STAALSTRAAT
In Amsterdam, in the old harbour district, on the corner next to a bridge over one of the narrower canals, stood a seventeenth century house. The sidewall was heavily shored up with timber beams to stop the house from collapsing before it could be restored. One day, one year? The neighbours got used to seeing a weathered wooden sign nailed to the building: 'onbewoonbaar verklaard' – declared uninhabitable - or as they said: 'onverklaarbaar bewoond' - inexplicably inhabited – and accepted it as the normal state of affairs.
The small shop in front was let on the quiet to a lady who made a living repairing nylon stockings. Nylons were expensive and laddered easily, so she had plenty of customers and sat all day behind the counter with her buzzing little machine, working her way through stacks and stacks of stockings.
The large kitchen behind the shop and the first floor were let to another young lady, a lady with long black hair who worked in a small basement bookshop not far away.
The gas ring in the kitchen worked well, the toilet in the corner did not, and had to be flushed with a bucket of water, the cellar underneath the kitchen was permanently flooded with seepage water from the canal across the road. From the kitchen a spiral staircase led to the living room upstairs and a few steps up again to the storage space above the shop. That storage space was actually a very nice room if you didn't mind ducking between the heavy oak ceiling joists: there was ample headroom between the joists.
The lady with the long black hair called the storage space 'front room' and, to help pay her rent, she decided to sublet it to a young man with a bushy red beard, a zoologist who had aspirations to become a painter.
The man loved the place and a room-warming party was in order. He invited friends: artists, some students, a nurse, and a young art teacher with wavy black hair and a short black beard. That day the art teacher was only teaching till 4 o'clock and asked his friend: ' Will you be home by then?'
'No, but that's no problem. Come whenever suits you. My landlady may not be home yet either, but then the stocking lady in the shop can let you in. Make yourself at home upstairs.'
When the art teacher walked into the shop the stocking lady told him: 'I think she might be in already, just knock on that door.'
A young lady let him in. He introduced himself: 'You don't mind me waiting here in your home?'
'Of course not. I'm Karen. My boarder won't be long, so we might as well have dinner together. Can you cook liver?'
'Sure.'
'Here, you cut the onions while I start the potatoes.'
They talked while he fried the liver and onions and she prepared the vegetables. They talked about their love of music and their interest in books and writing and about the young man's plans for an exhibition of his lithographs and other artwork in an exclusive upstairs art gallery in the city. He told her the director of the Stedelijk Muzeum, Jhr. Sandberg, had taken a personal interest in him after some of his work had been on display there, and she told him she also knew Jhr. Sandberg, and they talked about the Conservatoire, where she had studied music, and Bach's St Matthew Passion, which he loved and in which she had sung.
The boarder with his red bushy beard and short russet hair came home, but they hardly noticed him. After dinner, the room-warming guests arrived and much later went home again, and they still didn't notice much.
Late that evening both were convinced love at first sight was real, very real, in that old house in the Staalstraat, and the date was 7 April 1956.
PS
We married on 19 September the same year, and are still happily married.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
BEYOND THE SURFACE 5
There are other ways to get away from the surface-only concept we have lived with in our Western world for so many years. Other avenues to explore.
I asked my model to pose in a gentle, demure way first - her social mask - and followed that up with a subtly different pose, now showing what she really felt.
Cast the first pose in clear casting resin and embed a pigmented cast of the second pose partly inside the first one. Would that work? Surely?
She does not hide her social face, naturally, but her real, inner face? She never ever shows it, probably not even to herself any more. All you can see of her inner self is her back, turned to the outside world. So sad.
And from this side only a vague silhouette shows, an uncomfortable silhouette. She must have tried to escape, once, when she was still much younger?
And by the way, I know we are taught to have neutral backgrounds for this kind of photo. I often do, when I feel like it. But why should I follow conventions if this way I can have contrast where I want it - like around the head - and patterns where I prefer those.
I asked my model to pose in a gentle, demure way first - her social mask - and followed that up with a subtly different pose, now showing what she really felt.
Cast the first pose in clear casting resin and embed a pigmented cast of the second pose partly inside the first one. Would that work? Surely?
She does not hide her social face, naturally, but her real, inner face? She never ever shows it, probably not even to herself any more. All you can see of her inner self is her back, turned to the outside world. So sad.
And from this side only a vague silhouette shows, an uncomfortable silhouette. She must have tried to escape, once, when she was still much younger?
And by the way, I know we are taught to have neutral backgrounds for this kind of photo. I often do, when I feel like it. But why should I follow conventions if this way I can have contrast where I want it - like around the head - and patterns where I prefer those.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Diary 5
We have now finalized the program for our house concert. Our circumstances have changed, so I had to change some of the instruments. And write new arrangements. And learn new combinations. And get new strings for my lyre. And spend hours tuning.
We haven't set a definite date yet, but it will be second half of October, on a Sunday afternoon.
HOUSE CONCERT, the program.
with Karen Cappèl, vocals, strings, percussion, Leo Cappèl, flutes, strings, percussion, and Pippa Lawlor, percussion.
Yo me soy la morenica - Spanish renaissance; Lisboa - Portugese fado; La mourisque - Tielman Susato, 1551; Cascarda allegreza d'amore - Italian dance, anon., published 1581; Saltarello Hupfauf - Tielman Susato 1551; Come again - John Dowland 1606; Bergerette sans roch - Tielman Susato 1551; Awake sweet love - John Dowland 1606; Spagnoletta - Late medieval rond dance. Anon.; Pas time - Henry VIII 1491 - 1547; Andante - Renaissance. Anon.; Bergerette - Shepherd dance. Tielman Susato 1551;
The jasmine - De Lavigne; Philou - Michael Prætorius 1571 - 1621; Canario - Italian dance, anon. published 1581; Grucea phorminx - Pindaros, ca. 522–443 BC; Los bibilicos - Anon. Ladino love song, pre 1500; Virelay - Anon. Trouvere melody 13th century; Saltarello - Anon. Traditional dance, ca. 1350; Menuet - Anon. Traditional dance, renaissance; Vogelkijn - Anon. Dutch renaissance.
The instruments: Gemshorns (medieval flutes, pre 1550); Psalteries; Lyre; Flageolet; Galoubet/tambourine de Béarn; Folk zither; Pan flute; Percussion.
We haven't set a definite date yet, but it will be second half of October, on a Sunday afternoon.
HOUSE CONCERT, the program.
with Karen Cappèl, vocals, strings, percussion, Leo Cappèl, flutes, strings, percussion, and Pippa Lawlor, percussion.
Yo me soy la morenica - Spanish renaissance; Lisboa - Portugese fado; La mourisque - Tielman Susato, 1551; Cascarda allegreza d'amore - Italian dance, anon., published 1581; Saltarello Hupfauf - Tielman Susato 1551; Come again - John Dowland 1606; Bergerette sans roch - Tielman Susato 1551; Awake sweet love - John Dowland 1606; Spagnoletta - Late medieval rond dance. Anon.; Pas time - Henry VIII 1491 - 1547; Andante - Renaissance. Anon.; Bergerette - Shepherd dance. Tielman Susato 1551;
The jasmine - De Lavigne; Philou - Michael Prætorius 1571 - 1621; Canario - Italian dance, anon. published 1581; Grucea phorminx - Pindaros, ca. 522–443 BC; Los bibilicos - Anon. Ladino love song, pre 1500; Virelay - Anon. Trouvere melody 13th century; Saltarello - Anon. Traditional dance, ca. 1350; Menuet - Anon. Traditional dance, renaissance; Vogelkijn - Anon. Dutch renaissance.
The instruments: Gemshorns (medieval flutes, pre 1550); Psalteries; Lyre; Flageolet; Galoubet/tambourine de Béarn; Folk zither; Pan flute; Percussion.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Earth quake
All you brave people living through that horrible earthquake, wish you strength. At least you are alive, that is a big thing to be thankfull for.
And there will be some future, even if it doesn't feel like that yet.
Silence.
Wounds enclosing.
Smile, to hide the twisted scars.
And there will be some future, even if it doesn't feel like that yet.
Silence.
Wounds enclosing.
Smile, to hide the twisted scars.
Friday, September 3, 2010
SHORT STORY: LONG LEGS
LONG LEGS
I am an artist. Was an artist to be more exact, but I still feel like one. One can't help being an artist and do painting after painting, even if they don't sell and clutter up the whole house.
Not that selling my work was important, what I wanted was to create a new, living world of my own, of my feelings, of me. And that's precisely what I did. That afternoon I did a mono-print of a cabbage tree. An old and tired cabbage tree. A neighbour looked in, smiled, and said: 'That tree looks wise.' So I did another mono-print, this time of some pine trees, those unwanted pine trees which are hunted like criminals in some parts of our fair country. It didn't work out too well. I tried once more. Worse.
It left me rather disappointed. 'One final mono-print,' I thought. 'I must show what I feel. I'll make a print of a disappointed woman. They say women have stronger feelings than men, so that should work all right.'
It drew a nude. A nice figure, lying face down, her long hair hiding her face completely. She had her arms and legs folded under her body, and because of the composition I made her legs extra long, accentuating her hiding face.
After I had pinned the print on the wall to let the ink dry, I couldn't keep my eyes off it. I had to look at it over and over again, until she became uncannily lifelike. In fact she was no longer the mono-print I had just finished, she had started a life of her own. She became a woman whom I had never known before, with her own thoughts and her own ideas.
'Ah, there you are,' she snarled.
'What do you want?'
'Aren't you ashamed of yourself?'
'Ashamed? Whatever for?'
'Yes, ashamed,' and she laughed mockingly.
'Keep quiet you. You are nothing but my own creation.'
'And a nice creator you are.'
I heard laughter all around me. My woodcarvings and limestones, an oil painting on the wall, and even the clay studies laughed at me. And not particularly friendly either.
'Look at my legs. Look at what you have done to my legs!' She was standing in front of me now, still nude and at least a head taller than me.
'Well, I think you have very nice and shapely legs.'
'I bet you do. But why did you have to make them so long? Don't give me that composition nonsense. Oh, yes, very shapely, but how can I ever get properly dressed with those ridiculously long legs. When I go out into town I can never buy a dress to fit, or nice high-heeled shoes, all because of you. And don't you keep staring at me, have you never seen a nude woman before?'
'Just look at me!' a voice from the other side of the room yelled. It was a kauri woodcarving, who had climbed down from her plinth. 'Look at me. My legs are great, but what does that help me if I have no arms?'
'And what about me? It was a limestone figure this time, with an unusually deep sounding voice. 'What about me? My figure is perfect, and my arms and legs really beautiful too. But who would ever love me without a face?'
'Well, what are you going to do about us? You have created us, you are responsible for us,' said the young woman I had carved out of my best piece of kauri. She was sitting beside me on the seat now. I felt uneasy. She was so soft and warm looking. She was very nice indeed, but not to me.
'I . . . I still have a good piece of kauri left. If you'd like, I can carve you a pair of arms?'
'Big deal. You'd like that, wouldn't you?' That was the mono-print woman again. I did not like her, she definitely was not my type. 'I know you can give her new arms, probably even nicer arms than my own. And you'll give your limestone girlfriend a lovely face. I'm sure of that. But how about me? You can't shorten my legs.'
What could I do? How could I escape? I could not tear up that print any more, it was too late to burn the kauri wood. They were standing and sitting around me. Alive. Yes, it was too late now.
'And you can't escape.' That mono-print woman again. 'Just have a good look at us. Where-ever you go we will be with you, always, and when you go into a shop, we will be standing all around you at the counter. With legs too long, and never properly dressed.' 'Wait a moment.' I suddenly had a bright idea. 'I might be able to help you too. I could make another print of you. But I can't work with you all standing around me. Just get me a piece of paper and wait outside the room.'
'But don't try to escape. We won't let you.'
'No, but please leave me alone now. It won't be long, maybe half an hour? Please go now and wait outside the room.'
They really went. Now I had to hurry. This was my only chance. My mind was in turmoil, but my hands steady. Had to be. I took my black crayons, and started the best piece of work I had ever done. The best piece, but the last piece too. I worked like fury, sometimes curiously looking into the mirror. I put my whole life into this last drawing.
They can't hurt me any more now, with their long legs. They can't hurt me any more, now my self-portrait is finished.
I'm one of them now. She had no arms, but I am just a head. A head without a body. Just a head.
I am an artist. Was an artist to be more exact, but I still feel like one. One can't help being an artist and do painting after painting, even if they don't sell and clutter up the whole house.
Not that selling my work was important, what I wanted was to create a new, living world of my own, of my feelings, of me. And that's precisely what I did. That afternoon I did a mono-print of a cabbage tree. An old and tired cabbage tree. A neighbour looked in, smiled, and said: 'That tree looks wise.' So I did another mono-print, this time of some pine trees, those unwanted pine trees which are hunted like criminals in some parts of our fair country. It didn't work out too well. I tried once more. Worse.
It left me rather disappointed. 'One final mono-print,' I thought. 'I must show what I feel. I'll make a print of a disappointed woman. They say women have stronger feelings than men, so that should work all right.'
It drew a nude. A nice figure, lying face down, her long hair hiding her face completely. She had her arms and legs folded under her body, and because of the composition I made her legs extra long, accentuating her hiding face.
After I had pinned the print on the wall to let the ink dry, I couldn't keep my eyes off it. I had to look at it over and over again, until she became uncannily lifelike. In fact she was no longer the mono-print I had just finished, she had started a life of her own. She became a woman whom I had never known before, with her own thoughts and her own ideas.
'Ah, there you are,' she snarled.
'What do you want?'
'Aren't you ashamed of yourself?'
'Ashamed? Whatever for?'
'Yes, ashamed,' and she laughed mockingly.
'Keep quiet you. You are nothing but my own creation.'
'And a nice creator you are.'
I heard laughter all around me. My woodcarvings and limestones, an oil painting on the wall, and even the clay studies laughed at me. And not particularly friendly either.
'Look at my legs. Look at what you have done to my legs!' She was standing in front of me now, still nude and at least a head taller than me.
'Well, I think you have very nice and shapely legs.'
'I bet you do. But why did you have to make them so long? Don't give me that composition nonsense. Oh, yes, very shapely, but how can I ever get properly dressed with those ridiculously long legs. When I go out into town I can never buy a dress to fit, or nice high-heeled shoes, all because of you. And don't you keep staring at me, have you never seen a nude woman before?'
'Just look at me!' a voice from the other side of the room yelled. It was a kauri woodcarving, who had climbed down from her plinth. 'Look at me. My legs are great, but what does that help me if I have no arms?'
'And what about me? It was a limestone figure this time, with an unusually deep sounding voice. 'What about me? My figure is perfect, and my arms and legs really beautiful too. But who would ever love me without a face?'
'Well, what are you going to do about us? You have created us, you are responsible for us,' said the young woman I had carved out of my best piece of kauri. She was sitting beside me on the seat now. I felt uneasy. She was so soft and warm looking. She was very nice indeed, but not to me.
'I . . . I still have a good piece of kauri left. If you'd like, I can carve you a pair of arms?'
'Big deal. You'd like that, wouldn't you?' That was the mono-print woman again. I did not like her, she definitely was not my type. 'I know you can give her new arms, probably even nicer arms than my own. And you'll give your limestone girlfriend a lovely face. I'm sure of that. But how about me? You can't shorten my legs.'
What could I do? How could I escape? I could not tear up that print any more, it was too late to burn the kauri wood. They were standing and sitting around me. Alive. Yes, it was too late now.
'And you can't escape.' That mono-print woman again. 'Just have a good look at us. Where-ever you go we will be with you, always, and when you go into a shop, we will be standing all around you at the counter. With legs too long, and never properly dressed.' 'Wait a moment.' I suddenly had a bright idea. 'I might be able to help you too. I could make another print of you. But I can't work with you all standing around me. Just get me a piece of paper and wait outside the room.'
'But don't try to escape. We won't let you.'
'No, but please leave me alone now. It won't be long, maybe half an hour? Please go now and wait outside the room.'
They really went. Now I had to hurry. This was my only chance. My mind was in turmoil, but my hands steady. Had to be. I took my black crayons, and started the best piece of work I had ever done. The best piece, but the last piece too. I worked like fury, sometimes curiously looking into the mirror. I put my whole life into this last drawing.
They can't hurt me any more now, with their long legs. They can't hurt me any more, now my self-portrait is finished.
I'm one of them now. She had no arms, but I am just a head. A head without a body. Just a head.
BEYOND THE SURFACE 4
'CARRIE' Better take it a step further. Ceramic, stainless steel rods and amethyst.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Beyond the surface, 3
Making the figure strongly stylized allowed me to show - and think of - the essence, without any distracting details. Unfortunately I could not think of any way to use this for portraits.
Our kids loved sitting in her lap, although they sometimes had to move the cat away first.
Our kids loved sitting in her lap, although they sometimes had to move the cat away first.
The milk-truck-driving lass
There are many ways of painting a picture. One way: I let one of the people in my novel 'PIV' sing a song. This one:
I’m a milk-truck-driving girl,
I’m a milk-truck-driving girl.
The early morning sunlight
paints a halo on the picture
My baby-daughter’s halo picture
pasted on the dash.
Ask the truckies, ask the farmers,
ask the helpers at the crèche,
They know me as the ever-working
milk-truck-driving lass.
I’m a milk-truck-driving girl,
I’m a milk-truck-driving girl.
The milk of seven herds of cows
is trailing at my back
The road bends round and up and round
and down and round and up.
The picture on the dashboard smiles:
just one more evening run.
My baby-girl is waiting
for her milk-truck-driving Mum.
I’m a milk-truck-driving girl,
I’m a milk-truck-driving girl.
I’m a milk-truck-driving girl,
I’m a milk-truck-driving girl.
The early morning sunlight
paints a halo on the picture
My baby-daughter’s halo picture
pasted on the dash.
Ask the truckies, ask the farmers,
ask the helpers at the crèche,
They know me as the ever-working
milk-truck-driving lass.
I’m a milk-truck-driving girl,
I’m a milk-truck-driving girl.
The milk of seven herds of cows
is trailing at my back
The road bends round and up and round
and down and round and up.
The picture on the dashboard smiles:
just one more evening run.
My baby-girl is waiting
for her milk-truck-driving Mum.
I’m a milk-truck-driving girl,
I’m a milk-truck-driving girl.
Monday, August 23, 2010
BEYOND THE SURFACE 2
'NAOMI' Maybe the surface does not look so impenetrable any more if I build it up out of separate handfuls of clay?
No, not good enough yet, but I might do something similar in cement?
I'll show the result next time.
No, not good enough yet, but I might do something similar in cement?
I'll show the result next time.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Diary 3
We are planning to give a series of house concerts. Late Medieval and early Renaissance music, mainly instrumental on 'authentic' instruments. Flageolets, gemshorns, psalteries and the like. But I'll also play my lyre, the modern version of the old Greek Kythara. I tried to order strings from Japan, but that company has disappeared. So I ordered new strings from the States. No problem. Until I started, and all the strings were about one inch too short. So I had to cut the tailpieces of other strings and attach those to the proper ones between the bridge and the end of the lyre. Took ages. Fun!! The new strings sound good though. Now comes all the rehearsing.
Fortunately some of the other instruments we play have fewer strings, like our Tambourine de Bearn and Galoubet.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Diary 2
I am working on a new musical, working title 'The Busker'. The main character, obviously a busker, is challenged to sing a balad. He hates balads, so on the spur of the moment he makes up a spoof balad, painfully sentimental. But his customer is happy. And here it is, 'The balad of Suzy Rice'. Hope you are disgusted by it too.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Diary 1
Diary, 11/08/'10
My new blog will show three aspects: my visual art, my writing, and this diary. Actually, I am a musician too, but I haven't quite worked out yet how to show music. Yet music is an essential part of my life. Playing, writing songs for my musicals, even writing songs for plays by other playwrights. And for many years making unusual musical instruments was a major source of income. Medieval instruments, ethnic instruments, even modernized versions of archaeological instruments. Of course I couldn't make top quality instruments if I could not play those for a start, so I was forever learning to play different ones. That meant that together with my wife Karen we could give concerts. Which was fun, and incidentally boosted our sales. A win-win-win situation. Come to think of it, what I might do is scan a spoof ballad I wrote for an only partly finished musical. In that musical one of my characters, a busker, is challenged to sing a ballad. He hates that, so he improvises a deliberately bad one. Wait for it, I'll have time to scan it this weekend.
My new blog will show three aspects: my visual art, my writing, and this diary. Actually, I am a musician too, but I haven't quite worked out yet how to show music. Yet music is an essential part of my life. Playing, writing songs for my musicals, even writing songs for plays by other playwrights. And for many years making unusual musical instruments was a major source of income. Medieval instruments, ethnic instruments, even modernized versions of archaeological instruments. Of course I couldn't make top quality instruments if I could not play those for a start, so I was forever learning to play different ones. That meant that together with my wife Karen we could give concerts. Which was fun, and incidentally boosted our sales. A win-win-win situation. Come to think of it, what I might do is scan a spoof ballad I wrote for an only partly finished musical. In that musical one of my characters, a busker, is challenged to sing a ballad. He hates that, so he improvises a deliberately bad one. Wait for it, I'll have time to scan it this weekend.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Pukaki
Pukaki - now featuring on the New Zealand 20 cent coin - is one of the most famous Maori carvings. While I still worked at the Auckland Museum a delegation of Japanese people came, and asked me to make a cast of Pukaki for one of the empty pavilions of their big Expo. And they wanted the cast airmailed to Japan.
Sure, while not? Here the cast had not been painted yet in the exact colours of the original.
The third pot
THE THIRD POT
'Hey, living image of a pot, how're you feeling now? Here, I brought you a bottle of wine, I thought you might need it after that prize giving.'
Melissa grins: 'Don't remind me, Paul. Did you ever hear such a load of bull before?' She mimics the TV personality who had presented her with the big award: '“Look at the absolute perfection of that shape, and look at that flawless glaze, at the incredible beauty of that celadon colour. This is not just another pot, this is the living image of the Artist.” Yeah, sure. But do come in.'
Paul sits down behind the pottery wheel and tries to centre the bottle of wine on the slowly moving turntable. 'I'm out of practice,' he says. 'Mind you, it must be at least twenty years since I last threw a pot. Wheels restrict me too much.'
Melissa nods. 'You can handle your freedom,' she says. 'I'm not quite ready for that yet.'
'Meanwhile you make perfect pots,' Paul smiles. 'You're doing fine.'
Last night the admiring crowd had gathered around her award-winning celadon vase. Her vase on its own pedestal in the centre of the art gallery. They had stood around, holding glasses of wine and savouries in their hands, paying each other the usual complements and gossiping about the few artists who where not present.
'That vase last night just wasn't me,' Melissa says.
Paul has to agree. He had given Melissa her first lump of clay when she had wandered into his studio after school. He had taught her to throw her first pots as soon as her legs were long enough to reach the flywheel and on her tenth birthday he had helped her build her own simple kiln.
'You're right, it's not you. Now go and make a pot that is you.'
'How? Where do you start?'
'Here, where else?'
When Melissa had decided to enter a pot into the competition, she actually made three almost identical vases and picked the most perfect one. The other two are still sitting on one of the shelves.
'Right,' says Paul. 'We'll take the better one of those two and see how much of it is you.'
He gently places it on the table, strokes it. 'Now why would anyone say it's not you, it's so beautiful, so elegant.'
Melissa bursts out laughing: 'Elegant, like me?' and she looks down at her clay-spattered jeans.
Paul can't help laughing too. The vase is elegant indeed, there can be no doubt about that: the body not too full, with nice tight curves, a fairly long, slender neck, the mouth generous without being too wide and the foot nicely balanced. 'No,' he teases, 'it doesn't look like you at all.'
'Actually, I didn't mean the way it looks, but how it feels, the kind of pot it is.'
'OK then. What do you want to see in a pot that this one doesn't give you?'
'I wish I knew, Paul. I know that I don't want perfection any more. That's for sure. And I want to see where it comes from. I want to see the clay, and I want to feel the heat it has gone through.' She hesitates. 'When you really get down to it, all I do is take a heap of mud, shape it somehow and burn the hell out of it. Then I mix some metal oxides with more mud, smear it on the pot, and stick it once more in the fire. I want to be able to see that. And I can't see any of that in my present work.'
'Good enough for a start,' says Paul. 'I challenge you now. I challenge you to make me a pot that shows what you feel. But I want more. I want you to make me a pot that really is you.'
Melissa is dumbfounded.
'I mean it, Melissa. I feel that you can do it, but I challenge you to show me. Make me a pot that honestly reflects the real you. When I look at it I want to recognize you in that pot.'
'Where is it? I want to see it!' Paul is exited. 'You said you would have it finished today. What's it look like?'
Melissa points at her big electric kiln. 'I know what I want it to look like, but the damned thing is still in there, I haven't seen it either. How do I know if it worked? Oh, for God's sake, Paul, I don't know. I've never tried this before. It scares me. First I thought it would be a piece of cake. Just throw an honest pot that shows how I feel about potting. But what you made me do is throw a pot that tells even complete strangers about myself, about my innermost feelings.'
'Of course. The thing is, you're not just another potter, in your heart you're an artist. Otherwise you would not have been unhappy with those comments at the award presentation. You know, as an artist you have to be honest. And that means you'll be vulnerable like hell,' says Paul. 'In a way I feel sorry for you, but whether you like it or not, you're an artist.'
Melissa does not quite know what to say. 'Vulnerable is right,' she thinks. 'Other times when I opened the kiln it was not like this. Other times I was excited, keen to see what the pots would look like. I was never afraid what other people would say.'
'Don't worry,' Paul says. 'I'll be gentle.'
Melissa sighs, nods and opens the kiln door. In spite of the heat in his face Paul stands close, anxious to get a first glance at the pot, but all he sees are elegant goblets and mugs, dozens of them.
'You didn't think I'd fire the kiln just for you, Paul? Most of these are for a gallery down South.'
Melissa puts on her gloves, takes out the first row of goblets. Pale blue goblets, celadon green mugs, a series of soft mauve goblets. Then, right in the back of the kiln, they catch a glimpse of vivid pink. Without looking at Paul Melissa takes out a very large, straight jar and puts it on the table.
The jar is totally different from all the delicate, subtly coloured goblets. Different from any of the work on show on the shelves. This is clearly a clay jar, rough, with finger marks and nail scratches, with a rugged deep black glaze and a surprisingly bold pattern of pink and gold. Pink and gold on black.
'Now that's me,' says Melissa. 'Here you are, Paul, my self portrait.' Melissa sounds confident, but her eyes betray her. Her eyes challenge Paul to disagree with her.
Paul looks at her silently. He looks at her strong but slender hands, her slim figure, and her sensitive face. He looks at the solid, blockish jar, back at Melissa. 'Is that how you see yourself?' he wants to know. 'Is that how you really are, or is it how you want others to see you?'
'I,' Melissa begins. She stops again, looks away.
'It's an amazing piece of work, truly beautiful, only it's not very feminine, is it?'
'But that pink design?'
'A cliché,' Paul almost whispers. 'Sorry Melissa, but that is where you give yourself away. Don't be afraid to be honest with me.'
Melissa turns away. She goes to the window at the other end of the studio.
Outside a few sparrows are searching for insects in her herb garden. She loves that corner of her garden. All the pots which didn't quite work out, but which she could not throw away ended up between the herbs. A colourful rockery of man-made rocks and aromatic plants. 'Is that me?' She bites her lip, turns back, and picks up the jar. The jar is rather heavy, a raw statement in clay, in black, gold and pink. 'Or is this me? Is this honestly me?'
'No!' she shouts. 'This is not me either. This is just a mask, a lie!'
She holds the jar high above her head, throws it with all her might against the steel base of the kiln. The jar shatters. Black, gold and pink shards fly everywhere. 'No!' she shouts again. 'That wasn't me at all. Not - at - all!'
Melissa stands there with her head bent, her arms hanging down, suddenly all spent. 'Help me, Paul' she whispers. 'I'm lost. Can't you see me right?'
'Sure, I'll help you. Don't judge yourself too harshly though, you can do it. The colours of that pot may not have been you, but that pot did portray your strength.'
'I don't know.'
'Even in the way you demolished it,' Paul chuckles.
Melissa takes a deep breath, pulls herself together. 'That pot is only a memory now, and a heap of pieces for my garden. Can you really help me, Paul? You were not just saying that, were you?'
'I can point you in the right direction. But first I have to fire my old wood kiln. I have a whole kiln load of stuff waiting, at least six months of work. How about you coming to my place next week to help me fire her?
'Sure, love to.'
Paul releases the catches of the kiln door. 'Stand back,' he says and slowly the massive door swings open. A wave of hot air wafts out. This kiln is big, big enough to walk right inside and it is filled up to the top with small sculptural pieces. Shelf above shelf with Paul's work, and in between, exactly in the centre but half sheltered by one of Paul's free-form ceramics - - -
Melissa gasps, points: 'That's my vase.'
Paul smiles. 'Yes, I bought it.'
He puts on his gloves and lifts the vase out of the kiln, places it in the middle of the table.
They don't speak. Only the vase makes little noises as it cools down further, tiny tinkling noises.
Much of the original celadon is still there, where it had been sheltered from the direct flames by one of Paul's ceramics, but it is subtly altered. No longer cool and aloof, the glaze somehow reveals a faint memory of the fire.
The other side, where it has been discoloured by the fire, now shows a strong, swirling pattern of red and brown overlaying the green. Some specks of ashes have burned themselves into the glaze and, most amazing of all, the vase is no longer absolutely symmetrical, one side has slumped just the slightest little bit.
No impersonal perfection now. It has been through the fire and in the fire it has gained a more human beauty. More approachable, and somehow more profound.
Melissa whispers 'That's me.'
'I've tried to open a door for you, break your shackles,' Paul says softly. 'I was so afraid I was doing the wrong thing. I did see you right, didn't I?'
Melissa nods. A great relief washes over her.
'He has shown me the way,' she thinks. 'He has set me free.'
Melissa sits down and weeps.
'Hey, living image of a pot, how're you feeling now? Here, I brought you a bottle of wine, I thought you might need it after that prize giving.'
Melissa grins: 'Don't remind me, Paul. Did you ever hear such a load of bull before?' She mimics the TV personality who had presented her with the big award: '“Look at the absolute perfection of that shape, and look at that flawless glaze, at the incredible beauty of that celadon colour. This is not just another pot, this is the living image of the Artist.” Yeah, sure. But do come in.'
Paul sits down behind the pottery wheel and tries to centre the bottle of wine on the slowly moving turntable. 'I'm out of practice,' he says. 'Mind you, it must be at least twenty years since I last threw a pot. Wheels restrict me too much.'
Melissa nods. 'You can handle your freedom,' she says. 'I'm not quite ready for that yet.'
'Meanwhile you make perfect pots,' Paul smiles. 'You're doing fine.'
Last night the admiring crowd had gathered around her award-winning celadon vase. Her vase on its own pedestal in the centre of the art gallery. They had stood around, holding glasses of wine and savouries in their hands, paying each other the usual complements and gossiping about the few artists who where not present.
'That vase last night just wasn't me,' Melissa says.
Paul has to agree. He had given Melissa her first lump of clay when she had wandered into his studio after school. He had taught her to throw her first pots as soon as her legs were long enough to reach the flywheel and on her tenth birthday he had helped her build her own simple kiln.
'You're right, it's not you. Now go and make a pot that is you.'
'How? Where do you start?'
'Here, where else?'
When Melissa had decided to enter a pot into the competition, she actually made three almost identical vases and picked the most perfect one. The other two are still sitting on one of the shelves.
'Right,' says Paul. 'We'll take the better one of those two and see how much of it is you.'
He gently places it on the table, strokes it. 'Now why would anyone say it's not you, it's so beautiful, so elegant.'
Melissa bursts out laughing: 'Elegant, like me?' and she looks down at her clay-spattered jeans.
Paul can't help laughing too. The vase is elegant indeed, there can be no doubt about that: the body not too full, with nice tight curves, a fairly long, slender neck, the mouth generous without being too wide and the foot nicely balanced. 'No,' he teases, 'it doesn't look like you at all.'
'Actually, I didn't mean the way it looks, but how it feels, the kind of pot it is.'
'OK then. What do you want to see in a pot that this one doesn't give you?'
'I wish I knew, Paul. I know that I don't want perfection any more. That's for sure. And I want to see where it comes from. I want to see the clay, and I want to feel the heat it has gone through.' She hesitates. 'When you really get down to it, all I do is take a heap of mud, shape it somehow and burn the hell out of it. Then I mix some metal oxides with more mud, smear it on the pot, and stick it once more in the fire. I want to be able to see that. And I can't see any of that in my present work.'
'Good enough for a start,' says Paul. 'I challenge you now. I challenge you to make me a pot that shows what you feel. But I want more. I want you to make me a pot that really is you.'
Melissa is dumbfounded.
'I mean it, Melissa. I feel that you can do it, but I challenge you to show me. Make me a pot that honestly reflects the real you. When I look at it I want to recognize you in that pot.'
'Where is it? I want to see it!' Paul is exited. 'You said you would have it finished today. What's it look like?'
Melissa points at her big electric kiln. 'I know what I want it to look like, but the damned thing is still in there, I haven't seen it either. How do I know if it worked? Oh, for God's sake, Paul, I don't know. I've never tried this before. It scares me. First I thought it would be a piece of cake. Just throw an honest pot that shows how I feel about potting. But what you made me do is throw a pot that tells even complete strangers about myself, about my innermost feelings.'
'Of course. The thing is, you're not just another potter, in your heart you're an artist. Otherwise you would not have been unhappy with those comments at the award presentation. You know, as an artist you have to be honest. And that means you'll be vulnerable like hell,' says Paul. 'In a way I feel sorry for you, but whether you like it or not, you're an artist.'
Melissa does not quite know what to say. 'Vulnerable is right,' she thinks. 'Other times when I opened the kiln it was not like this. Other times I was excited, keen to see what the pots would look like. I was never afraid what other people would say.'
'Don't worry,' Paul says. 'I'll be gentle.'
Melissa sighs, nods and opens the kiln door. In spite of the heat in his face Paul stands close, anxious to get a first glance at the pot, but all he sees are elegant goblets and mugs, dozens of them.
'You didn't think I'd fire the kiln just for you, Paul? Most of these are for a gallery down South.'
Melissa puts on her gloves, takes out the first row of goblets. Pale blue goblets, celadon green mugs, a series of soft mauve goblets. Then, right in the back of the kiln, they catch a glimpse of vivid pink. Without looking at Paul Melissa takes out a very large, straight jar and puts it on the table.
The jar is totally different from all the delicate, subtly coloured goblets. Different from any of the work on show on the shelves. This is clearly a clay jar, rough, with finger marks and nail scratches, with a rugged deep black glaze and a surprisingly bold pattern of pink and gold. Pink and gold on black.
'Now that's me,' says Melissa. 'Here you are, Paul, my self portrait.' Melissa sounds confident, but her eyes betray her. Her eyes challenge Paul to disagree with her.
Paul looks at her silently. He looks at her strong but slender hands, her slim figure, and her sensitive face. He looks at the solid, blockish jar, back at Melissa. 'Is that how you see yourself?' he wants to know. 'Is that how you really are, or is it how you want others to see you?'
'I,' Melissa begins. She stops again, looks away.
'It's an amazing piece of work, truly beautiful, only it's not very feminine, is it?'
'But that pink design?'
'A cliché,' Paul almost whispers. 'Sorry Melissa, but that is where you give yourself away. Don't be afraid to be honest with me.'
Melissa turns away. She goes to the window at the other end of the studio.
Outside a few sparrows are searching for insects in her herb garden. She loves that corner of her garden. All the pots which didn't quite work out, but which she could not throw away ended up between the herbs. A colourful rockery of man-made rocks and aromatic plants. 'Is that me?' She bites her lip, turns back, and picks up the jar. The jar is rather heavy, a raw statement in clay, in black, gold and pink. 'Or is this me? Is this honestly me?'
'No!' she shouts. 'This is not me either. This is just a mask, a lie!'
She holds the jar high above her head, throws it with all her might against the steel base of the kiln. The jar shatters. Black, gold and pink shards fly everywhere. 'No!' she shouts again. 'That wasn't me at all. Not - at - all!'
Melissa stands there with her head bent, her arms hanging down, suddenly all spent. 'Help me, Paul' she whispers. 'I'm lost. Can't you see me right?'
'Sure, I'll help you. Don't judge yourself too harshly though, you can do it. The colours of that pot may not have been you, but that pot did portray your strength.'
'I don't know.'
'Even in the way you demolished it,' Paul chuckles.
Melissa takes a deep breath, pulls herself together. 'That pot is only a memory now, and a heap of pieces for my garden. Can you really help me, Paul? You were not just saying that, were you?'
'I can point you in the right direction. But first I have to fire my old wood kiln. I have a whole kiln load of stuff waiting, at least six months of work. How about you coming to my place next week to help me fire her?
'Sure, love to.'
Paul releases the catches of the kiln door. 'Stand back,' he says and slowly the massive door swings open. A wave of hot air wafts out. This kiln is big, big enough to walk right inside and it is filled up to the top with small sculptural pieces. Shelf above shelf with Paul's work, and in between, exactly in the centre but half sheltered by one of Paul's free-form ceramics - - -
Melissa gasps, points: 'That's my vase.'
Paul smiles. 'Yes, I bought it.'
He puts on his gloves and lifts the vase out of the kiln, places it in the middle of the table.
They don't speak. Only the vase makes little noises as it cools down further, tiny tinkling noises.
Much of the original celadon is still there, where it had been sheltered from the direct flames by one of Paul's ceramics, but it is subtly altered. No longer cool and aloof, the glaze somehow reveals a faint memory of the fire.
The other side, where it has been discoloured by the fire, now shows a strong, swirling pattern of red and brown overlaying the green. Some specks of ashes have burned themselves into the glaze and, most amazing of all, the vase is no longer absolutely symmetrical, one side has slumped just the slightest little bit.
No impersonal perfection now. It has been through the fire and in the fire it has gained a more human beauty. More approachable, and somehow more profound.
Melissa whispers 'That's me.'
'I've tried to open a door for you, break your shackles,' Paul says softly. 'I was so afraid I was doing the wrong thing. I did see you right, didn't I?'
Melissa nods. A great relief washes over her.
'He has shown me the way,' she thinks. 'He has set me free.'
Melissa sits down and weeps.
Beyond the surface
BEYOND THE SURFACE
Paintures and other art work by Leo Cappèl
Tradition tells us that you could not help but see the beautiful soul of Athena radiating through the surface of Pheidias' famous sculpture. Such was her inner beauty that the memory of it has survived close to twenty five centuries.
Pheidias was an Athenian sculptor, painter and architect. Even his contemporary, the great statesman Pericles accepted him as his equal, and rightly so. Very few artists, right up to the present day, ever reached his sensitivity and understanding.
I am only a very ordinary artist. He showed the soul beyond the surface, I got frustrated and was stopped by the surface. So I had to try and find different ways to show that the surface may be only a mask. Maybe one day I will succeed just a little.
I intend to show my continuing journey to break through the surface by showing one small step at a time every new post.
'NGA' Can I see the person inside the bronze only because I knew her?
Paintures and other art work by Leo Cappèl
Tradition tells us that you could not help but see the beautiful soul of Athena radiating through the surface of Pheidias' famous sculpture. Such was her inner beauty that the memory of it has survived close to twenty five centuries.
Pheidias was an Athenian sculptor, painter and architect. Even his contemporary, the great statesman Pericles accepted him as his equal, and rightly so. Very few artists, right up to the present day, ever reached his sensitivity and understanding.
I am only a very ordinary artist. He showed the soul beyond the surface, I got frustrated and was stopped by the surface. So I had to try and find different ways to show that the surface may be only a mask. Maybe one day I will succeed just a little.
I intend to show my continuing journey to break through the surface by showing one small step at a time every new post.
'NGA' Can I see the person inside the bronze only because I knew her?
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Short story. In the hospital corridor
IN THE HOSPITAL CORRIDOR
The woman wriggles around in her armchair. 'That's better,' she sighs. 'I'm too old to walk far.' She looks at the man in the other chair. He just grunts, stares out of the window. 'Have you been waiting long?' she asks.
Now the man has to look at her: 'Maybe half an hour.'
'You shouldn't sit here in the corridor. They won't know where to find you.'
'My boy is having an operation.'
'They're very good here, much better than in Auckland. But you should wait in a waiting room.'
'He's still in the theatre. I'll wait here till about ten o'clock.'
'They don't have very nice chairs in the waiting rooms,' the woman explains. 'They are all stuck together, always four or six chairs all stuck together. That way they can keep the place more tidy.'
'I suppose so.'
'I like these chairs better. These are nice and comfy. And they're not stuck together like in the waiting rooms. Much bigger too.'
'Nice upholstery.'
'They're very big, like in the lounge of the home. There they've got big chairs too. Good for fat people. There are too many fat people around now. That's because of all the fast food. And because of all the fancy cereals. You look in the supermarket, all different kinds of cereal. And all different kinds of weight watchers cereal. But people still get fat.'
'That's the way of it nowadays.'
'People didn't get so fat when we were young.'
'No.'
'That car shouldn't be parked there. That's where the bus stops. They have changed the bus route. When you want to go back to town they take you all the way to the cemetery first and then all the way back again. The busses can't turn right out of the hospital entrance. Only left. To the right they have to get across all the traffic.'
The man looks out of the window. He nods: 'It must be difficult for those big busses.'
'You can also catch the bus across the road on its way back. But there is no pedestrian crossing, so most people catch the bus here instead.
'I'm sure that's safer.'
'They are going to make a bigger parking lot. And then they're going to build a new wing. For mental patients. For people who can't think so good. Not for really ill people, only for when they can't think very good any more.'
'Yes, I heard about it.'
'They'll pull down the building over there first, it's getting too old.'
'That's what it said in the paper.'
'They should build another cafeteria instead. This one is no good. Too expensive. Their coffee is horrible and it costs too much. If you have to wait long you should go to the staff cafeteria. You just go down one floor and then it's around the corner from the lift. It's for the staff, but they don't mind other people. They're much better and much cheaper.'
'I should have known that earlier.'
'They're much better. They serve soup for lunch. And they're cheaper than the one here next to the entrance.'
'I'll try them out next time then. Thank you.'
'I like watching people. They all have their own ways. They're all different. I like that. Not like in the home. There they're all the same. They just sit in their chairs and watch telly.'
'You live in a home?'
'Yes, just down the road. It's horrible.'
'Don't they look after you?'
'No. It's always the same. It has always been the same, all those years.'
'Are the staff not nice then?'
'No, they're horrible.'
'In what way?'
'They're just horrible. That's the kind of people they are. They're just horrible people.'
The man looks at his watch.
'Have you been to the library, to the new building? It's very nice. They got lots of books. And they have a nice cafeteria too. You can sit next to the windows and you can watch all those people.'
'Actually, I've never been there. I'm not the reading kind.'
'I'm not either. I go there to watch people. I like watching people. They all have their own ways. I like that.'
'It's been a horrible winter. Too much rain.'
'And too much wind.'
'Too much wind and rain.'
But not very cold.'
'It's been a hard winter.'
'Harsh. Harsh is the word.'
'Yes, harsh. It's been a harsh winter.'
'I don't like watching telly. They're always watching telly at the home. They just sit there. They don't watch real people. That's why I always go to the library. To watch real people. They all have their own ways. Not like on the telly.'
'No, I suppose not.'
'They're selling flowers at the entrance. They're onto a good thing.. People buy them when they visit their friends in the wards. They always forget to buy flowers in town, so they buy them here.'
'I forgot to buy flowers too.'
'They don't have enough vases in the wards. The nurses try hard, but there are never enough vases.'
'It's almost ten o'clock, I think I'll go up to the ward. Maybe my boy is out of the theatre now.'
'They're going to build a new wing for mentally ill patients. Not for really ill people, only for when they can't think so good any more.'
'I hope my boy will be all right.'
'I'll go down to the staff cafeteria now, there are always people to watch there.'
'Don't you have to see your doctor? They won't know where to find you if you stay here in the corridor.'
'I never see a doctor. Whatever for? I don't believe in doctors. I'll go to the staff cafeteria now, and then I'll go to the library. There are always a lot of people there. Nice people. And they all have their own ways.' The woman nods. 'First I'll go to the staff cafeteria, and then I'll go to the library. It's still a good life, come to think of it.'
The woman wriggles around in her armchair. 'That's better,' she sighs. 'I'm too old to walk far.' She looks at the man in the other chair. He just grunts, stares out of the window. 'Have you been waiting long?' she asks.
Now the man has to look at her: 'Maybe half an hour.'
'You shouldn't sit here in the corridor. They won't know where to find you.'
'My boy is having an operation.'
'They're very good here, much better than in Auckland. But you should wait in a waiting room.'
'He's still in the theatre. I'll wait here till about ten o'clock.'
'They don't have very nice chairs in the waiting rooms,' the woman explains. 'They are all stuck together, always four or six chairs all stuck together. That way they can keep the place more tidy.'
'I suppose so.'
'I like these chairs better. These are nice and comfy. And they're not stuck together like in the waiting rooms. Much bigger too.'
'Nice upholstery.'
'They're very big, like in the lounge of the home. There they've got big chairs too. Good for fat people. There are too many fat people around now. That's because of all the fast food. And because of all the fancy cereals. You look in the supermarket, all different kinds of cereal. And all different kinds of weight watchers cereal. But people still get fat.'
'That's the way of it nowadays.'
'People didn't get so fat when we were young.'
'No.'
'That car shouldn't be parked there. That's where the bus stops. They have changed the bus route. When you want to go back to town they take you all the way to the cemetery first and then all the way back again. The busses can't turn right out of the hospital entrance. Only left. To the right they have to get across all the traffic.'
The man looks out of the window. He nods: 'It must be difficult for those big busses.'
'You can also catch the bus across the road on its way back. But there is no pedestrian crossing, so most people catch the bus here instead.
'I'm sure that's safer.'
'They are going to make a bigger parking lot. And then they're going to build a new wing. For mental patients. For people who can't think so good. Not for really ill people, only for when they can't think very good any more.'
'Yes, I heard about it.'
'They'll pull down the building over there first, it's getting too old.'
'That's what it said in the paper.'
'They should build another cafeteria instead. This one is no good. Too expensive. Their coffee is horrible and it costs too much. If you have to wait long you should go to the staff cafeteria. You just go down one floor and then it's around the corner from the lift. It's for the staff, but they don't mind other people. They're much better and much cheaper.'
'I should have known that earlier.'
'They're much better. They serve soup for lunch. And they're cheaper than the one here next to the entrance.'
'I'll try them out next time then. Thank you.'
'I like watching people. They all have their own ways. They're all different. I like that. Not like in the home. There they're all the same. They just sit in their chairs and watch telly.'
'You live in a home?'
'Yes, just down the road. It's horrible.'
'Don't they look after you?'
'No. It's always the same. It has always been the same, all those years.'
'Are the staff not nice then?'
'No, they're horrible.'
'In what way?'
'They're just horrible. That's the kind of people they are. They're just horrible people.'
The man looks at his watch.
'Have you been to the library, to the new building? It's very nice. They got lots of books. And they have a nice cafeteria too. You can sit next to the windows and you can watch all those people.'
'Actually, I've never been there. I'm not the reading kind.'
'I'm not either. I go there to watch people. I like watching people. They all have their own ways. I like that.'
'It's been a horrible winter. Too much rain.'
'And too much wind.'
'Too much wind and rain.'
But not very cold.'
'It's been a hard winter.'
'Harsh. Harsh is the word.'
'Yes, harsh. It's been a harsh winter.'
'I don't like watching telly. They're always watching telly at the home. They just sit there. They don't watch real people. That's why I always go to the library. To watch real people. They all have their own ways. Not like on the telly.'
'No, I suppose not.'
'They're selling flowers at the entrance. They're onto a good thing.. People buy them when they visit their friends in the wards. They always forget to buy flowers in town, so they buy them here.'
'I forgot to buy flowers too.'
'They don't have enough vases in the wards. The nurses try hard, but there are never enough vases.'
'It's almost ten o'clock, I think I'll go up to the ward. Maybe my boy is out of the theatre now.'
'They're going to build a new wing for mentally ill patients. Not for really ill people, only for when they can't think so good any more.'
'I hope my boy will be all right.'
'I'll go down to the staff cafeteria now, there are always people to watch there.'
'Don't you have to see your doctor? They won't know where to find you if you stay here in the corridor.'
'I never see a doctor. Whatever for? I don't believe in doctors. I'll go to the staff cafeteria now, and then I'll go to the library. There are always a lot of people there. Nice people. And they all have their own ways.' The woman nods. 'First I'll go to the staff cafeteria, and then I'll go to the library. It's still a good life, come to think of it.'
I hate bragging, but have no choice
One of my first jobs in New Zealand was with the railways, as 'relay mechanic'. My English was still rather shaky and my off-sider came from the top of Scotland! At that time I still wrote in Dutch and had stories accepted in Holland and Belgium. Soon I was offered a position at the Canterbury Museum, to make small diorama displays - mainly for country schools - and some years later I found myself creating the very large dioramas in the Auckland Museum.
Karen and I played early and ethnic music on stage, on radio and TV.
I played saxophone in a jazz band, and later flute in a Greek orchestra.
I exhibited sculptures in leading art galleries in Holland, Australia and New Zealand. In between I participated in stage productions at the Mercury and the New Independent Theatres in Auckland, both on stage and as musical director/musician. My first solo exhibition didn't happen. Everything was carefully planned, the invitations were printed, and the director of the Stedelijk Muzeum had promised to do the official opening. The Stedelijk Muzeum is the most prestigious modern art museum in Amsterdam, and it would make my exhibition more important in the eyes of the public. I had delivered my portfolio in the evening, but when I arrived the next morning to help the gallery owner hang the exhibition, I found the police examining the front door. Overnight there had been a burglary and my entire collection of work had been stolen. My first solo exhibition!
I got restless, decided to build a 54 foot yacht, so my wife Karen and I could go back to the sea. It took 7 years of weekends and holidays, financed by writing, performing and directing on stage, playing music, sculpting, and - in what little spare time we could find - building unusual musical instruments.
We lived on board, getting ready to travel overseas. Then a bombshell: the asbestos in my lungs - legacy of my work at the Auckland War Memorial Museum! - began to play up, no more ocean sailing after all. My response: to write a cheerful novel, SAIL THEATRE, SAIL, followed by several stage plays and musicals, five of which have been produced, and the novel CLONE.
During that entire period, from my student days till the present, I never stopped sculpting and painting. Most of my more important work is now in collections in America, in Australia and in Europe.
After 16 years aboard, often in Whangarei, Karen and I lived for another 10 years on top of a hill on tiny Kawau Island, where there are no shops, no roads, no rubbish removal or any other services apart from electricity - most of the time - and telephone, and where we got our mail delivered by the Royal Mail Run ferry twice a week.
During that entire period, from my student days till the present, I never stopped sculpting and painting. Most of my more important work is now in collections in America, in Australia and in Europe.
And now, several exhibitions and 7 literary awards and prizes later, we have moved to a house (!) in Whangarei, not far from where Linda and Jenny would have lived, if they had been real people instead of imaginary friends of mine, living in my novel CLONE.
The important thing is we never give up: after all those years Karen and I still play our music for whoever engages us.
Leo Cappèl
Karen and I played early and ethnic music on stage, on radio and TV.
I played saxophone in a jazz band, and later flute in a Greek orchestra.
I exhibited sculptures in leading art galleries in Holland, Australia and New Zealand. In between I participated in stage productions at the Mercury and the New Independent Theatres in Auckland, both on stage and as musical director/musician. My first solo exhibition didn't happen. Everything was carefully planned, the invitations were printed, and the director of the Stedelijk Muzeum had promised to do the official opening. The Stedelijk Muzeum is the most prestigious modern art museum in Amsterdam, and it would make my exhibition more important in the eyes of the public. I had delivered my portfolio in the evening, but when I arrived the next morning to help the gallery owner hang the exhibition, I found the police examining the front door. Overnight there had been a burglary and my entire collection of work had been stolen. My first solo exhibition!
I got restless, decided to build a 54 foot yacht, so my wife Karen and I could go back to the sea. It took 7 years of weekends and holidays, financed by writing, performing and directing on stage, playing music, sculpting, and - in what little spare time we could find - building unusual musical instruments.
We lived on board, getting ready to travel overseas. Then a bombshell: the asbestos in my lungs - legacy of my work at the Auckland War Memorial Museum! - began to play up, no more ocean sailing after all. My response: to write a cheerful novel, SAIL THEATRE, SAIL, followed by several stage plays and musicals, five of which have been produced, and the novel CLONE.
During that entire period, from my student days till the present, I never stopped sculpting and painting. Most of my more important work is now in collections in America, in Australia and in Europe.
After 16 years aboard, often in Whangarei, Karen and I lived for another 10 years on top of a hill on tiny Kawau Island, where there are no shops, no roads, no rubbish removal or any other services apart from electricity - most of the time - and telephone, and where we got our mail delivered by the Royal Mail Run ferry twice a week.
During that entire period, from my student days till the present, I never stopped sculpting and painting. Most of my more important work is now in collections in America, in Australia and in Europe.
And now, several exhibitions and 7 literary awards and prizes later, we have moved to a house (!) in Whangarei, not far from where Linda and Jenny would have lived, if they had been real people instead of imaginary friends of mine, living in my novel CLONE.
The important thing is we never give up: after all those years Karen and I still play our music for whoever engages us.
Leo Cappèl
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