The horsewhisperer

Tony often wrote stories and illustrated them. He was a painter first and foremost. These illustrations are done with airbrush. You have to love the horses! Tony knew horses, he rode, as a 14 year old he worked in a very famous stable. Didn't really like him since one of the horses was really ornery. I think it is an early seventies piece when many of his best stories originated.

Hospital 2

HOSPITALS

for Tony Mafia

Where lines approach each other only to diverge once more, something like
sorrow arises. The background is blue. Can stay that way. From stripes
green lines and from lines threads. The blood beats in the heart, it
beats in the women that survive and that retain the grave and the
memory. The woman watches from behind a serum stand. Visitors
coming. You are ferried along corridors, you descend through
lift shafts. Down to the final room, the heart chamber. The heart is now
opened and closed once more. Closed once more. Men bend forwards,
bend over the body and the bed. There are loud whisperings to which
no one is listening. Then they return, really and truly, from the distance,
the eyes of the one who is killed, just before he falls. You don’t forget them.
You wanted a hewn gravestone and that you got, written on
with the red of blood. The stone comes from the ravine. You’re aware of that.
A woman gives an anxious sidelong look in your direction. Distance comes close.
Your brush was fanciful, like your wildest dance. Now you dance away from her.
Stay here, I say, I say, since you already left so many years ago.
Translation:
John Irons



ZIEKENHUIZEN

voor Tony Mafia

Waar lijnen bij elkaar komen en weer uit elkaar lopen, ontstaat iets
als zorg. De achtergrond is blauw. Dat mag zo blijven. Uit strepen
groeien lijnen en uit lijnen draden. Het bloed klopt in het hart, het
klopt in de vrouwen die overleven en die het graf en de herinnering
bewaren. De vrouw kijkt van achter een serumstaander toe. Er komt
bezoek. Je wordt door gangen gereden, je gaat door liftkokers naar
beneden. Naar de laatste kamer, de hartkamer. Het hart wordt nu
geopend en weer gedicht. Weer gedicht. Mannen buigen naar voren,
ze buigen over het lichaam en het bed. Er wordt hoog gefluisterd,
er wordt niet geluisterd. Dan komen ze, echt, vanuit de verte terug,
de ogen van wie wordt gedood, net vóór hij valt. Je vergeet ze niet.
Een gehouwen grafsteen wou je en die kreeg je toch, beschreven
met het rood van bloed. De steen komt uit het ravijn. Dat weet je
goed. Een vrouw lonkt angstig in je richting. Verte komt dichtbij.
Je borstel was grillig, als je wildste dans. Nu dans je weg van haar.
Blijf hier, zeg ik, zeg ik, nu je al sinds zo veel jaren bent weggegaan.

Joris Iven

You can order 'Black Sun' at http://www.lulu.com/content/5638999

Ascension

This painting has already been posted. I have a good reason though to show it again. Albert Hagenaars was inspired by this painting writing his poem for Black Sun, a tribute to Tony Mafia. Then click' het laatste nieuws ( blog)' and go to 'A tribute to Indian-American artist Tony Mafia'. This will link to Albert's poem in Dutch and English. The poem beautifully captures the multitude of facets which inspired Tony for this painting and the made the feelings and experiences his own so that they are ours when we read it.

By and by the other poems of this beautiful volume will be posted and of course you can order the book at www.lulu.com

The artist

In this picture taken in Montellano, Spain, Tony is looking at a master guitar builder making his guitar. Tony loved all the arts and was good in several of them. In May this year 10 years will have passed since his demise. A Dutch poet Hannie Rouweler took the initiative to compose a Tribute to Tony. She asked five Dutch and five Flemish poets to write a poem inspired by Tony's work, or as the case may be by Tony himself. On the link you can click and then you'll see the front and back cover and you can read a series of comments on the different poems written for this publication. Also you can order the book or download it through that website. Obviously it is a bilingual publication with a beautiful lay out and great and thoughtful poetry. I thank Hannie for the initiative, John Irons for the help with the English translations and all the poets for their honest and thoughtful, beautiful poems.

Great Fish

The lyrics read: Loving the great fish is the ultimate and end too Well that is true enough. Tony was an avid fisherman. He liked rivers, lakes even stocked ponds. I guess it quietened his mind concentrating on the next catch. He usually caught us a meal, but once in a while I would outfish him. This is a monoprint from 1975.

part two

Here too you can see the corrections and a few preliminary drawings. The final book became much longer in black and white washes and pen and ink drawings... One of these days I'll post the full Love and Loved story. You'll see that the nucleous is already present here.

Process of writing

I'll be showing the first sketches and writings prefiguring what later became the story of 'Love and Loved'. A far as I can tell the corrections are Tony's . It must have been early seventies when the idea first came to him.

Children of a clown time

This is the oldest work I have by Tony Mafia. First we knew him as a singer/busker in Antwerp. He knew how to seduce a guitar. In August 1968 we met him with his wife and young son in the market. He invited us over and we admired his drawings. That was the day of the beginning of a collection. This is a mixed medium. The text reads: The children of a clown time stand alone to remove the false, to grab at any bud or blossom, to stay his weight, some to compare and to find one or the other of a less or unfulfilled promise, still alone to sit and dream of a tomorrow spring.

Lone lonely I wander

The photograph is Tony on the middle mike, either with 'The Men' or with 'The Association' at Doug Weston's 'The Troubadour'.

The text round the drawing is from a song Tony wrote:
Lone lonely I wander
a grey grain in the sands of time
dark clouds and thunder call from the night
looking lonely for some one to love
as I love thee
But lonely I wander
Lonely I wander
an endless hum in the melody of time
a breeze blown from the sea
laughing crying called to me
looking lonely for someone to love
as I loved thee
But lonely we wander

Alleen eenzaam dwaal ik
een grijze korrel in het zand van de tijd
donkere wolken en donder roepen uit de nacht
eenzaam zoekend naar iemand om lief te hebben
als ik jou lief heb
Maar eenzaam dwaal ik
Eenzaam dwaal ik
een eindeloze zang in de melodie van de tijd
een bries aangewaaid uit de zee
roept mij lachend schreiend
eenzaam zoekend naar iemand om lief te hebben
als ik jou lief had
Maar eenzaam dwalen wij

Drumming you up

A mixed medium drawing with a lot of writing around it. Some of it about the pale rider, death. I o not know what happened March 17 in 1987, maybe another heart episode e was trying to forget in a girls arms. Part of the text: I can only tell you a story are you to ??? of a blue eyed mermaid and or and to return a nine mile under a PAIL pale pael rider to carry my soul to peace as sound the drum of never. Yes fear of death often accompanied Tony, looking for redemption, or peace of mind.

Goodbying was never said

Tony often wrote on his drawings and paintings. So he did on this airbrush and watercolor. The texts is clear enough for you all to read. There is obvious sadness. I do not know what loss Tony was mourning in this writing. Do you?

Selfportrait

A selfportrait with different loves from June 1989. Note the long mane, the big palet, the different paintings. This was the earliest time I noticed the paintings in a drawing. He is younger than in the picture at work taken in August 1998 by D.L. who owns the drawing. I can't quite read the text... Walking down the ... street I.... the paint flow in the rain and danced to the special ... of rage ... Who can tell us more ?

Care

1989, seemingly in a sad lonely stretch of life. The text reads: Some alone in the of a time I am needing a caring but can their world come to every man who needs or can only a cold be a forever Here longing and need is expressed in gentle colors. Tony's writing on his work was a feature that often came back. You'll see more of that in later posts.

Forty fifty and two

So sick at 40 that he writes on the drawing that he feared he would not make it to fifty, longing for a you, lonely and in despair. That was Tony too. The lesson from this drawing is to make beauty out of your misery. The text says: three times so soft I walk me at forty so sick I fifty now this moon and two long for a you. Painted in Antwerp, 1983. He made till 67.

Word and image

Often Tony combined writing with painting. In this abstract from 1996 the drawing has his writing and mine. That were our best times when we created beauty together. He also loved to do these collorful abstractions. From he dentists collection.

Clowns

Two clowns in love, beautiful in color and composition. But did it work out?
A text by Tony from December 1976, Ode to a one I have passed. In a period with hearttrouble after the first operation.
I have been passed by, around, over & under, and even had a by-pass. But no matter passings there will never be a bigger shit than you, lover. Thank Goooooooood we were only passing.
I have had tough meat to eat, met tough men I could never beat. One so tough he knocked me on my doff damn rough! But no matter I still can laugh and scream, tough shit on you lover. If I had never met another I might never have had a companion. Thank Goooooooood we were only passing. And on you I lay the words of a friend of mine: you I shall ever pass, thank gooooooooooooddd vou were only off passing. I pass.

I don't know who owns the painting, nor who the lover was...

The Fool. 1975

Never once in the time
I have known has
anything been so
sure. but it is and I
opened my eyes and walked
out into the night, bells
rang low in the dark valley
their frightful calling follows
me to the golden bloom of
in the early morning’s swallow
eye.

I quavered even
my sure hand moved slower
than usual. a swallow eye! or
did it mean, a field of golden
corn golded after the passing
of summers warm.
to rest in ...or by
chance did it try to tell me
of thing of my needing orange
golden bleeding of a never
to loose dancing shoes
dancing me to the
river of the
way home.
up above
the dark

marking this dark door
no matter how high,
I danced on after
first taking a
stalk of corn of golden
and looking marking well
the swallow’s eye, saying to
myself: never once in my
life has anything been so
sure. I surely moved slowly.
to my opened eyed night of
ringing bell questions
to the time of
next



which rained
down a
answer I did not
(knot) which is too
well want to see, the
hidden me. drenched
in pity of, of love
and all bell follower
that would come
after me trying to
see, find, be,
as a endless
mountain
all to see
or know.


while the soul
of free in me be, knew
that winds blew
only for the
lone
who shall
never know
say in a
all knowing voice
never once in the times I
have known has any thing
been so young sure. that
can’t be not danced
to in golden corn
to the calling of
a blind
swallow -

A big rock

A big rock lived on a mountain edge since
the very first April ever, balancing
there until love comes.

A beautiful scarlet flying thing
caught his eye as it fluttered by, a abstract
next to the green, gray or black flying things
that sit on the rock occasionally, adding a sober touch of balance
The rock waiting for love, knew, as you know, in this
muted time a little scarlet can dislodge our pale
scale of even.

But the world below the big rock was not
afraid. In mass they knew a little abstract scarlet, love, is better than a
green, grey or black, fear of, big fall, non balance. And also who knows
when a dark cloud will cover all and lose even
this our scale of even ...

Finis


May 27, 1979 Tony Mafia



Een grote rots leefde op een bergkam sinds
de allereerste April ooit, balancerend
aldaar tot liefde komt.

Zijn oog viel op een mooi scharlaken
vliegend iets terwijl het langs fladderde, een abstract
naast de groene, grijze of zwarte dingen die vliegen en
soms op de rots gaan zitten, toevoegend een sobere toets van evenwicht
De rots wachtend op liefde, wist, zoals jij weet, in deze
gedempte tijd kan een beetje scharlaken een
bleke schaal van even verbreken.

Maar de wereld onder de rots was niet
bang. In massa wisten zij dat een beetje abstract scharlaken, liefde, beter is dan een groen, grijs of zwart, angst voor, een grote val, onevenwicht. En ook wie weet
wanneer een donkere wolk alles zal bedekken en zelfs
deze onze schaal van even verliest ...

Finis

Ja

Het is niet morgens lange voor altijd,
nooitnimmer of een gedachte van gisteren
dat dit tot leven bracht, wat dan ook,
daar stond het zeggend: “Kijk
naar mij, ik ben schoonheid, kijk naar
mij, ben ik niet iets dat
jij gevoeld hebt, voelend terwijl je
wellicht trachtte te leven, levend,
gevend.” Ik voel mijn schilderziel
zeggend, kijk naar mij, schoonheid
geschilderd.

Dit was al wat ik kon verstaan
hoewel ik mijn hand aan mijn oor hield
en luisterde. Ik kwam dichter, maar
dra leek mijn nabijheid het
veel zachter te maken, hardhoriger
en in niet kunnen verstaan
kwam de vrees, die me beklemde. Ik liep,
lopend naar iemand, iets om me te helpen bij
mijn begrijpen van de angst voor niet weten.

Ik liep langs verleden herinnering in mijn vlucht.
Vrees weerhield mij hen om hulp
te vragen bij mijn niet weten.
Trots weerhield mij mijn behoefte
tot begrijpen te tonen. Het bleef
in mij terugkomen: “Ik ben schoonheid
levend, ik voel mijn geschilderde ziel,
mijn schilderschoonheid.”

Ik liep langs een stroom scharlaken vissen.
Zachtjes zong ik voor ze: “Ken
je de geschilderde schoonheid niet?
Of laat je koude, natte huis
je niet weten van de liefde
van anderen voor hun eigen schoonheid?”
Zij zwommen slechts stroomopwaarts
en antwoordden niet eens, of
tenminste begreep ik het niet
als zij het deden. Zo doende voelde ik
mij alleen, eenzaam. Zo zeer bevreesd
liep ik snel, harder, verder en verder
want zij leken er niet om te geven
of deze schoonheid bestond
voor haar eeuwigheid. Zo loop, liep,
lopend ving de wind mijn
waaiende manen omwevend
mijn gelaat in een kant van angst
mij verblindend voor alles wat ik in mijn vlucht
ontliep om de stille klank te vinden die
ik zo wilde kennen, het geheim
begrijpen van deze schoonheid haar
geschilderde ziel die mijn dorst kon lessen,
deze blinde haast van angst zou STOPPEN,
vrees voor het onbekende, zwartste
nacht koud alleen, alle verblindende tranen
stopt. Beëindigen de onwetendheid. Ik stond
opnieuw te luisteren, door mijn harige manen
glinsterend kwam een ochtendlicht.
Mijn angstjacht was gelopen, nu getoond
de zon die licht gaf, warmte
aan het scharlaken vis vloeiende rivier
lied. Zij kenden het zingen, het is
schoonheid. Wist je dat niet?

dus nu keer ik weer naar de plaats
waar ik begon, kwam de stem zacht op
de wind. Ik luisterde, ze zei: “Ik
ben schoonheid, ben ik niet, kijk naar mij en
bemin. Kijk naar mij, ben ik niet iets
dat je hebt gevoeld, voelend hoe mijn
geschilderde ziel ja zegt. Ik ben geheel schoonheid
en ja, jou geef ik ze.”

Ze zei heel zachtjes
Ja.

Dutch: 1995. And Yes fear was a strong feeling in Tony: fear of death, fear of not being understood and loved and ofcourse a zest for life, joy and charm. It seem fitting to remembr this on this All Souls Day...

Yes

It’s not tomorrows long forever,
nownever, or a yesterday’s thought
that made this live, what ever,
there it stood saying: “Look
at me, I am beauty, look at
me, am I not something you
have felt, feeling while
maybe trying to live, living,
giving.” I feel my paint soul
saying look at me, beauty
painted

This all I could understand
though I cupped my hand to my ear
and listened. I moved closer, but
soon my very nearness seemed to make
it much softer a harder to hear
and in not being able to understand,
came fear, frightening me. I ran, running
to someone, something to help me in
my understanding the fear of not knowing.

I passed past memories in my flight.
Fright stopped me from asking them for
their help in my not knowing.
Pride stopped me from showing
my need to understand. It kept
coming back to me: “I am beauty
living, I feel my painted soul,
my paint of beauty.”

I passed a river of scarlet fishes.
I softly sang to them: “Can
you not feel its painted beauty?
Or does your cold wet home
not let you know of other's
love for their own beauty?”
They but swam up stream and
did not even answer or
at least I did not understand
if they did. It made me feel
alone, lonely. So much in fear
I ran fast, harder, on and on
for they seemed not to care
if this beauty existed for
its eternity. So run, ran,
running the winds caught my
moving mane wrapping it
about my face in a fears lace

blinding me to all I passed in my
race to find the silent sound I
so wanted to know, the secret
understanding of this beauty painted
soul, that quench my thirst could,
this blind pace of fear would STOP,
fright of the unknown, darkest
night cold alone, all tears blinding
be stopped. Stop unknowing. I stood
relistening, through my hair mane
glistening came a morning light.
My fear chase was run, now shown
the sun giving its light, warmth
to the scarlet fish flowing river
song. They knew singing, it is
beauty. Didn’t you know?


So now I return to the place
I began, came the voice soft on
the wind. I listened, it said: “I
am beauty, am I not, look at me and
love. Look at me, am I not something
you have felt, feeling my painted
souls saying yes. I am all beauty and
yes to you I do give it.”

It said very softly
Yes.

Story by Tony Mafia, 1974. Yes to you I give it.