Le Grand Depart

'We have to be in London by six o'clock at the latest on Saturday to collect the keys from the gallery,' said Johnny, 'so we must be on our way by one o'clock.'  This impressed me: times and schedules do not sit comfortably with Johnny and his normal response is to ignore them.  I was also delighted because departure time fitted in with my Saturday morning schedule of hair dresser (exhibition prep), so I would be able to attend the great send-off.

All that remained was to fit in the bicycle

The weather was unsympathetic, manifesting miserable - what's new? However, spirits where high and I arrived to find Sam's van packed with paintings.  The final challenge was to find a place for Romas' bicycle.  'Do you ride a bicycle Gill?' Romas had asked me last week, 'I am getting mine in condition for London - we could explore London by bike - yes?'

Not bloody likely.  My style of cycling requires the equivalent of a bus lane, which does not disappear from one traffic light to the next and I don't like myself in helmets. 'No,' I replied.

Where there's a will ...

Good job!

J modelling Yorkshire cricket hat

Team Harrogate

Romas performs Puja for blessing and good fortune

And they were off!

 See you in London!  It's been a fabulous journey.  Much love Johnny,

Gill xxx

Arrivals

Susan, the first of the American party landed tonight, so it was a reunion at the Brasserie for early doors.

'So, Johnny,' Susan enquired, 'how are things going?'
'I've still got four paintings at the framers ...  Romas wrapped thirteen paintings yesterday ... when I get back tonight, I've got to send Sarah the final inventory of paintings going to London ...  I've got so much to do.  It always comes down to me in the end ...

'I've stopped taking my medication - the doctor put me on it  - well, I've been feeling wonky - I have to take three pills - and they're strong the doctor says - I can only take them for a short while.  Anyway, I was feeling grim - drugs always do this to me you know - so I read the instructions on the box.  I was supposed to take one pill, then increase to two and then to three, but I realise that I should have spread them out, not take them all at once.'

Wednesday 4th June

Text this morning from Romas:

'Good morning.  Plan B.  From 11 a.m. I am wrapping Johnny's paintings.  So sorry for short notice, but English lesson cancelled. Yours happy and bless, Romas. Have a good day. Peace.'

Marvellous! I thought, the wrapping is happening!  And, I could do with the extra time - my Grade VIII exam looms on 26th June and I still have, metaphorically speaking, 'five paintings to finish' on the performance front.

Late afternoon, on my way home from job interview, I called in at Johnny's.

'Much wrapped today?'

There was knocking on the Coach House door ...

'Three ...  Romas is so reliable,' there was a significant pause, which heralds a tale. 'I went to bed last night around ten - I'm trying to get as much rest as I can - I must have drifted off, but I was awakened by noise!  Someone was banging on the windows and then there was a loud knocking on the door.

'I got out of bed, not quite with it - you know - opened the door and there was Romas.  It was exactly eleven o' clock. "Hello Johnny!" said  Romas.
"Romas - what are you doing here?"  I enquired.
"Your text - to wrap paintings - 11 p.m.?"
"Let me see," I said.  'Sure enough, I'd typed p.m. instead of a.m. - and he still came!'

This time last year, I wrote, 'Another June arrives and another summer seems to be busy elsewhere.' And it's the same this year (in Harrogate at least): dull, dreary, dismal deluges and f***ing freezing.  I think Noah had the right idea: build a bloody big boat and head for the rainbow.  I am told that in London it is uncomfortably humid just now.  I would like to be humid, it would make a change from damp.

Party night 13th June

Paul Middleton and the Angst Band

And then along came Margaret Thatcher

If you like music that is irreverent, uncompromising and from the heart, then allow me to introduce you to Johnny’s brother Paul: a Yorkshire, craggy diamond. If you like your music delivered with unrestrained abandon, in an explosion of sound, words and passion, then he is your man.

Since 1967, singer-songwriter Paul has been entertaining in his adopted home town of Harrogate, as well as the wider world. Delivering his own lyrics in a gravelly, bourbon-soaked voice that wells from his soul, he sings of trials and tribulations in love, life and death.  His performance is expressed in an explosion of sound and emotion, which at times teeters on the fringes of mania, as his hands coerce the frenzied voice from his slide steel guitar.  Pied Piper like, he leads his Angst band and audience to the edge of the cliff as guitars soar, drums throb and xylophones pulse in a heady fusion of rock and blues, laced with Yorkshire grit and humour that cracks faces and releases tensions.

So what motivates this sixty-seven year old, former member of Harrogate’s successful 70s Prog-Rock band Wally, to continue writing and performing several nights a week?  Most of his contemporaries hung their guitars up years ago, whilst he has worn his into holes.

Off stage, it is hard to reconcile Paul’s extrovert, abandoned performances with this softly spoken, self-deprecating man.  ‘To pay the rent I make cupboards, but my passion is to put my thoughts into a musical context.  I am not a musician,’ he insists, ‘and I can’t call myself a poet either – I just have a desire to express myself – it has always helped me find out who I am – it still does.’

During the 90s, Paul started performing at the Blues Bar in Harrogate and has been entertaining across the UK and Europe since. Over time, both he and his band have metamorphosed into the present Angst Band, whose musicians provide an expressive platform for Paul’s individuality.

So, if you like a performance that’s original, honest, up front and personal then join the maestro and his musicians at the Brewdog for End of Exhibition Party night on a journey into his world of bad love, good times and full-on living.  Not for the faint-hearted: do you dare to love, laugh, cry and maybe, even find yourself dancing?

Paul Middleton performs every Wednesday from 9.30pm at the Blues Café Bar, Montpellier Parade, Harrogate.

For details of bookings see his website: www.paulmiddleton.com

John Middleton
London Exhibition

Monday 9th June - Friday 13th June 2014

THE CONINGSBY GALLERY
30 Tottenham Street
London
W1T 4RJ
Tel 020 7637 7478
www.coningsbygallery.com

End of exhibition party night
PAUL MIDDLETON'S ANGST BAND
Friday 13th June
At:
BREWDOG Shoreditch
51-55 Bethnal Green Road
London E1 6LA
www.brewdog.com/bars/shoreditch



See you there!

The final week

At early doors on Thursday, there was quite a crowd.  'How's it going Clive?'  I asked.
'Well, it's done - the invitations have been sent out, the catalogue is printed.  I'm feeling quite calm ...'
'I've got five more paintings that are almost finished - some might be ready in time,' chipped in Johnny.

Nobody said anything ...

On Saturday afternoon, I squeezed in to the Studio through an alley of paintings.  'I got all these back from Stephen Neale's yesterday,' reported a semi-recumbent Johnny,   'When I saw them all together, I realised that I have finished!  I don't need to do any more!  I'm just going to relax now.'

A shadow flitted past the window, something white and voluminous parked outside the door and a bicycle bell rang. 'That'll be Romas with the bubblewrap,' said Johnny.











'Johnny,' said Romas, 'we can start wrapping now!'
'I'm not feeling up to it right now,' replied Johnny.
'That's OK,' encouraged our effervescent Lithuanian, 'you tell me what needs doing and I'll do it!'

I left them to it.

'Any progress wrapping?' I enquired of Johnny on Saturday evening.
'No,' he replied. 'I'm enjoying being finished.  My computer blew up you know.  I think it's alright now - we hoovered it - this is how to deal with modern technology.'

Finished in Havana heaven

It was a peculiar evening.  Johnny doesn't hear well and was mumbling particularly effectively.  'I can't understand what you're saying,' admonished Marta.
'That's because you're Spanish,' replied Don Quixote.
'And I can't hear you either Johnny,' I said in support.
'That's because you weren't listening.'

And then Paul joined in - he can't hear well either.  'Stan,' he said, 'bearing in mind that you're going deaf and I'm going deaf, I haven't heard a word you've said all night.'
'I didn't hear any of it,' said Stan.

Part 5

Returning to Harrogate, Johnny met Beverley, who became his second wife.  Over the next ten years, her unstinting support and encouragement provided Johnny with an environment that enabled him to work and travel.

Gradually a pattern of working began to form.  ‘When I’m working in the field, it is reality,’ Johnny emphasises, ‘and I am a topographical artist – I observe and record what is in front of me – it is the same for figurative work.  I probably spend about twenty per cent of my time doing this kind of work – and it is absolutely essential.’

Portugal 9c

In early 1993, Johnny was commissioned, by Harrogate’s Gallery Emeritus, to make a tour of Spain and Portugal and record the journey in drawings and watercolours, for an exhibition on his return.  John’s wanderings lead him to the remote, mountainous Beja region of southern Portugal.  His mounting fascination led him to accept an offer to rent a stone and mud house in this unmapped, sparsely populated region, known locally as the Pampa.  For a year, he experienced and painted life from another age, where the inhabitants lived in harmony with the environment, using farming methods little changed from medieval times.

Mayan Temple Wall

Further afield, he has visited the Mayan temples of Mexico and lately, the Buddhist temples of Thailand.  ‘Even though I’m something of a nomad,’ John reflects, ‘I always return to Yorkshire - it’s only when I’m here that I can reflect on my experiences there.’

Mayan Sun-and-Moon

Describing his creative development, Johnny explains, ‘I value the discipline and craft of landscape and portrait work - that’s how I began – through direct observation and painting, but it is through my abstracts that I find my expressive soul.

Cave

To John, this is a mysterious and spiritual realm, which he experiences profoundly and where he feels a close connection with primitive painters: the cave painters of our past; the tribal artists of today.  He goes on, ‘Our ancestors ventured deep into caves to make marks and express something - something spiritual, I believe.  Why go to all that trouble to draw down a black underground hole, where no one will venture without a struggle?  I feel a connection with those mark makers.  It doesn’t make any sense, but it is what I do, what I am.  Both my grandfathers were underground - miners.  Maybe that’s why I’m underground too!’ he laughs.

African Queen

The abstracts develop intuitively and many glimmer with subtle luminosity, reflecting his experiences: as a traveller; of humanity past and present; of something intangible.  They line the walls and my eyes drift over them during pauses in conversation.  Some are geometric and block-like.  ‘Those were inspired by my trip to the Yucatan Peninsular,’ John elaborates.  ‘I am intrigued by pyramids and early artists.  I use many of their techniques in my paintings – this here,’ and he points to a zigzag border, ‘is the way the ancient Egyptians expressed water,’ transforming the image into a golden barge floating down the River Nile.

‘I have been told that I do not see things the ‘right way’, that I am deluded,’ John continues. ‘Maybe I do see things differently but that is not to say wrongly - one man’s reality is another’s delusion perhaps.  My Studio is a tardis and I can go anywhere.’

I can’t help but think that the Studio is the inside of the Envelope; or at least it is the place where Johnny’s subconscious and imagination are free to roam.

Way to the Temple

Each painting is an expression, which is unique to the circumstance of the artist. A painting is not simply the final image: it becomes a companion intimately associated in its own birth; a vessel which holds the story of the bond between creator and created.  Without the story, the painting is empty.

Johnny Middleton

London update

Influence of Clive: pink suede

Influence of Lear: the pink artist 

'Well how was it?'  I asked Johnny, taking in the radiantly ruddy visage.
'Fucking hot!  Thirty degrees!  This,' he pointed to glowing complexion, 'is not a result of sunbathing - this was popping out for a cigarette!  I went to London in my fur lined boots and reefer jacket!  Clive had to lend me some lighter shoes and a jacket.'

'How are the shingles?'
'Painful!'
'And what about Exhibition arrangements?'
'Fine - the gallery is great - whatever I want, I've just got to ask Cherry.'

I was waiting for more ... I felt like Mum trying to extract information about the day at school. 'So everything's on schedule?'
'Oh yes,  I've done my bit now...

'I went to see the Matisse Exhibition - I knew every one of his cut outs - every one!  It was absolutely fucking stunning!

'I walked right down the centre of the gallery.  Clive asked me if I was alright. I don't sweat. "Feel the palms of my hands,' I said to him - they were wet through!  "I've got to get out of here," I said.  "I've been working for two years towards this exhibition - if I stay, it will all be lost!"

Influence of Elvis: free spirit

'I've got nine days left where I can work as a free spirit.  I've got paintings coming in from all directions - they've all got to be bubble wrapped.  We get the keys to the gallery at 9 pm on Saturday night.'

Part 4

Plans to reach Kashmir were high-jacked by the attractions of Amsterdam and their meagre budget was rapidly consumed by city living.  Perry returned home, but Johnny decided to stay on and try to earn a living through painting: by the winter of 1983 he was sharing an attic with mice.

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.

'The mice were my house guests.  Late at night, 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.

Amstel

After six months, Johnny moved into a converted barge, ‘El Dorado’ moored on the Amstel and here, he concentrated on painting water, inspired by the reflections.  He survived by painting posters, signs and occasionally selling a painting.  He walked the city, revelling in its extraordinary light and used every opportunity to study the extensive exhibition of Dutch landscapes in the National Gallery.

Amsterdam had given him space to think and learn, along with a confidence in his ability to eke out an existence on his art alone.  He had stayed true to his vision of independence without compromise to his creativity and shown commitment to his dream.  The experience had not been comfortable.  ‘It sounds romantic,’ says Johnny, ‘but far from it – often hungry – hard floors – no hot water, freezing cold – no close friends!’

Amstel

Johnny’s somewhat unorthodox tenancy on the house boat was attracting attention and in any case, a year was up and he had decided it was time to leave.  Returning to Harrogate with his collection of abstract waterscapes and studies, Johnny was determined to maintain his independence and never ‘sign on’.  Friend Jerry Clipelle provided Johnny with free exhibition space at the Wedgewood Shop on Parliament Street and its success put some cash in the coffers.

Still feeling adrift, Johnny decided to join Paul and Perry on a grape-picking trip to France.  At  the hillside village of Cessenon Sur L’Orb in the south, Johnny became the artist of his childhood dreams, following in the footsteps of Edward Lear, whose exquisite topographical drawings and studies had been inspiration and companions through those grim Rotherham years.  For two months, he was in figurative and water colour heaven: despite the ants.

Part 5 to follow

Thought for the day: Hypothesis and heaven

'There is no doubt in my mind that my 'strokes' were down to an over-indulgence in alcohol,'  Johnny pronounced last week, staring at me over the rims of his spectacles.

He continued, 'I was talking to Ron on Sunday.  He told me that his last stroke was down to over-indulgence.  " 'Do you know John?' Ron said to me, 'the doctors told me I was clinically dead for two minutes?'
'Did you see any angels?' I enquired.
'No, not a bloody thing.'
'Pity, it would be nice to have a preview.'"

Part 3

Johnny is in London doing Exhibition stuff.  He's back tomorrow.

Part 3

If The Envelope was a watershed, then the next few years that followed were the mill race as Johnny battled with the grief and guilt surrounding the break-up of his marriage and family. Having broken the mould, he was still adrift and floundering in a world of possibilities, with as yet, no clear path.  He discovered beer and liked it a lot.  It provided companionship, diversion and frequently, a welcome oblivion.

Clockwise: Johnny, Paul, Gill, Phil

However, life does not stand still and although Johnny’s immediate world had collapsed, there were unexpected compensations and comfort, which arrived in the shape of his brothers, Paul and Phil and his sister Gill.  Having left home at sixteen, Johnny had not had the chance to forge relationships with his younger siblings: Phil the youngest was four and Paul was eight. Ten years later, it was Paul, the lynch pin, who found first Johnny and then later rescued an unhappy Phil from London, bringing him back to Leeds.  In spite of everything, the brothers discovered that the bonds were definitely still there and set about making up for lost time.

Through Paul and Phil, Johnny was drawn into their world of music and, in the spirit of the times, passionate protest.  His instrument?  Naturally, it was the drums, with a Don Quixote kit: a carry-on-the-chest bass drum, with a cradle specifically created by J, plus a snare and a range of bells, pans, tea-cups and dangling things to tinkle on.

And what bands did Johnny belong to?  Well, there were the Alarming Clocks, the Impossible Men and Johnny's favourite, the End, with brothers and son Perry. 'We never knew when we got on stage,' Johnny reminisces, 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,’ he remembers, with a faraway look in his eyes. 'It was called 'Industrial Revolution’, inspired by the time when I was painting and decorating in a steel works in 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!"

'The thing is,' continues 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.)

He came across Frank Zappa and resonated with Zappa’s attitude and artistic aspirations; with his uncompromising view and criticism of the values of American society; his irreverence and musical expression that both commented and pushed boundaries: politically; socially; creatively. Zappa sits alongside Matisse, Klee, Lear and Schiele (and Elvis) as a mentor. It’s Frank that encourages Johnny in his independent and at times provocative stances – to everyone, including his doctor.

Finally, in 1983 his divorce was finalised and taking his son Perry with him, Johnny was bound for Kashmir …

Part 4 to follow

Part 2

Johnny spent Monday taking paintings to the framers, removing paintings from frames and collecting and delivering.  'Coral's been fantastic - without her, I don't know how I would have managed,' he reported.  So whilst not a day spent in creative fervour, much has been achieved on a practical front.  Johnny's still suffering with shingles, but is a little better  - another drink outside at the Brasserie too, so progress! 

Part 2

By 1969, Johnny was settled in Harrogate and continued to learn and consolidate his experiences thanks to the patronage of Dennis McConnell and Gerry Fox, who provided Johnny with a studio at the rear of their Harrogate warehouse for him to use, when he was not providing advice and expertise on colour schemes for their interior design clients.

Further support and opportunities were provided by Hugh Murray, who encouraged Johnny’s forays into sculpting and employed Johnny’s extensive knowledge of English water colours to build his private collection.  Regular trips to Sotheby’s in London enabled Johnny to soak up the art on offer in the capital.

Work in progress, influence of Matisse

He began his love affairs with Matisse and Klee, who have remained his life-long mentors: the threads of their inspiration run through many of his paintings.  Matisse’s unwavering commitment to his art, despite the frailty of his old age is a powerful model and example to which Johnny aspires.  ‘Life would not be worth living if I couldn’t work,’ he states.

Work in progress, influence of Klee

By now, Johnny was earning a reputation as a working artist in Harrogate and as a result, he was invited to become a lecturer at Harrogate College of Art.  He was selling his work through the Nicholas Treadwell Gallery in London and receiving commissions for sculptures.  It seemed, outwardly at least, that he was finally on his way to a successful career in Art.  But inwardly, it didn’t feel like that at all.

He felt increasingly at odds with London galleries, who advised him to, ‘Come back in two or three years with a style – we can sell that.’   Johnny recalls, ‘I thought, I’ve got to get a style together, but,’ he pauses, ‘I am not a commercial artist, I don’t paint to sell – I paint to express – I didn’t want to be channelled into a particular style, I wanted to explore.’  Neither was life at the Art College running smoothly, where Johnny’s attitude was at times challenging to the administration and he was under pressure to adopt a more conventional approach.  Increasingly he was the square peg in the round hole as he tried to become the artist that the galleries would sell, the teacher who obeyed the rules and the responsible husband and father.

By 1971, Johnny had reached the Elastic Limit.  He was painting things he didn’t want to paint, was unwilling to compromise at college as teaching moved away from the disciplines of painting and drawing and of which Johnny took a dim view; it was a sacrilege to lower their status.  His home life was increasingly turbulent.

The Envelope

‘I was troubled,’ recalls Johnny.  ‘I could not sort my head out and something was telling me that the remedy was in Art.  I sat up all night painting and the Envelope painting came out of that situation.  It seemed to be the answer – the inside being the soul or spirit and the exterior is reality.

‘After the Envelope all I wanted to do was develop the inside,' he explains.  'The style is the outside of the Envelope, which everyone understands - it is the picture.  But the inside is abstract – that’s where the story and imagination are – it has nothing to do with style.  That’s why I don’t paint pictures.

'The Envelopes brought things to a head.  I thought fuck it!  I got all my paintings back from Nicholas Treadwell - gave up my job as a lecturer at Harrogate College of Art.  My marriage ended …’  It was an angst-ridden period.

Johnny's last public exhibition was held at the West Yorkshire Playhouse, Leeds in December 1972.  The theatre manager was unenthusiastic about the Envelope paintings hanging on one arm of the staircase. 'My five year old could do better than that,' he remarked.

On the opposite staircase were drawings of what America was up to in Vietnam.  ‘Napalm bombs!’ Johnny remembers, ‘I mean to drop it on a village with women and children - for the Americans - of all people - to do that!

‘With my Vietnam drawings, I was trying to sort out the depth of the Envelope.  I cut the drawings in half - I likened it to the rape of a country.  America was represented as an owl - attacking in the night - silently.  Vietnam was a woman.  The theatre manager deemed these drawings pornographic.  "I've got a lot of women and children coming here!" he said and campaigned for the exhibition to be removed.  Anyway, after much ado, the exhibition stayed.

'It was the Envelopes, combined with circumstance that turned me into a proper artist.  If I'm going to be an artist, I thought, I'm going to do it for all the right reasons.  For my sort of an artist, earning a living is secondary to the statement - I was reassured and encouraged by people like Mohammed Ali refusing the Draft, Kurt Vonnegut and Frank Zappa.  I wanted to be part of that - not the Establishment - it was the Protest!  And it was the time when I understood that if you're going to follow your dream, you have to be one hundred per cent honest.  If what you are doing feels right, then it will be, because you have told the truth.

‘Since then,' he continues, 'I've only exhibited in pubs, furniture shops and restaurants, where friends have given me space.  The whole point is my underground-ness.  The story of my life is my paintings.'

Part 3 to follow …

Bulletin

Johnny is still suffering with shingles, however the broken rib is now, 'just sore.'

I popped round to see the Old Bean today to find him in improving spirits, 'I've been in the Studio all day - I still daren't touch anything - but I've been doing a lot of good thinking.'

'The Sock' is now behind glass (photo coming soon, when I can download photos, which now always seem to come out upside down).

The catalogue has gone to print!

The Exhibition is five weeks away.

We sat outside at the Brasserie, in meagre and delightful sunshine and enjoyed a drink  - only the second time Johnny's been out in the last week.  Fingers crossed he is on the mend.

Part 1

I'm sorry I've been away - I hadn't expected to be so stunned by moving.  For three weeks I thought of nothing but packing, shredding, binning, tipping and cleaning.  Result?  Aching hands, painful shoulder, sore back and three and a half containers of stuff gone into store - does that mark a successful or unsuccessful life - would more - or less be better?

At present, I am a nomad and that has made internet access both turbulent and traumatic - and in any case, I was too knackered to think.  Anyway, I hope you enjoy Part 1.  Part 2 won't be far behind, now that I'm settled, for the time being, in a delightful oasis.

Part 1

Johnny’s evolution into the painter he is today has been neither conventional, nor paved, nor privileged.  Neither is he one to bemoan his struggle, often against the odds to realise his passion to paint and he will be first to say, ‘It’s circumstance that shapes events,’ and the circumstances of his life have shaped the artist he has become.

The first seven years of his life spent in the village of Wortley, on the outskirts of Sheffield, laid the foundation for his enduring love of nature.  It was idyllic: a time of security; when he was the centre of the universe in a matriarchal family, who robbed of their menfolk by the Second World War, took delight in cosseting this precious boy.  His best friends were the vicar’s son and the young Earl of Wharncliffe, from whom he had his first introduction to portraits, gilded and huge, hanging in the dark corridors of Wortley Hall.

At the end of the war, his father returned home and the idyll was shattered.  John was displaced as his father re-occupied centre stage.  Riding a donkey to school, playing in the water lift at Wortley Hall and listening to fairy tales, were replaced by a prefab in Rotherham, parents who were distracted by their own concerns and the relentless need to survive the hostilities inflicted on him as a sissy outsider at a slum school in Dalton.  It was here that John’s independent and self-reliant nature was fostered.

From now on John’s home life was turbulent and as his parents’ marriage collapsed, he ricocheted between Rotherham and Bridlington, finding his own ways to cope.  There were extended periods of truancy.  In Bridlington he spent wagging time walking the cliffs and shore, absorbing the colours and texture of the coast.  And after school, when he did attend, he would escape to his room with a book from his father’s library. It was here that he met Edward Lear and as he copied Lear’s illustrations and drawings, so the corner stones were being laid for Johnny’s enduring love of topographical drawing and painting, his sense of fun and the ridiculous.

Through books, the misfit boy had found his means escape and solace. He began to study and learn about early English water colours and to experiment himself.  It was the start of his lifetime love affair with painting and watercolour, in particular.  His imagination was fired by the lives of Impressionist painters.  He loved the romance of struggling artists and passionate lives; of misfits and the misunderstood and he longed to be part of it.

Despite his fragmented education, John’s talent for Art was recognised in school and finally encouraged, but it was too late.  By now, the fifteen year old young man had endured enough and refused to study for his O levels in preparation for Art School, preferring instead to secure his independence by getting a job as a farm labourer.  Unfortunately, despite Johnny’s enthusiasm and efforts, after accidentally releasing hundreds of chickens and being unnecessarily creative in ploughing furrow patterns, the farmer felt that it wasn't the job for him and gave him the sack.

Showing a rare interest in his son, John’s father organised an apprenticeship with a firm of high class painters and decorators in Bridlington.  Here John learned about paints, preparation and the skills and techniques that have underpinned his eventual career as a fine artist.  However, John’s fierce independence asserted itself and at eighteen, now legally an adult, he left his apprenticeship to become a beach photographer for the summer season in Bridlington.  Between seasons and unemployed, he continued to paint.

By twenty-three, married with his first son and working as a painter and decorator, John was increasingly certain that his future was as an artist and in 1963, took the decision to move to Leeds.  There, he felt, was everything he needed to learn: art galleries, exhibitions, the university and a cosmopolitan community: not available in the Bridlington of the time.

He took advantage of it all, working hard as an ‘on the lump’ painter and decorator for Wimpey’s to keep his family, now of four and to pay the mortgage.  In his precious free time he developed his craft and skills.  It was a period of experimentation, with forays into sculpture and through which, he had his first break.

4th September 2011

I am packing up and moving on.

For a week I have sorted, rummaged, discarded (difficult) and boxed.  I can't sleep for 'boxing'.  I'm desperate for oblivion.  I drift towards unconscious bliss only to swim back to consciousness, because I'm still packing f***ing boxes, cutting bubble-wrap, scrunching paper and losing the end of the packing tape again!  I think there must be some anxiety going on  - the removal van is outside and I still haven't finished emptying the bottomless cupboard. I can't find the food processor and the man from the van is impervious to my panic and distress...

In and between neurosis, I've also had some lovely moments thanks to photos I haven't looked at for years: my children's school books; even my school books. Amongst the trivia, (and like fossils, the more recent stuff is closer to the surface), I found the minutes of the meeting, written in jest, when it was decided to go ahead with the Exhibition.  It was hardly a formal meeting - a warm evening, sitting out in the Rondavel at the Brasserie.  However, in and among the ramblings and lunacy, some things noted, are holding true.

JM's vision for the exhibition:
'I want people to come and look at my paintings - that they'll look and it will make them feel good.'

JM's success criteria:
'It is to be appreciated.  For someone to walk away and say, 'I saw some lovely paintings.'

London reconnoitre ...

Currently, yours truly is int' big city and I always feel reet Yorkshire when I'm down 'ere!

Neither am I (well at least I hope I'm not) a Yorkshire zealot: one of those ex-pats that bore the pants of the locals, by seizing every opportunity to ram Yorkshire superiority down the throats of all those unfortunate enough to have been born elsewhere.  Many times have I been on the receiving end of this tedious characteristic, which seems to afflict certain individuals regardless of race, creed or culture.

So why am I suddenly Yorkshire aware, when I never give it a thought day to day?  I think it's because London is so cosmopolitan and huge, with that surging energy particular to great capital cities that I only ever  feel as if I 'sort of' know what I'm doing or how to do it, which produces a vague anxiety.  On the other hand, I know exactly how Harrogate works and the geography of the county.  In Yorkshire, I'm well adapted, but not quite so to London.

I've had to have lessons on the Oyster Card: a magic little card which allows you to pre-pay and zip on and off buses and tubes avoiding queues for tickets.  It's brilliant, but there is much to learn: how to top it up; where to top it up; entry and exit techniques. After much dithering during my training period, I am now pleased to say that I think I could pass as a local and am developing techniques for seamless travel on public transport.  Now, as I approach the barriers on the Underground, I am already eyeing them up in advance for the green exit arrows and no queues.  Card at the ready, now neatly tucked in my wallet (not clutched in sweaty hand), I glide to the barrier, slap the card on the reader with panache and exit with a nonchalant air.  A far cry from the embarrassed and timid novice, wedged at the barrier by a tutting and growing queue, when my gentle tap on the reader did not open sesame.  Thank God for the Underground Knight who released me.

Back home tonight, I called in to see Johnny, looking very dapper in an orange and yellow Chinese silk quilted jacket. I thought he must be on the mend.  'How are you?' I enquired.
'Could be better - as well as shingles, I've cracked a rib.'
'What have you been doing?'
'Well, I was feeling wonky, but I had to deliver some drawings to Stephen Neal's at the end of last week - they were only smallish and I had one under each arm.  I was going up the stairs when I slipped, twisted somehow and the painting became wedged edge-on between my ribs and my arm and crushed into my side as I lost balance.' He paused and I was sympathetic.

'Paul's just been round - he's doing my shopping.  He hadn't told Marta that I was ill.  She came round the other afternoon.  I was asleep - I'm having to nap when I can because I can't sleep for long with the discomfort.  Anyway, she tapped me.  I started awake, with a grunt - that made me scream with pain - Marta jumped back in shock - Paul stood in the doorway, smiling in sympathy - he knows what it feels like.

'Anyway, the Doctor says it'll take about ten days before I'm feeling a bit more comfortable.  I'm doing some work though - we've finished the video of the drawing.  I'm not sure how good it will be, given the state I've been in - but I think it will be OK.'

Under the weather

On Tuesday of this week, Johnny was somewhat down in the dumps.  'Deadlines,' he grumped, 'I've got to the end of the month ... I'm feeling really unwell and now I have all these decisions to make.  I'm not even drinking properly - it's a bad sign.'

It turns out, that our intrepid artist is suffering from shingles.  'But,' he said on the phone yesterday, 'at least I know what it is and I'm not worrying what it might be - I'll get better.'

Deadlines

Poor Johnny!  This is absolutely the week that the paintings for the exhibition have to be confirmed for inclusion in the catalogue, which is going to press imminently.  On Monday, I popped into the Studio to find Clive, Sarah and Johnny poring over the computer studying the images of paintings taken so far. 'These are the ones then?' said Clive.
'Well,'  said Johnny, 'they could be - but I've got others in the Studio that aren't quite finished yet - and I've been working on them with London in mind - but I can't say for certain they'll be ready - you could put these images in the catalogue and it doesn't really matter if ....'
'No,' said Clive, 'the photographs for the catalogue must be of the paintings that will be in the exhibition.'
'Well, what about using ten of those images for sure and then if I have one or two the new ones ready, I could include them as well?'

I think that was the compromise reached ... room for 'the wet one' ...

I am sure that Clive and Sarah would have liked the selection to be finalised.  I am sure that Johnny would have preferred to choose nearer the time - preferably the day before - and I bet even then there would be hesitation!

Unfinished business

The catalogue working party departed and Johnny refreshed his vodka and lemonade.  'This always happens,' he chuntered.  'I'm not feeling too hot, I've got so much to be doing in my Studio - the Sock is almost complete - there's only a small amount of work to do on it, BUT,' he paused for dramatic effect, 'I DAREN'T go near it in this state - in the wrong state, I could ruin it! This is what people don't understand - I can't just finish things to order - if I'm not in connection with the painting, then I can't work on it - it's not that simple - I can't just 'turn it on'.'

Patterns

As an eighteen year old, Johnny was given the sack from his job as a farm labourer in Bridlington. Why?  Because apart from his catastrophic release of hundreds of chickens into the countryside, the farmer was further exasperated by Johnny's artistic approach to ploughing furrows. No doubt the ensuing patterns were interesting and perhaps even beautiful, but definitely not practical or economic.

This fascination with pattern would appear to be genetic, because younger brother Phil did not impress the Dowager Lady Ingleby either, with his creative use of the lawnmower, when he was handyman at Ripley Castle (for a brief period) in the seventies.  She preferred the traditional checker board look.

Patterns cropped up by chance, when I showed Johnny the result of my recent encounter with a Molotov cigarette lighter.  Result?  Eyelashes resembling a geriatric nail brush and blistered eyelid - ouch!  'I did that once,' said Johnny. 'It was in the days of matches - I liked to strike a match and make a pattern on the striking board.'  (Well one does, doesn't one?)

He continued, 'I had lines on the board, but needed to make a spot.  I did this by twirling the match head against the board and it would burn a dark spot.  On this occasion, I twirled away, the end became incandescent, exploded and embedded itself in my cheek!'

Which it would, wouldn't it?

Paper

'Paper,' Johnny stressed, ' is incredibly,' pause for emphatic, full-on stare and further stare, 'important! It dictates how paint behaves - how you behave.'

We were talking about Matisse, one of Johnny's great mentors and someone to whom Johnny has returned to repeatedly: for understanding; teaching; enlightenment; moral support.

Two years ago, Johnny was in communion with Matisse and there were a lot of fishy paintings emerging, which are Johnny's homages to Matisse. Johnny's dilemma, was how to represent Matisse's cut-outs.  To cut them out, he felt was inappropriate, so he decided to paint them.  'Have you ever tried to paint a cut-out?'  he asked.
I confessed not.
'It is incredibly difficult to paint a cut out shape to look authentic,' he explained, 'and then, by accident, I discovered that the paper I was working on was veneered - a good quality top layer bonded to a poorer quality under layer.  Well, I was painting away and by accident nicked the top layer.  I discovered that I could peel the top layer off and reveal a perfectly white underneath.  I painted a flower - quite roughly and then carefully cut out precise petal shapes with a scalpel it was the solution to  the dilemma of the fish - to paint or cut - this did both, but differently!

Matisse's socks and fish

'Jesus, I said to myself - I want some more of this paper.  It came from Wiggin Temple in Leeds, so I went to buy some.  The smallest quantity they would sell me was a hundred sheets.  So I sold a painting and bought the paper.

'But,' he continued, mood more despondent, 'they'd changed the manufacturing process and I couldn't peel the top layer off ...'

Happy birthday Old Bean

It was Johnny's 74th birthday yesterday (13th), celebrated quietly at the Brasserie.  Johnny never wants to be the centre of attention, but there are a lot of us who want to share a bit of the day with him!  I sidled into the Brasserie around 6.30 last night and the birthday group was outside - the first time we have sat outside (albeit with heavy duty clothing) this year.  Is Spring really here?

Anyway, you can't let the birthday, of a much loved friend pass without some kind of marker.  I was very chuffed with my present to him this year.  Johnny is an avid cricket fan - I think it is as close as he gets to a religion.  I went to my first cricket match ever, with the Midddleton family in August 2006, when we watched England play Pakistan at Headingley, Leeds.

It was a scorching hot day and after an a hour or so, I decided that a hat was the order of the day and duly purchased a white canvas 'flowerpot' - not my idea of a siren fashion statement, but it was the best on offer and in any case, I didn't care because my head was beginning to throb ominously.  I've never worn it since, but it did save the day.


The sun slipped down the sky and by four o'clock, I had slipped down my seat.  Some of the England team were at the rim of the pitch, giving autographs.  'There's Pieterson, ' Becky yelped, 'I'll go for his autograph!'  No one had any paper, but we did have a pen and I had a white hat.  So Becky dashed off with it and the hat was duly christened.  Anxious not to be outdone, I managed to get the autograph of Dickie Bird.

Then the hat was packed away and since then I've travelled quite a bit and never properly unpacked - until now (now that I am about to pack up again and move).  I've been wanting to give the hat to Johnny for ages, but I couldn't find it, so it seemed synchronistic when I unearthed it last week, just before the birthday.  To the hat, I added the Observers book of Cricket and Johnny was delighted.

He was also delighted with his hand embroidered handkerchiefs from Vicki, who rightly pointed out that not many men use cotton hankies any more.

Johnny takes ages to unwrap presents ....

This weekend, Johnny has some decisions to make with the London folk and the Exhibition is eleven weeks away.                                                                                                                                                

Sock up-date

'I've spent seven hours today on the sock - it's getting very thick ... '

While Johnny was painting his sock, I've been to the doctors, resigned from my job, been into to town, paid in a cheque, been to Superdrug, Marks and Spencer (new jeans), bought dinner, drunk wine and got update on the sock.

Deadlines 2

There is a painting afoot .... it is a sock.

Turner is lurking in the wings ... deadlines are approaching .... questions need answers ... which paintings for the exhibition .... copy for the catalogue approved.  Johnny's helical world has to align, however briefly, with the linear world of dates, times and DEADLINES.

I saw a hint of Diva in Johnny the other night, 'I have not got time to spend on administration,' he huffed, 'I said at the start that I'd only do this if I didn't have to take it on,' he paused briefly for breath, 'I've got so much work to do in my Studio - I haven't time to go to meetings,  I want to paint!'
'Poor you,' I sympathised, 'Come on - don't get things out of proportion - you've got time -'
I was rudely interrupted. 'It's no good saying I've got plenty of time - bollocks!  Big Foot was the first painting I did, with the London Exhibition in mind...  I've been working on 'the Sock' now for six months, but I've got to get it right.  The Sock is significant.  I don't paint pictures - the significance of the sock is that the shape is more important than IT (function) is - out of context, with a frame round it - if you didn't know what a sock was...

'There are certain artists that are intrigued by shape.  All it is, is a sock on a background - it's not a sock, it's a shape....anyone could paint that sock - black paint, white paint.  But!'  he emphasised, 'there's a phenomena - they call it 'wall power'.  When you see a significant artist's painting, you love it - there's something about it that intrigues you ...

'With Big Foot, there isn't a picture there ... and the Sock is one step further ...

'If I can pull this off - if people can stand and look at this - it's a shape in an environment.  This is as far as I can go - I've been doing that sock for six months and it looks as if I've spent half an hour on it, because I'm putting the emotion into it ... that's what the Envelopes are about ...'

Washing

I'm not certain, but I have a hunch that the Sock may turn out to be the one that disturbs deadlines.  I hope the planets align.






Washing:  a sweater had fallen on the ground and frozen and Johnny pegged it on the line.  No one noticed the shape.

Video-ing with Don Quixote

Johnny has often said how much he would like to make of a video a drawing in progress.  As the Exhibition approaches, the dream may be coming closer ... but one can never tell, especially when Don Quixote is in charge.

'Well, how are things?'  I asked Johnny at early doors last week.  He fixed me with hooded eyes, that widened for emphasis, 'I am exhausted.  Coral and I have been working in the Studio - all day - 8 hours - Coral was knocking on the door at 9.30 this morning! And what have we got to show for it? - Nothing!'
'What on earth were you doing?'
'Video-ing.'
'Oh?'
'You remember Bob - he was in the Studio last week - the video guy?'
'Yes,' I replied, recalling a smiling, brown-curly-headed face in blue jeans.
'Well, he said that to produce a video of me creating a drawing from start to finish will need three cameras - one on the drawing, one on the model and one on the Studio.  Then,' he paused and looked intent, 'they will be cut and put together into a sequence.'
'Yes,' I said. I know nothing about filming, but it seemed sensible.
'So today,' Johnny continued, 'Coral and I had a go a making a video of me doing a drawing.'
'Well how many cameras did you have?' I enquired.
'One - mine - it took two hours to strap it to my head - we used loads and loads of Velcro in the end.  Then I couldn't remember whether it was on or off ... and when it was on, it wasn't looking at what I was looking at ... so I had to try and adjust my sight - but when I did that, I couldn't see what I was drawing - on the paper or off it ... it's been a disaster,' he closed gloomily.
Helpless with laughter, I enquired, 'And why did you do it - given that the expert said three cameras?'
'Well ...' he considered carefully, 'I needed to know - I know now.'

Exhibition 1972

Johnny's first envelope

Johnny's last public exhibition was held at the West Yorkshire Playhouse, Leeds in December 1972.
The theatre manager of the time was less than enthusiastic, 'My five year old could do better than that,' was his opinion  of Johnny's envelopes, which hung up one side of the staircase to the Circle.

'They were somewhere else - scrawly,' recalls Johnny, 'but on the other side of the staircase were drawings of what America was up to in Vietnam - Napalm bombs.  I mean, to drop it on a village with women and children - for the Americans - of all people - to do that!

'With my Vietnam drawings, I was trying to sort out the depth of the envelope. So I cut the drawings in half - I likened it to the rape of a country.  America was represented as an owl - attacking in the night - silently.  Vietnam was a woman.

'The theatre manager deemed these drawings pornographic.  "I've got a lot of women and children coming here!" he said.   Anyway, the exhibition stayed.

I went to look at the exhibition and to find out - nobody knew me - the kids quite liked the drawings - they like cartoony things.

'I was a serious person.  There were protests around the world and it was the kids that did it!  In America,  people would not do the draft - Mohammed Ali said no - in his position! It stopped him from boxing.  He was condemned on all fronts, but he avoided prison because of all the support from young people.

'To die - for what?

'It was the envelopes, combined with circumstance that  turned me into a proper artist.  If I'm going to be an artist, I thought, I'm going to do it for all the right reasons.  For my sort of an artist, earning a living is secondary to the statement.  And don't forget,I was reassured and encouraged by people like Mohammed Ali, Kurt Vonnegut, Frank Zappa.  I wanted to be part of that - not the establishment - it was the protest.

'And it was the time when I understood that if you're going to follow your dream, you have to be 100% honest.  If what you are doing feels right, then it will be right, because you have told the truth.

Portrait 2

'Protest did not continue - I'm not a Protester - live and let live.  I let my subconscious speak.'