The Juggler

I fear I hear the Juggler
near the crying juggled
and all the time my world
is but a still yesterday

Tony
mixed media on German etching paper 1988- definitely a distorted self portrait... Is it about a love lost, a mess up in his life or fear and thus fear of death... Beauty drinks from deep and dark sources sometimes.

The pond

THE POND


Morning in Hoboken. Light meets me again, the light
of long languid days at the pond near Lawrence Hall.
Oh, eight again in the orphanage of Chicago!
(My Cherokee daddy took a deadly drink of acid,
run-down by the taunting sneers about his lineage.)

All the time of the world. I and the boys never plan,
it all happens to us of itself, like one day
just being dropped here of itself. It is a tacit covenant:
misery we drown together in this secret pond
in the middle of the woods. All our senses sharp.

All gradations of green circle the glade where clouds
touch water, pink veils brought in by the wind.
I hear yesteryear’s sounds: the song of redwing and hummingbird
blending with our high voices of boys and the diving,
the breaking and splashing of water. We looking for water turtles.

Briefly eight again in the orphanage, but the screeching
of the seagulls brings me back. Winter in Hoboken.
Fog collars me now. Singularly touches me,
mutes colors and sounds. People hurry by, numbed and lost
deep in themselves. It is the restraint that strikes me here:

of the light hardly showing color, of the pigeon on the branch in the mist,
of nothing still stirring, of sound we gave a name but continues
to stutter strangely in the ears and, if at last the sun breaks through,
the shifting of shadow and light. It is my heart that is touched here.
Years and years beyond words.

Rose Vandewalle wrote this poem for the Demer Publication 'Black Sun' which you can order at Lulu. It is close to Tony's sentiments mixed with her own sensitivity. She knew Tony, owns work by him, has known the painting in my living room for a long time.

Horse dance

THE GENESIS OF CREATION
(The tearful eye of God)


It is always the power of the beast excelling human beings
and present in images we see with closed eyes
(sometimes blind to history). In a different place.
In the Camargue (wild horses). In dreams saved in scraps
in the head, the mind, where all eventually disappears.
But this horse that has broken free of the herd
I saw again in a man, a long time ago. He stood with his feather
headdress on a stage in Battery Park swaying his arms
screaming at 200,000 people - in the background
above him the Twin Towers emerging
as temporary gods - the eye of an invisible hurricane:
First they took our buffaloes
then our land
and what’s still left for us in territory
they build nuclear power plants!
The red stallion is the painter’s brush:
he who creates knows that this arises from what is destroyed,
he who writes knows that words have to perish
if they are to have new life.
They are like the flowers on giant cactuses, briefly blooming only.
I see a part of a painting and I see a part of what
is expressed: all Guernicas and Chattanoogas never passed.

Poem by Hannie Rouweler publisher of Black Sun. It wasn't about these horses she wrote the poem but this painting in oil hasn't been posted yet. It has been shown in Hoboken in the townhal..

Tony Dean Mafia / Black Sun

TONY DEAN MAFIA
after a picture, for Annmarie Sauer

Subdued, as only death can make you,
still and in thought
so I see Tony sitting
in the sands of a white and far off past,
I who have not known him but
- ten years after his breath -
hear him talk, play music,
see him paint with colors of earth and blood
and a brush in which his heart still beats.

Tony, marked by the exhaust fumes of Chicago
and chained to the shots ringing in his name,
a James Dean with Cherokee in his veins:
the cowboy boots reminding me of
those of J.J. Jones, the Navajo who
in Monument Valley among timeless cathedrals
of red rock and whiffs of Marlboro smoke
forever passed on to me the sadness of his eyes.
Look: the galloping mummy of John Wayne !

I kneel for you Tony, and ask
- if only for a second -
to look into my eyes,
the gaze away from the white sand.
And to talk about Indians
and their trail of tears.

This poem by Willie Verhegghe is in fact made to the photograph of Tony you see when opening the blog.I added another picture, looking at the artisan guitar builder at Montellano, near Seville in Spain, who made 'The Crying Madonna' and the classical dark wooded guitar. He still looks away, but here he looks at something he enjoys. The poem is from the 'Black Sun', a publication, which you can order at Lulu.

I have seen you

I have felt you in the dawn
of tomorrow
schreef hij
en alleen
de tijd
zal weten
van ’t voorbijgaan
aan en van elkaar

Tijdelijkheid vastgelegd
voor de tijd begon
scheuren toe
gespeld
bij het vertragen
van het tijdsgewricht
toen wij bleven staan

ik noemde je zon
en ik was de maan
nu
zoek ik mijn eigen licht

In the early eighties Tony gave me this painting for ten years worth of birthdays. As you can tell by the Mohawks, the stained and torn clothed and the security pins it was in the punk period. Anything visually stimulating would end up on a painting. I wrote for 'Stroom' for 'Het laatste gedicht' this poem to go with it. Thanks again Tony.

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.

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

Antwerp etching and poem

The streets of Saturday noon, sing
the joys of a Friday’s night’s eternity;
they sing of happiness so well hidden,
the joy of living must be, the you never
to be known, never shown to those, who
cannot see what a Saturday trodden street
has known.

See, he walks with a child sired from
the loins of a chosen you, the songs of
Solomon sang saying: chosen you, while
still the stilled voices once sang the same
song, singing as the yarmulke of youth
covers the head of an ageing pious yester-
day hard lived.

Yet, they still know you, by your down-
cast eyes shading your vision, so you will
not wander from your own God, your
One God.

In Dutch:
De straten van zaterdag noen, zingen
de vreugde van een vrijdagnachtse eeuwigheid,
zij zingen van geluk zo goed verborgen
dat de vreugde te leven moet zijn, het nooit
geweten jij, nooit getoond aan hen, die
niet zien kunnen wat een ‘s zaterdags bewandelde straat
wist.

Kijk, hij wandelt met een kind verwekt uit
de lenden van een uitverkoren jij, het lied
van Salomon zong zeggend: uitverkoren jij, terwijl
steeds de verstilde stemmen ooit hetzelfde
lied zongen, zingend wijl de yarmulka van de jeugd
het hoofd bedekt van een ouder wordend vroom geweeste-
dag hard geleefd.

Echter, zij herkennen je nog, aan je neer-
geslagen ogen beschaduwend je blik, zodat je
niet dwaal van je eigen God, je
Ene God .

Translation of A Big Rock

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

Nederlands:
Hoboken - 20 november 1995

For those among you interested in some of Tony Mafia's writings, I still have some copies of 'My Book, My Words'. It contains stories, poetry and is bi-lingual English-Dutch

A poem by Tony

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, grey 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

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

Tony the poet

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


This is a part of a song Tony wrote somewhere in the seventies.

What stands behind

It is a good thing we don't know What stands behind. Yet when it is such beauty as in this drawing I wonder whether the fear is less of the unknown is less. Or would the joy be greater because of desasters not yet happened, dignity not yet lost. Life and living to the fullest is the message here before the last betrayal in accepting the silver coins. Tony painted this in 1984 in Antwerp. Well maybe the guy is just a heavy tipper, like Tony was when he had money.

Unaware
he put the money
in her apron
Buying a smile
and gratitude
a moment’s understanding
a rapport
a touch of black and silk
a spark of youth

Unaware
she took the money
and surprised
she sold her
smile

Mexican and Spanish Paintings

The five O'clock Sun, when in the arena the bloods drips from the sword and the bull is slain...
Tony Mafia has often stayed for longer periods in Spain and Mexico. He worked for instance during six month in Casares, near Malaga in Spain. There he painted a whole exhibit in 1964, which sold out completely upon showing in Paris in Madame Besnard's Gallery. We met her in probably 1997, confirming all Tony's story about that period of his life, this was my impression of that meeting:

All is changed
nothing stays the same
but the street
on which the changing
walk until words
of past
hurt
for lack of a tomorrow

The fading star
of laughter lost
hears but the
murmur of memory
on rue St André des Arts
meeting Madame
Françoise Besnard

The small white village of Casares, with its bizarre soul surfaces now and then again as in “The lady with the goat”. Furthermore he knows bullfighting, Flamenco (he plays a mean guitar), the gypsies and the dance from the inside, the rendering of which are consequently never trivial, superficial or touristy. In these themes we once again find the freedom of expression that is given by “the costume”: the traje de luz of the bullfighters, knowing full well that the picador is important and that the toreador and matador wouldn’t stand a chance without him. He really lived the bullfights because he 'went' as a young man with I seem to remember Betty Ford, a lady matador and toured parts of Mexico with her... Guitars, peasants and multiple warm-blooded women are depicted, but also the thread of Death. To counter this, very often life is painted in full and robust color.


Of course Don Quixote and Dulcinea have to be there as well.