Montmartre of Amsterdam'.  The landlord lived in a flat about three floors below.

Amstel

'The mice were my house guests.  I'd buy a kebab or something, get into my sleeping bag and eat my meal by candle light.  The light caught their eyes and there would be a twinkling ring of them around my sleeping bag.  I'd give them the left overs away from my bed and I could hear them tucking in.

'I moved out of the attic and into a converted barge on the Amstel.  I studied how to paint water.'

.

Preparations begin

Artist's chair

Another June arrives and another summer seems to be busy elsewhere.  Perhaps that's why I have been suffering from a profound lethargy, which has dogged me since my return from foreign parts.

However, despite my state of mind, preparations for the exhibition are moving on regardless and this week, Jen came up from London to begin the task of writing the blurb for the catalogue.

She scribbled diligently for three hours, whilst Johnny recounted his life history.  It's hard work listening and writing and Johnny's deafness and quiet speech don't help.

'So it was an arts and crafts shop your father had?' Jen checked.
'No,' replied Johnny, 'he died of a heart attack'.

Don Quixote 3

Tonight at the Brasserie, David's (pianist) wife was in situ. Johnny greeted her accordingly and David couldn't stop laughing!

Don Quixote 2

Don 3

Sitting in sunshine outside the Brasserie, Johnny finally recounted the events of last night.  ‘I’d had three vodkas – no more than that – I’m doing really well! Anyway, I’m going in for my fourth.  The sun was glaring and I wouldn’t move out of its path – I could feel it infiltrating my soul – I fucking needed it.   So, I go inside.  Well as soon as you get through the door, it’s an intense black because of the sun and you can’t see anything, except vaguely – you know your way to the bar, sort of thing.

David’s playing the piano and in the seat opposite was a woman.  When David’s wife comes, she always sits in that seat.  So I went up with my glass in my hand, boomed, ‘Hello Darling!’ and went in with the lips.  I got about this far (hand-span) from this woman and suddenly realised that it wasn't her!  It was a complete fucking stranger and there was a companion, a younger woman sitting opposite. Anyway, I kind of backed off and I said, ‘I do apologise, it’s a case of mistaken identity – I thought you were David’s wife and she said, ‘he should be so lucky!' So I kissed her on the cheek anyway, said it was nice to meet her, you see and made my departure.

Anyway today, Mike (perfect bartender and host) came across and told me that the women were transvestites - I thought she had a very low voice for a woman.  And not only that, eventually when I realised – I mean it could have gone really badly couldn't it? But I didn't get that sort of response from this woman.

The thing is, that is eccentric behaviour – it’s like Don Quixote’s windmill – he thought there was a giant there, but it was a windmill - like an illusion and this is the same thing – I thought it was David’s wife, but I couldn’t see her and this woman had the same kind of long hair.  I wondered why the companion was looking at me in a very strange way.

Anyway, I've learnt my lesson!  I could make that kind of communication with completely the wrong kind of person.’

‘You could get thumped,’ I said.

‘So I'm going to change my behaviour and stand in the doorway until my eyes adjust.’

‘But that could be another kind of eccentric behaviour,' said I, 'people may wonder why this man comes in through the door and stands still.’

‘You know,' Johnny continued, 'when straight people come into the Studio, they blink and can’t see anything.  Then they fidget, don’t know where to look, think let’s get out of here and run out, saying they've forgotten to do the shopping!’

Don Quixote 1

Yours truly has been basking in much needed 70 degree sunshine on the Costa Blanca for the last week: Benidorm to be exact. It's a strange place, dedicated to bargain-basement hedonism for northern Europeans, but Spain is there, even if it is well buried beneath tons of tourist tat.

I stood on my balcony every morning and gazed at the implacable  crumpled, silver-grey mountains of Puig Campana that loom over the resort and wondered what they would make of the carryings-on of these funny little beings on holiday.  The mountains have outlived the Moors, seen Franco come and go and they'll still be there when we've long gone.

Musing, whilst gazing, Don Quixote came to mind.  I've always loved Don Quixote.  Even as a little girl and didn't know the book, I had learned that Don Quixote was quirky; a possessor of an impeccable, left-handed sort of logic that got him into all sorts of scrapes, but because he had a good heart and an innocence, in the end it would be alright.

Don Quixote and Sancho hang on the wall in my hall.  I bought the painting when I was twelve on a trip to Paris with my mother.  It's painted by Pedro and cost £10: all of my spending money for a week.

Me, Montmartre,age 12

I look back now and it was a strange thing to do, because at twelve, paintings weren't the sort of thing I bought.  My £10 would usually have been destined for Parisian tourist tat.  But I do remember having to have it and it's turned out to be prophetic because thirty-eight years later I met my own Don Quixote and he was in action whilst I was away.



At  my post-holiday catch-up with Johnny last night,  he reported, rather mysteriously, that there had been an incident in the Brasserie the previous night. More than that he would not say.  'Later on Gill,' he said.




As we walked into the Brasserie, barman Joe began to laugh.  'You should have been here last night - it was a scream,' he said and unhelpfully, from my point of view, dissolved into further fits, incapable of coherent conversation.

The tale will have to wait until tomorrow as the words and thoughts are going blurry and I need to make some sense of it all.

It's nice to be back!

Roots in Sheffield

Made in Sheffield: Johnny, Paul, Phil, Gill.

The back-cloth to Johnny's birth in 1940 is war-time, industrial Sheffield. With his father away at war, the first seven years of his life were spent with his mother’s family in the village of Wortley, set in idyllic countryside outside Sheffield.

At the end of the war, Johnny met his father and the idyll was replaced by the grim reality of life in Dalton, on the outskirts of Rotherham; a hardworking, harsh environment, where most lads’ futures lay down the coal mine or at the steel works and not in lofty halls of learning.  In that stark reality, Johnny’s independent nature was fostered.

‘My father didn’t give me much,’ he reminisces, ‘but he had a room full of books – all early English water colours and I used to go and look at them.  They were an escape from my reality – which wasn’t too good.  I was ten and beginning to be aware, without understanding why, that for some reason, I didn’t fit in.’

A means of escape

The family moved to Bridlington when Johnny was thirteen and during the turbulence of the break-down of his parent’s marriage, his constant companion and escape was his developing passion for art.  By sixteen, he was captivated by the Impressionists and their vivid world.  ‘Artists were portrayed leading wonderful lives of romance and being hard-up and I wanted to be part of it.  I knew I wasn’t going to find it in the Bridlington of the late fifties, so I moved to Leeds and the West Indian community in Chapel Town – my first fascinating taste of a vibrant, different culture.’

He survived by labouring on building sights, painting in every spare moment and visiting galleries to study the works of artists.  The misfit boy who hated school was transforming into the man who uses his paintings to try and make some sense of it all.

In the late 1960s Johnny had settled in Harrogate and was on his way to establishing a career and reputation in the contemporary art world: teaching, lecturing and exhibiting.  However, by 1972 he was struggling to manage the tensions between mounting, external career pressures and his deeply introspective self.  Contemporary art was moving away from the influences of painting and drawing, both of which are fundamental disciplines for Johnny and he eventually withdrew from the outside world to devote himself entirely to painting without compromise.

Thatcher's funeral

As this is a diary and a record of our journey to the Exhibition, I am noting her funeral today because it is a national event and not because I feel anything, other than relief that she is gone.  My father's family came from Durham mining stock and the Middleton's from Sheffield and Rotherham: they aren't crying either.

Paul and his Angst Band always finish Wednesday night at the Blues Bar with Hey Mama, the pre-amble to which is 'Sheffield 1953': Paul's take on Thatcher's impact on his community.  I'm sorry I haven't a video to show you of Paul performing this - it really is a treat!

Sheffield 1953
I was pedalling down Rawmarsh High Street on my tricycle.
My eyes are streaming with water.  Why?
Because on Monday night they've been smelting iron ore
And the red dust was getting into my eyes,
Blown up from the corners of the street.
I was sat at the bus stop, looking up at the double decker buses.
And on the top deck are men in flat caps -
And I know they're wearing clogs.
And they're smoking Woodbines and Park Drives
And they're coughing a lot.





And they're on their way to the smelting works in Park Gate,
Or, they're on their way home from the smelting works in Park Gate.

And then along came Margaret Thatcher

Or, they're on their way to the steel works in Sheffield,
Or, they're on their way home from the steel works in Sheffield.

Or, they're on their way to the pits in Barnsley,
Or, they're on their way home from the pits in Barnsley:
And they're coughing a lot.

And they're happy, because they know that at home,
Wifey is pumicing the front doorstep.
Wifeys were proud of their front door steps.
Also, their doors were always open,
So no matter how much shit I got in my eyes,
A wifey will come out and say,
'Are you alright love?
Here, come in.
Does your Mum know where you are?
Do you want a jam sandwich?'
'Thank you missus.'

Life was good!

And then along came Margaret Thatcher!

And now, where once there were pits
And where there were steel works and smelting works,
There's leisure centres and fucking Tescos as big as Doncaster!
And there's one coming to a town near you!

Paul Middleton

Exhibition dates for your diary!

Well, it's done!  Clive and Sarah have booked the Coningsby Gallery, London 8th - 14th June 2014.


'I'm really excited!' said Johnny.
'Well look it!'  I instructed.

I was granted one shot ...

Gallery address:

Coningsby Gallery
30 Tottenham Street
London
W1T 4RJ

Johnny is planning his paintings.  I am planning my wardrobe.

Daiva's perspective

Daiva

Beautiful, enigmatic Daiva has modelled for Johnny for four years.  Just before she left Harrogate last week to return to her home in Lithuania, I asked her to tell me how she came to be one of his models.  She is herself an accomplished artist and dancer and widow of sculptor Jonas Luksiate.

'It was in Blues Bar - it was my second dance performance.  After performance Marta came and asked, 'Can Paul’s brother draw you?'

I said, 'I don’t know him – if I know his style, maybe.

We had  meeting in his studio.  I saw only abstracts and no figurative.  He said he did figurative work many years ago and he was trying to get back into it.  He showed me some of his drawings and they were amazing.  The line was perfect, very sharp where it should be sharp and soft, where it should be soft.

I find that this man is a genius at drawing the line – not everyone can do it.  I saw a drawing of leg and hand holding a cigarette. The line so perfect to give an expression of hand – only one line to show shape.  He is really good artist and I can give my time.

He said that at the moment he is interested to draw legs, if I can model to sit or stand.  So I said yes I can do it.

I remember two years ago, I was sitting on a chair in the Studio modelling – my dream was to go to India to learn the Bharatanatyam (Indian classical dance).  I was saving my money to go to India.  It was maybe a few months before I leave,  I was sitting very quietly looking at paintings in front of me  and dreaming about travel.  He did drawing on white paper – only line.

Entrance to the Temple

 After few weeks I asked him if he had finished the painting and he had.  I was shocked because he draw my leg, with the dancer's bells and between my legs he put the painting that I had been looking  at – the painting is 'Entrance to Temple'.  It was as if he had read my mind – subconsciously he put everything in one – my mind, my figure and my dream.  I asked, "How did you do this? This is magic?"

In India, I was there to learn dance, but I met Brahmans and spent two weeks in temple – they taught me about the dance and the ritual.  I found more information about the dance from Brahmans - the knowledge is about ten thousand years old.  I came to the Entrance to Temple.

I had dreamed of learning the Bharatanatyam dance since I was ten – I don’t know why.  After thirty years, he draw me and  – he did magic – he opened the doors for me to the mystery of the dance - the meaning of the entrance to temple.  I have connection with Johnny of high level – he is incredibly intuitive.

My husband was sculptor and he did a lot of my figure in bronze and marble and they were really beautiful.  He was professional sculptor – Jonas (Johnny) - so I know how my body looks and I was modelling all my life – I was like a muse for him.  He expressed the politic, the essence … Some of his sculptures are in parks and museums in Lithuania.  He died eight years ago.

Johnny by Daiva

I am artistic, I love to paint characters – Paul, Marta and Adam the drummer.  I am familiar with art – can see line, detail.  Johnny’s art is professional plus magic.'

I'd had a wonderful evening with Daiva and been given a fascinating, perceptive glimpse through her eyes.  Why is it that you often meet the loveliest people, or find the best bar or restaurant on the last night of a holiday, yet they have been under your nose all the time?

Seeing things

'I can't find my brown glasses,' said Johnny, 'and I need them.  I've looked all over for them.'
'Well, let me have a look - sometimes a pair of fresh eyes will do the trick,' said I, supremely confident in my ability to find them.


I began in the Studio - Johnny was in the process of tidying.  'The problem is,' said Johnny, 'I've some big paintings on the go - they take up space and I can't do figurative work when it's in such a tip.'

They're bound to be here, I thought...

 Or here ...

One of these, surely?

 Or these?

Or these?

Yes?

Mission failed.

'Did you find them?' I asked days later.

'Yes.'

'Where were they?'

'I can't remember - then I lost them again - but I found them under the bed.'

I must count the pairs of spectacles - just for interest.

The man who lost his head

The man who lost his head

The story behind the painting

It developed from a true story.

'Hundreds of years ago,' recounted Johnny, 'I was in Notting Hill somewhere.  It was very, very windy and I was looking to cross a road.  There was a guy walking on the other side and his hat blew off - but underneath he was wearing a wig.  The hat flew off and the wig, still stuck to his forehead, flopped forward and covered his face.  Quickly he pushed the wig back onto the top of his head, held it down with his hand and then chased after his hat.  The scene was crazed  - people moved out of his way.  He was crazed - when his hat blew off, he lost his head.'

Mind, body and spirit

Johnny's been to the doctor's this week - in pursuit of better hearing - nothing serious.  Doctors do feature quite frequently in Johnny's life.  'Johnny,' sister Gill will tell him, 'you are suffering from Creaking Gate Syndrome!'
'I am,' says Johnny, 'it's to do with getting old!'

Johnny takes his health seriously and his doctor's advice now and again.  His relationship with the medical profession?  A paradoxical one:  he trusts doctors, but not always the cure or cause.

Take cholesterol for example.  Last year, the doctor told Johnny that his cholesterol level was on the high side and would like him back for a further test in a month.  Now, what would you do?  If it were me, I would reduce the animal fat intake and hope that would bring the level down.  What did Johnny do?  He upped his burger intake to see if it raised it.  'That way,' says Dr Middleton, using his unique branch of logic, 'I will know it's the burgers and to stop eating them.'  The cholesterol was alright as it turned out.

'There's nothing wrong with me,' said Johnny after this week's visit.  'Every time I see the doctor, he can't cure me - because there is nothing wrong.  As I walk through the door, he says, "I can't help you John," but he did recommend olive oil for my ears.  He knows giving me a prescription doesn't work - but olive oil is OK - I haven't used it yet.'

Inspired by Edward Lear

They went to sea in a sieve

My artist friend Johnny painted letters, he did;

He would stretch paper thin and read what to put in,

Since it’s verses he painted (not face, hands or feet),

Carefully lettering each word, sort of jumbled, yet neat

And then hanging it up on a pin.

And if pleased, he’d retire for an early door’s jar.

To be greeted by friends with, ‘Hoorah!  Here you are!

And the hour is still young! Are you staying for long?’

‘Not likely,’ says Johnny, ‘that would be quite wrong!

For my poem’s half painted!  My mind’s in a spin!

And my verse will be worse after more than a few.

Even now as we speak I should be where I live

To save Jumblies from drowning in green, gold and blue

By painting the holes in their sieve.’

Gillian  Tarn

July 2012

The End

I caught up with Johnny last night: we had early doors in the Brasserie.  It was a music night and thanks to Siberia, the usual 'turn', David Bailey, keyboard player extra-ordinaire, who we all love, was marooned in Chesterfield, so the slot was filled by Simon 'keys' Parkinson, who had valiantly turned out to fill the gap (he is extra-ordinaire too - and speaks French). So Siberia retreated a little and the show went on!

Simon is a pivotal figure in Johnny's digital life, keeping his computer in order - Johnny trusts Simon.  Johnny doesn't trust me, which I think is a little unfair!  Anyway, at break time, Simon came over to chat and as always, when you put characters together, stories will out.

It would seem that back in the late swinging sixties and early seventies, Johnny tried his hand at music.  His instrument?  Well, what do you think, given his sensitive and deeply introspective tendencies?  Naturally, it was the drums and I pictured Johnny behind a drum-kit - you know - bass, tom-toms, snare and cymbals.  Well no.  Johnny's kit would be singular wouldn't it? The bass drum  was a carry-on-the-chest-marching one, with a cradle specifically created by J, so it would stand, plus snare and a range of bells, pans, tea-cups and dangling things to tinkle on.

The man who lost his head

And what bands did Johnny belong to?  Well, there were the Alarming Clocks, the Impossible Men and Johnny's favourite, the End, with brothers Phil and Paul and son Perry. 'We never knew when we got on stage,' Johnny reminisced, smiling beatifically, 'what we were going to do.  I played drums and just battered away - we played Phil's songs.  I wrote a piece of music you know.'
'Did you?'said Gill.
'Really?' said Simon.'
'Yes,' said Johnny with a far away look in his eyes, 'it was called 'Industrial Revolution'.  It was inspired by the time when I was painting and decorating in a steel works and it was a cacophony of noise.  I said to the band, "I've written a fantastic song - it'll go on for half an hour!"

We set up for 'Industrial Revolution' at the Cock and Castle pub in town.  We had a washing machine, hair drier, vacuum cleaner - and something that didn't work properly, but I can't remember what it was.  We charged 2/6 entrance.  Then we just turned everything on and stood at the bar.  Unfortunately, everyone demanded their money back.  Unfortunately, we'd drunk it.  "What do you mean, you want your money back?" we said. "This is avant garde!"'

'Well I would have asked for my money back too!' said I, in fits.

'The thing is,' continued Johnny dreamily, 'when they (instruments) all get going, if you're prepared to get into it, you will find a rhythm ...  While we were at the bar the Drug Squad - about seven of them, came in.  They came whenever we played because Phil had written a song called 'Pigs in Plain Clothes' - they loved it because it was about them.'

I'm not so sure Johnny's reasoning here is correct, but I hope it is.

And now I'm off to practise Brahms: from the ridiculous to the sublime!

Home sweet home

After three days in London ping-ponging between sublime, ridiculous and bizarre realities, spilling into the nocturnal time zone, I arrived home in a state of jet-lag.  It has taken until now to regain composure, delayed no doubt by bitter cold and yet more snow.  My drive resembles a piste and I am piste off. The Great Weather Controller in the Sky seems to be having trouble finding the correct co-ordinates for Siberia.  In case, the GWCS is reading this, then you have got it wrong by about 2000 miles - again!

However, my hobbit hole is exerting its magic and I am coming round.  I itch for three things when I'm away: my piano; my writing; my paintings.  Like a nomad arriving at the oasis, I have immersed myself in all three.  I have spent the last couple of evenings in the company of the  Jumblies.  Actually, I spend every evening with them: it's one of Johnny's paintings and hangs in my sitting room.

They went to sea in a sieve

The painting is inspired by the poem 'the Jumblies' by Edward Lear.  Johnny has written the poem out and turned the paper round and round, so it can be hung any way up.  It's colours of the sea and a lot of gold, so depending on the light takes on infinite shades of colour and moods.

'They went to sea' belongs to the envelope family.  You can look at it on many levels:  surface level and its colours and patterns, or start to swim beneath the surface and among the letters; find words; make meaning or no meaning.  Johnny loves a paradox, the ridiculous and hiding things.

How did I end up with the Jumblies?  Like all my paintings, they seem to find me rather than the other way round.  The Jumblies had barely escaped ruin when the roof leaked in the Studio, which prompted Johnny to get it framed.  Then came the problem of where to hang it as it's a large painting.  I had a large wall and so it moved in.  I fell in love with it and there was no way it was going to move out.

from 'The Jumblies'

They went to sea in a Sieve, they did,

In a Sieve they went to sea:

In spite of all their friends could say,

On a winter's morn, on a stormy day,

In a Sieve they went to sea!

And when the Sieve turned round and round,

And everyone cried, 'You'll all be drowned!'

They called aloud, 'Our Sieve ain't big,

But we don't care a button! We don't care fig!

In a Sieve we'll go to sea!'

Far and few, far and few,

Are the lands where the Jumblies live;

Their heads are green and their hands are blue,

And they went to sea in a Sieve.

Edward Lear

Spreng

This morning

Well it's not Spring is it?  Flinging back the curtains first thing this morning, in a burst of joie de vivre, I had expected to see the sun.  Why?  Because I'm desperate for bright light!  I've been half asleep since November.  My ridiculous hope was rubbished: naturally.  F***ing snow!  Ankle deep, dismal, icy slurry! My vivre shrivelled!   I sat huddled in my dressing gown, with my early morning cup of tea and decided to ring the hair-dressers.  Even my highlights looked arthritic.

The Wild One

Last week, buoyed up by two sunny days, the crocuses in bloom in front of the Majestic Hotel and on the Stray, I had dared to believe Spring was here.  So much so that Johnny and I were getting quite excited at the prospect of our window boxes and hanging baskets.  Johnny has two window boxes: a wild one and a becoming wild one.


I had even felt sufficiently alert to buy some primroses and pansies and had spent a happy three hours on my sunny, if nithering patio, planting them out.  'I'm watching my wild box,' said Johnny, 'I'm waiting for the new entrant.  Last year it was a nettle - and it fucking stung me - I told it off! After all, I am letting it live in my window box!'

In my opinion, any new entrant would be well advised to remain unsprung until Yorkshire warming occurs.

The Doldrums

It's been difficult to write over the last couple of weeks, the reason being that Johnny has been, quote, 'a bit wonky.'  However, after seeing J last night, who is now unwonky, I have permission to describe the cause, effect and cure of wonkiness.  One of the things I love about Johnny is his integrity.  'The truth cannot harm anybody,' he says.

'I'm not well,' he informed me when I arrived at the Studio late afternoon a couple of weeks ago.  I could see that.  Instead of working upstairs, he was lying down, looking washed out and somewhat dishevelled compared to his usual dapper self.
'Poor darling,' I sympathised, 'what's wrong?'
'Hangover.'
'Ah, well you'll recover - you know what to do,' I replied with less sympathy,'we've been here before.'
'This different - I feel muddled - I can't think straight or remember clearly - and I fell over - that's not like me!  I'm not a drunk that falls over - I might sway about a bit but I don't FALL!  And I cut myself - look,' he replied, rolling up his sleeve and revealing a deep, now crumpled-at-the-edges gash that should have been stitched, half way up his forearm.
'What have you been doing Johnny?'  I was concerned.

The Cause

'Well, I went for early doors last night and had my usual four drinks.  I was about ready to leave, when a young couple came in and the young chap bought a schnapps for his girlfriend. She didn't want it and he offered it to me, so I downed it and left.

The effect

By the time I was half way across the car park I almost fell over.  I made it to the house and decided to have a look upstairs in the Studio.  Well, I couldn't look at anything properly and decided to go downstairs.  I stood at the top of the stairs and thought fucking hell, I'm going to fall down those, so I came down backwards.

Then I decided to make my tea.  I was going to have sardines but I kept wobbling about - nearly falling as I tried to open the tin.  Then I did fall and cut my arm.  Johnny, I said to myself, go to bed!  So I did - I must have passed out because when I came too the bed was covered in blood and my arm was stuck to the sheet.'

'Johnny - it was the schnapps - what were you thinking about?'
'Yes, but I still don't usually fall over - or feel like this.'

The week progressed and Johnny was slowly improving but still wonky, despite abstention   Marta reported on Friday, 'Johnny's not well you know,' and last Sunday, sons Perry and Toby took charge.  'Pack your bag Dad, we're taking you to hospital.'

The cure

After a day of tests, all systems were pronounced fit and well.  'It is alcohol ' said the Doctor, 'Mr Middleton, you are seventy-three and your brain does not like this amount.'

This is the third time that the message has been delivered and thankfully, this time I think it has been received loud and clear.  'All I want to do is paint,' says Johnny, 'I've got an exhibition to do this year!  I don't like it when I can't work.  I've been painting again for three days - today I'm back into it and it's great.  I've had a good look at my work over the last two weeks - there's nothing been going on - in my mind or on paper - I want to work!'

We want you to, too!  We all love you lots.