FUNNY BLOOD PRESENTS: A CONVERSATION WITH JAPELIN
Paul Nesbitt
Nine years ago Japelin, a virtually unknown artist from Wroclaw, Poland, entered a painting in the prestigious Warsaw Festival of the Arts. “I did not expect much.” Japelin confessed to our senior arts correspondent, Paul Nesbitt, over chicken steaks and bagels. “I used a lot of oils. Sun colors mostly. A lot of straight lines. The painting was based on a dream I had in which a Polish soldier was trying in vain to fill a bucket with hermit crabs. It was night time, cold and black; all but the moon which was bright green, a germ. I didn‘t think the judges would understand my work.” However, to Japelin’s surprise the judges unanimously and enthusiastically awarded him 1st prize, praising the painting (which is entitled Mowny Intruz; Talkative Intruder) as a, “Masterful and adventurous debut!” Soon after being awarded top honors at the festival, young Japelin’s career took off. His reputation as an artistic genius spread far and wide and he was soon being commissioned by royalty to paint murals and portraits in his trademark abstract and mystical style. Presently, he teaches art at the Academy of Arts in Cairo, Egypt. He is married to Lynn-Bathgate, a professor of organic chemistry and author of the best-selling children’s book, “Underground Monkey.”
The following is an exclusive interview conducted by Paul Nesbitt. It is accompanied by a series of original sketches which Japelin scribbled on the back of a placemat during his lunch will Paul and is graciously allowing us to publish. Enjoy.
Paul Nesbitt: Can you tell us about your childhood?
Japelin: Of course. Growing up my family was very poor. We were starving. It was bad. We were close to eating the tablecloth. *Japelin chuckles* We lived in a small city named Wroclaw in Poland. My father worked at a steel house on the banks of the Odra River. You could see the smoke stacks from our apartment. They were bald giants, sitting against the mountains, slurring their speech and spewing black flower petals into the sky. He worked very hard and worked very long hours. I barely ever saw him. When he came home from work I was usually in bed. Every night I would try and stay up to see him. I passed the time counting my appendages, my ears, fingers, toes, nose… counted my teeth. On the nights I was able to stay awake, I would sit on his lap and he would sing me this song and I would fall asleep…
************************“Water on the roof top, **************************Water in the boat, ********************If there was water everywhere, ************************Everything would float.”
My mother sold brown paper for money underneath the Poznan Bridge. There was a bazaar underneath that bridge. People sold all sorts of things underneath large, canvas tents; calendars, pigs with leather collars, coconut bread. The bazaar had a very distinct smell, like if you took a shit on a lemon. My mother knew I liked to draw so every now and then she would sneak me a couple of sheets of brown paper. I spent all of my time drawing. I drew everything I saw; tree branches, my mother’s wrists, the floorboards… And yes, this made me happy. My mother’s boss soon caught on that she was giving away paper and he beat her very badly. He was always drunk. I met him once when my mother brought me with her to his office to pick up her pay. He had pictures of women dressed up like pilots on his wall and the office was very smoky. He talked very fast and repeatedly pounded his fist on his desk. *Japelin begins to hand roll a cigarette* So anyways, after the beating she was walking home and she fell unconscious and was found dead later that night by a farmer. After the funeral I swore I would never draw again. I felt responsible. I burned all of my brown paper and threw my pencils into the Odra.
Paul Nesbitt: How did you and your father cope?
Japelin: Well, my father never recovered from my mother’s death. He quickly began to lose his mind. Every night he would come from work with a bag filled with stones. “Japelin! My Japelin!” He’d exclaim, bursting through the door. “Look at all of the stones your Papa found today!” Being a small boy, I did not see anything wrong with this behavior. I was happy to see him happy. I was happy to be able to sit there, sorting through stones on our living room floor, picking out the ones we liked best. We planted them in my mother’s garden. He was convinced that when it rained my mother would come back. Needless to say, she never did.
One night while my father was walking home from the steel house, a group of bandits mistook his bag of stones for a bag of money. They stabbed my father to death and ran off into the night.
Paul Nesbitt: Not having parents at a very young age, where did you go? How did you survive?
Japelin: *Japelin laughs* I barely survived. I ran away from Wroclaw. I felt like the jay rabbit from Smit’s, “The Canvas Bag”.
Paul Nesbitt: One of my favorites.
Japelin: Mine too. Mine too.
Paul Nesbitt: How did you afford to run away?
Japelin: My father had stashed some money away in a violin he kept under his bed. I took the money and hopped on a train. I made it all the way to Antwerp in the Netherlands. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t want to be sad anymore, that’s all. Once I got to Antwerp I had no money left. I walked around the city, growing weaker and weaker. I quickly developed a very bad fever. One night I stumbled my way into a church because I heard singing and it made me feel better. I passed out in a pew and I was out for a few days. When I came to I was in a very bright room and there was a man and a woman looking over me - Father De Vries and Sister Bakker. They had saved my life.
Paul Nesbitt: Was it at this particular church that you became acquainted with the author, J. Arthur Goodwin?
Japelin: *Japelin chuckles* Yes. The story has become something of a legend now hasn’t it? You see, the church, which was named, “The Church of the Holy Light”, also served as an orphanage. They took in homeless children, fed them, taught them how to read and write, and of course, taught them religion. I shared a bedroom with Goodwin. He was originally from Norwich, England. His parents were political revolutionists who were conspiring to assassinate the Prime Minister. They sent him across the English Channel on a tobacco boat to protect him from danger and had made arrangements for Goodwin to stay with Father De Vries. *Japelin smiles* He’s the reason I got back into drawing, you know.
Paul Nesbitt: That’s what I hear. How did it all happen?
Japelin: We were up late one night, talking about lord knows what, when we got reminiscing about our lives prior to The Church of the Holy Light. I mentioned that I used to draw but had given it up after my mother’s death. *Japelin smiles* Goodwin got real quiet. Then he climbed down from the top bunk and walked over to our desk and turned on the light. I had no idea what the hell he was doing. He took out a piece of paper and a pencil and said to me, “Draw a horse, Japelin.” I refused. I told him that I had promised myself I would never draw again. He repeated, “Draw a horse, Japelin.” Again I refused. But Goodwin was stubborn and he was not going to let me sleep without drawing that horse. I reluctantly agreed. It had been years since I had last drawn. I drew a straight line, then a circle, then another straight line. Oh, to be drawing again! Goodwin stood over me, watching in silence. When I finished, he put a hand on my shoulder and whispered, “We are not the rain drops, Japelin. We are the storm. The unseen. The wounded dog that drinks from the mud puddle. The wolf-cat that chokes on the jasmine leaf. While the hunters sleep with their backs against the mighty oak, dreaming of stagnant waters, we will create! Look at this horse, this beautiful horse! I will give it a name. Hoffman!” And then he stood up on my mattress and began clapping and screaming, “Japelin! You have created Hoffman! You have created life! This horse, this horse of yours, he can grunt and gallop. He can do anything!” He woke up the entire orphanage. *Japelin wipes a tear from his eye* Only Goodwin. Only Goodwin. So from then on out I drew and drew and drew. I owe Goodwin everything.
Paul Nesbitt: That’s incredible. How long did you stay at the church?
Japelin: Until I was seventeen. That’s when I decided that I wanted to share my art with the world and traveled to Warsaw to enter my painting in the festival of the arts. *Japelin points at his watch* I’m terribly sorry Paul but I have a seminar at 2 o’clock. I’m afraid I am going to have to cut this short.
Paul Nesbitt: Please, do not apologize. *We both stand up and shake hands* It’s been an honor Japelin.
Japelin: Please tell the boys at Funny Blood I said hello and that I really enjoy their work.
Paul Nesbitt: Will do.
