Saša • Sylvaine • Sarah

I was speaking to an old chum this morning about a small village outside of Oxford where his girlfriend paints miniatures using a small Victorian wooden box of watercolours, the country club at the end of Galley Lane, Barnet, where I met the bored wives of multimillionaires, among whom was Joanna Lumley, and female students at the centre of Paris who still blushed and held their heads shyly low. That delightful age of innocence is well and truly gone now. I recollected how Bailey had been on ITV a week or so earlier, and how good it was to see him again. The same Cockney charm and refreshing honesty. He spoke of the "love of his life" Jean Shrimpton whom he lost back in the Sixties (to Terence Stamp who did not treat her well and consequently also lost her and regretted that fact ever since). Bailey worked fast when taking photographs, as did I; as do I still when painting in oils or sculpting in clay. That's the only way I can work artistically. Ditto David Bailey.

We reminisced respectively. Eventually my mind wandering as my friend's voice faded. "Are you still there," I heard him say. "Not really." I dwelled on the memories now intruding from another time.

It occurred to me that three pivotal encounters with artists all bore names beginning with initial "S."

The first was Saša whom I met when I was sixteen. She was about the same age. The attraction was obvious: petite, stunning and strangely mysterious for one so young. She lived alone, and her rooms were converted into a chaotic artist's studio. Her canvases were powerful; rather esoteric in nature.

The second "S" is Sylvaine, an actress, artist and musician with whom I spent much time in London and Paris at the end of a turbulent decade, and into the next. We worked together collaboratively as featured performers in art house films, and much else. Sylvaine was truly like a visitor from the 18th century, potentially dangerous and delightful in equal measure. A latter-day Brigitte Bardot.

The third "S" is someone who daily lights up of my life with her loveliness and uniqueness. Sarah had just graduated in the performing arts when we met in the mid-Eighties. An exceptionally talented sculptress and artist in every way, Sarah, who began as a dancer, singer, actress and performer, became my muse, wife, and creative collaborator. The ultimate femme-enfant (a powerful antidote to feminism), her culinary skills, child-like mischievousness and humour only add to her charm.

Subcontrabass (B♭) Sought

This is an E♭ contrabass saxophone which is the wrong pitch and much too small.

The Collection

The portraits I gifted him are also at his home. The smaller of the two, above (centre), has since been removed to his the darkest corner, along with some Ted Dyers, as has another portrait. Arthur appears in others, notably Hello, Goodbye and Arthur Seated, plus several more, all oil on canvas.

His domestic collection (photographed by Arthur himself and therefore his copyright) now follows:

 

This almost concludes Arthur's collection on display and exhibited at his home, as of August 2020.

"The two portraits of myself are in the bedroom, I omitted them as you have seen them before. 'A' was after the smaller one but settled for a facsimile which hangs framed at her mother's house."

"Located in the darkest room in the house (north facing), so excuse the use of flash, not my favourite accessory. There is one other that you may like to see that I am sure will bring Johnny to mind, it is in the loft somewhere so I will search for it when I next have to venture into the maze of junk." - Arthur

Portraits (oil on canvas) of Arthur that remain in my own collection and are available for exhibition:

Arthur

Sideburns Howe

There was this one occasion I recall when Steve decided he'd like  some sideboards. We all wanted them. It was triggered by Elvis Presley's 1956 (Love Me Tender) look. Now everyone wanted a pair.

I offered to cut Steve's hair in order to produce the look. We set him up on a chair in the kitchen area while Phil, his brother, made some egg-bread (bread soaked in egg. finished in a frying pan with condiments).

Steve was about the age you see him in the photo above (taken near where he lived), and obviously was not yet able to grow hair down the sides of his face. I didn't let that put me off, however, as I snipped away with hairdressing scissors provided by sultry Stella, his sister (without her knowledge). Stella liked to listen to smooth jazz, smoking cigarettes. Slowly. You couldn't avoid Stella.

My technique was to shave an area above Steve's ears, so as to create the appearance of sideburns, but further up the head where, at least, I had some hair to work with. Snip! Snip! Snip! Job done! I created some sideboards on a very young Steve Howe who was quite pleased with the outcome. Phil was mortified before becoming convulsed with laughter, as were Cyril and Ada, his parents, when they returned home.

Yoss Posthumously

Yoss

There you are Yoss with your comb-defying cowlick

Solved by long, much longer, hair complimenting

One day a Fender Stratocaster. For now you'd stick

To the one I loaned you when Barry Reid sang.

The one that would end up in Steve Howe's hands.

The one that would feature in all those rock bands.

I watched as a kitten ran up your leg in Penn Road

And caused you to cry as its claw bit in your head.

We joined Boy's Church together where you gave

Reverend W A F Lea the wonderful name "Flea."

He was anything but as he rode his 28" wheel bike

Along Penn Road where we also rode and raved. 

We went with scouts and choristers on fun days

Out — like Rupert and his Friends — and then

Rock 'n' Roll arrived along with everything else.

And you clevery picked strings while I blew reeds

With the Barry Reid Five.

Wearing a bottle green military coat on stage

With a fag stuck on the end of your E-string

While seated on an old chair beneath where

A large pint of frothy ale sat silently amidst

The gale force sound of twang and dirty sax.

You smiled your unique Yossel smile while

The rest of us danced a merry dance on the

Stage before the throng of bobbing rockers.

Those were times that stick in the memory.

Of youthful ebullience, craziness and sweet

Faced girls with heavy mascara and fun.

So much fun — where has it all gone?

You were my chum.

Now you're dead,

And I feel like lead,

Yoss. 

Atlantis

Siren sea sounds — oboe squawks,

Aroused, nay awakened, by Mort

(Is that a string quartet I hear?)

More especially the tapping beaks

Of birds that invite the opening

Of windows that creak and speak.

Turn off the turntable and hark

The far away sonnet of the sea;

Breathing, heaving — in and out.

(Could that be a distant shout?)

Or are the varied gulls' mixed bark

Adding the grunt of a bassoon?

I hear you — I hear you. While

Waves ripple, roll, heave, stroll;

I see you waving; I see you smile

In the sea at me — you sing a song.

Sonorous sounds of sweet lullabies. 

It is to you ... to you ... I belong ...