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.

Happy birthday

Dear Old Bean,

Three years ago, we were celebrating your 70th - in the Brasserie and a right good do it was!  The girls' group had organised your surprise 'do' and believe it or not, had sat outside at lunchtime on your birthday and had a drink, following our decorative efforts within.

This birthday is a far cry from drinks on the terrace - sunshine, sleet showers and -4 degrees forecast tonight.  It is the year of the Brass Monkey and tonight's birthday a more sober affair.

Much love,
Younger Bean x

Attitude

the Studio

‘I never use acrylic – it’s plastic!  All you can do with acrylics is paint pictures.  I’m a water colourist – I paint paintings!’

Johnny and his wall by Phil Mid

‘I finished (teaching) in 1971.  One of the reasons is they stopped the life drawing class. I’m a fossil!  I’m going to start painting dodos!'











‘I criticise the Art Establishment for recognising two tanks of formaldehyde as fucking art!’

yin and yang

'The envelope was the product of my subconscious looking for something that made me aware.  It came out the hippie 60s - peace - love and for the first time there had been a move to the Eastern philosophies - the Beatles and the Maharishi.

Yin and Yang summed up something I didn’t know.

When I painted my first envelope, I sat with the brush in my hand and I knew that it had to come from my brush, not my thoughts.

I went on to paint about eight envelopes and then on to paint another two series, but I could not get back to the place I had been for the first and they weren’t as good.  I couldn’t do them anymore because the emotion behind them had gone.

A painting that I am satisfied with is one that comes from my heart.'