Mud on sticks

“Let’s talk as painters,” he clasps my hand in a warm, knotted ham and we circle the room. He is hilarious, warm and furiously alive.

Pausing at each picture; he animates — gestures uncommon of a man his age, swear words and spittle pass messages from fierce and funny blue eyes. An imperial under bite and a fine mess of ancient ivory come down hard on mediocrity.

“I may be feeble … or a bit fucking brutal, boyo … do you mind?” I’m a groupie talking to a rock star.

Lazer-sharp observations dissect the work.

“I do love what I do, but it is just pushing mud about on fabric with a stick … ”

“Find the alertness you need on stage — recognise new opportunities as they happen, go with them. Improvise and obliterate, dear boy … ”

From twisted hands, potent magic flows. I am given quantities to mix, and charcoal and paper —

“Next time I see you, bring lots of work … ”

As he is leaving, a pony-tailed snake oil auctioneer tries to be obsequious on the pavement, but the maestro’s hazy blue eyes cut through the act, stopping the man mid-scrape:

“I don’t think terribly much of you, I’m afraid, excuse me.”

Fearlessly, he revs his bakkie, old-school, and grates gears in a nonchalant exit, almost sending oncoming traffic to heaven before him in a screech of brakes, and the smoke of car parts made vapour.

We slop tea around mugs in the spare room.

“You don’t do hands very well — hands are hard. Faces are five holes — hands are hard — better hands next time.”

I try to admire a painting of his I’ve seen in a book —

“Johnny, you’re talking about a one-night stand I had many years ago, I’ve moved on, boy-boy … ”

We talk about the theatre — he was a dresser on the Orson Welles Othello, young and stunned by Welles, who he met backstage —

“One could only step aside in awe as he approached — he was just so fucking important — and when he extinguished the candle, I saw that girl’s soul float up … ”

Lunch and we’d got him tipsy — he loved to see his work all over the walls, even the one I wasn’t supposed to own —

“That was supposed to be in a villa in Italy, on the wall of a count … how the fuck did that happen?” — it’s a good-natured enquiry, eyes shining with a permanent smile — an orphan who has loved the world nonetheless. He spies one of mine:

“That’s not mine, is it?” I laugh at the confusion — “oh yes, I thought I told you to put a fucking hand on that? Nevermind, it is a lovely lunch, not the time, old boy … “

He is revitalised by young people, and mortified by talk of age, health and death —

“Now, Johnny, let’s not be boring — tell me about your travels, how was your engagement with the Arab fellow? Was it appalling, we want every detail.”

A visit is missed, he’s had a fall — I go round unexpectedly, bearing books. He looks torn and bruised, but perks up as we talk. He’s no moaner — he snapped his femur in half at Kentridge’s Magic Flute and sat through the second half.

“It was a very good opera, and I didn’t want to spoil it.” He is prepared to suffer for other’s art — fools don’t get the same credit line.

“At my age, I may see you in two weeks, but let’s remain flexible.”

I call as often as I can —

“Who? I’m sorry; I’m not sure who is calling? Johnny? Johnny Comedian? Dear boy, why didn’t you say so! You left your dark glasses here — my finance man tells me they are ever so exclusive. Prada — only the devil wears Prada, Johnny — how very sinister, now when are you coming? Bring paintings.”

Tea and biscuits after each session, poured by Jan, amongst the bronzes, and bonsais and the leaf-gentled sun — a time of laughter and deep recording.

Then nothing. I find out that the Maestro has been ill, and back in hospital — the art-pigs are circling. The gallery has had calls … I find him:

“Don’t come, Johnny, I’ve had a bad night, I look terrible, wait until I am back to my seductive best … ”

I go.

He is happy for the visit, loves the Noseweek, not the Gabriel Garcia Marquez:

“Oh dear, a bit sombre for now, thank you, boy-boy — I’ll pass — now tell me about where you have been, and is it true that you’ll be at the Royal Albert Hall? Do tell … ”

The Doc interrupts us. It is a rushed good bye.

When they come, our tears bring friends.

RIP, Maestro.