This is for Matt James and Cordon Bleu...
Thursday, 24 June 2021
Thursday, 5 March 2020
THE ART NEWSPAPER | ALEX DA SILVA ~ 1974-2019
Alex da Silva | Xand Artist
 |
| Photo by Max Dereto |
Obituary
for Alex da Silva (1974 – 2019)
Author: Joe Pollitt
As a young boy Alex excelled at sports in and out of the
water; he was a competitive basketball player and a veritable trailblazer,
introducing his friends to the joys of body-boarding and spear-fishing.
Initially, he had his sights on becoming a Marine Biologist but harbouring in
the back of his mind where thoughts of being an international artist. It wasn’t
long before São Vicente seemed rather
claustrophobic for an ambitious and confident young artist. In 1993, aged 19,
he was granted the prestigious Prince Claus Scholarship to Willem de Kooning
Academy in Rotterdam to study Art and Architecture. Alex welcomed the challenge
and found the Academy to be the perfect institution for his style of art.
At the Academy, he worked diligently on his technique,
exploring the human anatomy, stretching limbs and torsos; creating tortured
exaggerated figures on the canvas. To
the artist’s delight the Academy allowed him to explore and develop his own
distinctive “Xand” style and after three amenable years, Alex da Silva
graduated with honours in 1996.
A year later, the artist participated in the ‘SOCRATES-ERASMUS Exchange Programme’ and he
was able to study a further two years at Alonso Cano Faculty of Fine Arts in
Granada, Spain. Being in Granada, the heart of flamenco country, Alex
surrounded himself in the rich Spanish culture and cuisine; enjoying the music,
dance, olive oil and red wine.
In 1999 he exhibited in Cape Verde, the Netherlands and
Spain. The shows where received well by the critics but sales of his works
where not forthcoming. In 2000, he returned to the Netherlands and gained his
Post-Graduate and Masters of Art, at Minerva Academy, Groningen. After his
initial exhibitions news quickly spread and Alex became a “jobbing-Artist”,
which meant that he was invited to attend workshops, be apart of group shows
and create his own solo exhibitions. During the following decades Alex was
constantly working and invited to exhibit in United Arab Emirates, Dak’Art
(off) Senegal, Luxembourg, Curaçao,
Açores, Macau and China. He also attended various workshops in France,
Portugal Norway and Italy.
In 2007, Alex went to São
Vicente to construct and set up ZeroPoint Gallery. The gallery
quickly became the cultural hub, boasting international architects, dancers,
musicians and even writers. To support the new-build, Alex taught both drawing
and architecture classes at the University of Mindelo. By 2008 the Gallery was
almost complete and Alex returned back to Rotterdam. Now, having a permanent
space, the artist started to split his time between two worlds. He became increasingly interested in the
development and global positioning of Contemporary African Art.
In 2012 he was assigned to create a monument, entitled
“Clave”, in Rotterdam, to celebrate 150th anniversary of the abolition of Dutch
slavery from the Surinam and Antilles in the Dutch Caribbean. This was a great
honour as Rotterdam has one of the finest Sculpture Collections in the world.
Alex certainly felt that this was a turning point in his artistic development.
He worked with some very talented architects from Mindelo, Moreno
Castellano and Eloise Ramos | Ramos Castellano Architects. At the base of the monument there are words stencils in Dutch, "Het lichaam
dat slaaf is vertrekt de ziel die vrij is blijft" (The body of the slave
is taken but their spirit remains forever free) from a traditional Cape Verde
'Morna' folk song. The sculpture was unveiled in 2013. This monument honouring
the Slaves is now a permanent fixture in the Cityscape of Rotterdam. Alex da
Silva is today housed among some the greatest sculptors of all time: Henry
Moore, Auguste Rodin, Picasso and Carl Nesjar, Ossip Zankine, George Rickey and
many others. All credit to the multicultural Rotterdamians for paying homage to
an African artist and placing his Masterpiece “Clave” in such a prominent
location, at the mouth of the world famous Rotterdam harbour at Llody Pier.
Although Alex will perhaps be best remembered for his “Slave
Monument”, it is his paintings, his complex brutal agonizing figures and
multiple portraits that need more exploration and exposure. As an artist he was
prolific and leave a substantial amount of artworks behind. Alex had an
incredible ability to work with paint, mix media, sculpture and architecture.
He comfortably manoeuvred between the different mediums with such ease. His
passing leaves a vacuum in regards to the cultural development of Creative
Africa.
 |
| Alex da Silva in the Studio |
Alex da Silva leaves behind his partner Brenna and
their six year old daughter Odile.
For further information contact:
Alex da Silva | http://alexdasilvaxand.com/work/
Morena and Eloise | https://www.ramoscastellano.com/
Rotterdam Sculptors | https://www.cbkrotterdam.nl/en/2013/06/18/onthulling-slavernijmonument-rotterdam/
Willem de Kooning Academy | https://www.wdka.nl/news-events/in-memoriam-alex-da-silva-1974-2019
Alex da Silva | http://alexdasilvaxand.com/work/
Morena and Eloise | https://www.ramoscastellano.com/
Rotterdam Sculptors | https://www.cbkrotterdam.nl/en/2013/06/18/onthulling-slavernijmonument-rotterdam/
Willem de Kooning Academy | https://www.wdka.nl/news-events/in-memoriam-alex-da-silva-1974-2019
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Thursday, 13 February 2020
Alex da Silva | Xand Artist
|
| Photo by Max Dereto |
Obituary
for Alex da Silva (1974 – 2019)
Author: Joe Pollitt
As a young boy Alex excelled at sports in and out of the
water; he was a competitive basketball player and a veritable trailblazer,
introducing his friends to the joys of body-boarding and spear-fishing.
Initially, he had his sights on becoming a Marine Biologist but harbouring in
the back of his mind where thoughts of being an international artist. It wasn’t
long before São Vicente seemed rather
claustrophobic for an ambitious and confident young artist. In 1993, aged 19,
he was granted the prestigious Prince Claus Scholarship to Willem de Kooning
Academy in Rotterdam to study Art and Architecture. Alex welcomed the challenge
and found the Academy to be the perfect institution for his style of art.
At the Academy, he worked diligently on his technique,
exploring the human anatomy, stretching limbs and torsos; creating tortured
exaggerated figures on the canvas. To
the artist’s delight the Academy allowed him to explore and develop his own
distinctive “Xand” style and after three amenable years, Alex da Silva
graduated with honours in 1996.
A year later, the artist participated in the ‘SOCRATES-ERASMUS Exchange Programme’ and he
was able to study a further two years at Alonso Cano Faculty of Fine Arts in
Granada, Spain. Being in Granada, the heart of flamenco country, Alex
surrounded himself in the rich Spanish culture and cuisine; enjoying the music,
dance, olive oil and red wine.
In 1999 he exhibited in Cape Verde, the Netherlands and
Spain. The shows where received well by the critics but sales of his works
where not forthcoming. In 2000, he returned to the Netherlands and gained his
Post-Graduate and Masters of Art, at Minerva Academy, Groningen. After his
initial exhibitions news quickly spread and Alex became a “jobbing-Artist”,
which meant that he was invited to attend workshops, be apart of group shows
and create his own solo exhibitions. During the following decades Alex was
constantly working and invited to exhibit in United Arab Emirates, Dak’Art
(off) Senegal, Luxembourg, Curaçao,
Açores, Macau and China. He also attended various workshops in France,
Portugal Norway and Italy.
In 2007, Alex went to São
Vicente to construct and set up ZeroPoint Gallery. The gallery
quickly became the cultural hub, boasting international architects, dancers,
musicians and even writers. To support the new-build, Alex taught both drawing
and architecture classes at the University of Mindelo. By 2008 the Gallery was
almost complete and Alex returned back to Rotterdam. Now, having a permanent
space, the artist started to split his time between two worlds. He became increasingly interested in the
development and global positioning of Contemporary African Art.
In 2012 he was assigned to create a monument, entitled
“Clave”, in Rotterdam, to celebrate 150th anniversary of the abolition of Dutch
slavery from the Surinam and Antilles in the Dutch Caribbean. This was a great
honour as Rotterdam has one of the finest Sculpture Collections in the world.
Alex certainly felt that this was a turning point in his artistic development.
He worked with some very talented architects from Mindelo, Moreno
Castellano and Eloise Ramos | Ramos Castellano Architects. At the base of the monument there are words stencils in Dutch, "Het lichaam
dat slaaf is vertrekt de ziel die vrij is blijft" (The body of the slave
is taken but their spirit remains forever free) from a traditional Cape Verde
'Morna' folk song. The sculpture was unveiled in 2013. This monument honouring
the Slaves is now a permanent fixture in the Cityscape of Rotterdam. Alex da
Silva is today housed among some the greatest sculptors of all time: Henry
Moore, Auguste Rodin, Picasso and Carl Nesjar, Ossip Zankine, George Rickey and
many others. All credit to the multicultural Rotterdamians for paying homage to
an African artist and placing his Masterpiece “Clave” in such a prominent
location, at the mouth of the world famous Rotterdam harbour at Llody Pier.
Although Alex will perhaps be best remembered for his “Slave
Monument”, it is his paintings, his complex brutal agonizing figures and
multiple portraits that need more exploration and exposure. As an artist he was
prolific and leave a substantial amount of artworks behind. Alex had an
incredible ability to work with paint, mix media, sculpture and architecture.
He comfortably manoeuvred between the different mediums with such ease. His
passing leaves a vacuum in regards to the cultural development of Creative
Africa.
|
| Alex da Silva in the Studio |
Alex da Silva leaves behind his partner Brenna and
their six year old daughter Odile.
For further information contact:
Alex da Silva | http://alexdasilvaxand.com/work/
Morena and Eloise | https://www.ramoscastellano.com/
Rotterdam Sculptors | https://www.cbkrotterdam.nl/en/2013/06/18/onthulling-slavernijmonument-rotterdam/
Willem de Kooning Academy | https://www.wdka.nl/news-events/in-memoriam-alex-da-silva-1974-2019
Alex da Silva | http://alexdasilvaxand.com/work/
Morena and Eloise | https://www.ramoscastellano.com/
Rotterdam Sculptors | https://www.cbkrotterdam.nl/en/2013/06/18/onthulling-slavernijmonument-rotterdam/
Willem de Kooning Academy | https://www.wdka.nl/news-events/in-memoriam-alex-da-silva-1974-2019
Monday, 19 August 2019
Ugandan War
The
word impunity has popped up a lot of late. I had to look it up. The
Leaders of East Africa are killing with impunity. (at first, I thought
it was some kind of nerve agent...impunity gas maybe or something like
that? I hate you, I hate you..I'm going to kill you with impunity like
they do in East Africa.)
*Impunity meaning exemption from punishment or freedom from the injurious consequences of an action.
I mention "Impunity" because it implies some kind of acceptance by World Leaders. It implies that those in their Offices, (those without jobs, as Mister Daniel would say) are giving the Leaders of East Africa a thumbs up; even going as far as to note, that those that are capable of such monstrous acts are model citizens and should be emulated right across the region.
Tony Blair is the Political Advisor to Paul Kigame of Rwanda and lovely-fluffy Tony is doing it for FREE! Read between the lines here people...."Bloodshed" is Tony's Specialty. Once the "White Monkey" gets a taste for killing of course he'll happily do it for free. Where better than Rwanda, global experts in this field.
Once we begin to understand that human life is a BUSINESS we are now getting closer to the truth. Daniel states, WAR IS A BUSINESS...African lives are being used as bargaining chips to pull the heart strings of the UN...as some white hotel owner in Kampala told me with a smile, "BLOOD IS READ!" The phrase "blood is read" means the more you kill the more media you receive...and it takes a lot of killing to make International headlines. Rwanda was just a taste of what is to come.
Are we so blind that we cannot see? There are massacres, genocides and holocausts happening today being executed by mass-murderering Leaders in seats reserved in the United Nations in New York City. There is a silent world war happening; where the more kills you make, the more Aid you create.
So this is what I learned from my travels. Africa is on the Rise but the cost of Development and Modernization comes with Great Rivers of African Blood.
Here is an interview about the War in Uganda, up in the North, which I shot, rather unprofessionally, with Quentin, the interviewer who is talking to Mister Daniel.
*NB: It is important to note how brave these men are in speaking at this time, 2017. The country is under constant surveillance and many people have simply disappeared, so a huge "THANK YOU" Gentlemen.
PART 2 ~ JOSEPH KONY | What is important to note here is why would the Ugandan Government have a State Funeral for a Warlord's Mother? Clearly to those in the North and Greater North they see War as a business and the more kills you make the more Aid you create.
*Impunity meaning exemption from punishment or freedom from the injurious consequences of an action.
I mention "Impunity" because it implies some kind of acceptance by World Leaders. It implies that those in their Offices, (those without jobs, as Mister Daniel would say) are giving the Leaders of East Africa a thumbs up; even going as far as to note, that those that are capable of such monstrous acts are model citizens and should be emulated right across the region.
Tony Blair is the Political Advisor to Paul Kigame of Rwanda and lovely-fluffy Tony is doing it for FREE! Read between the lines here people...."Bloodshed" is Tony's Specialty. Once the "White Monkey" gets a taste for killing of course he'll happily do it for free. Where better than Rwanda, global experts in this field.
Once we begin to understand that human life is a BUSINESS we are now getting closer to the truth. Daniel states, WAR IS A BUSINESS...African lives are being used as bargaining chips to pull the heart strings of the UN...as some white hotel owner in Kampala told me with a smile, "BLOOD IS READ!" The phrase "blood is read" means the more you kill the more media you receive...and it takes a lot of killing to make International headlines. Rwanda was just a taste of what is to come.
Are we so blind that we cannot see? There are massacres, genocides and holocausts happening today being executed by mass-murderering Leaders in seats reserved in the United Nations in New York City. There is a silent world war happening; where the more kills you make, the more Aid you create.
So this is what I learned from my travels. Africa is on the Rise but the cost of Development and Modernization comes with Great Rivers of African Blood.
Here is an interview about the War in Uganda, up in the North, which I shot, rather unprofessionally, with Quentin, the interviewer who is talking to Mister Daniel.
*NB: It is important to note how brave these men are in speaking at this time, 2017. The country is under constant surveillance and many people have simply disappeared, so a huge "THANK YOU" Gentlemen.
PART 2 ~ JOSEPH KONY | What is important to note here is why would the Ugandan Government have a State Funeral for a Warlord's Mother? Clearly to those in the North and Greater North they see War as a business and the more kills you make the more Aid you create.
Saturday, 18 August 2018
Musical Language | Musical Ghosts
 |
| Musical Ghosts by Joe Pollitt |
Dear Editor of The Guardian,
To me, the keyboard is a piano and I the composer; making sense out of letters, the jumbled up words that sound nonsensical. The baloney sounds that shriek from the rooftops and those fluid gobbledygooks, the sloppy jibber-jabbers and mind dingalingers, the domdomdrops coupled with the old Frosbyflop, take-off and flyover.
Fingers tinkering on the ivories ~ stroking the notes with authority ~ gently touching the keys with controlled passion, as the writer tries to make his words speak for themselves. Then all of a sudden the keyboard becomes a drum-kit as it beats out the rapper tapper dodar and double-do-deday with the boom chap tapper, the tile tip topper, the thinga-me-jig, the two time loser, the big fat boozer, the good of the two, the best of the rest, the no good drinker, the top hat thinker, pinker, sinker, linka and dodopatti-day.
Then the keyboard turns into a violin without strings. A cold slap snapper, a chick flick meeting, a sidedish, swordswipe, tongue-licking-peedee. I'll have a far flung dodee, a fat cat seeme, a boasemassimi dodar, a rum-bum-dobee, a first-time taka, a digga-de-do feedme, a pill-poppin yippee, a silly, dizzy hippy, a down on my luck seesaw, a swing by me Judy, a tea-total jambee, a washedout swinga, alost out dodee, a sweet sandwich eata, a popswinging teacher, and then at the end of the day it was time for a quick snooze infront of the newsbox doda, a snoozeme Granny, a wetdown puppy, a wicked cup of coco, a mocka-choca-medee before bedtime stories and out with the lights before 10pm2am sharp.
I touch-type and punch every key to make sense of the way the world is now, if not for you, then for me.
(For my dear friend | Simon Wajcenberg)
Wednesday, 9 May 2018
Are you Qualified to SPEAK?
For quite some time I have been feeling a
little despondent; it is mainly to do with this idea of the
“Institutionalization of African Art”. Writing out an oral culture, which is
clearly impossible, an oxymoron in fact. This talk really harps back to the days
of dependency and that omnipresent hangover of Colonialism. The questioning of,
who exactly is qualified to talk on the subject of Africa? This is a matter of
control. It is an ugly way to find order and gain rights to have opinions and
what and whose opinions matter? To take charge of the way in which the words
are placed and what phraseologies work best, sadly now, these inconsequential
issues are of enormous importance. This maybe so today, but was never so in the
recent past or beforehand. Personally, my passion for Contemporary African Art
stems from the easy ignorance, that enlightening lack of education and the
freedom to play with the idea of a brave new world. Its very strength lay in
its lawlessness and nonconformity. There was no decorum or airs and graces;
this gave the whole environment a sense of liberation, an awareness of an
incredible newness, something unique and special with ideas that where
inclusive and at the same time, that quintessential accessibility to the
creators of the artworks too. Initially, unbeknown to me, this “Otherness” was
a door that I had been blindingly seeking my entire adult-life. Today, the
artists who are being bestowed grants and awards are simply over-qualified,
many have done their MFA, Masters in Fine Art, some have even gone as far as
doing PhD’s, so the whole idea of Africa is now leaning towards the academics,
the historians, the wealthy educated privileged and drifting quickly away from
supporting the true, original, raw and authentic impoverished artists. So, with
that in mind I wrote this today...
Tuesday, 24 April 2018
Salisbury and Gary in Captivity
When out walking my brother's dog, Cordelia (Cordy) around Bewl
reservoir, I found a baby tawny owl that had been pushed or fallen out
of the nest. Unbeknown to me, but the area is contaminated with
poisonous green algae, lethal for the wildlife and even dangerous for
humans causing rashing, vomiting and and and. We escaped with our lives
and I decided to celebrate by naming my beautiful baby, "Salisbury" and
took himher off to a rescue centre nearby, called Folly, a wildlife
hospital..they immediately screamed, "bring me a headless chick and
chop it up good and fine now and be sure to leave the feathers," was the
cry from the young lady, Sandie, now in charge of my newborn. Within a
minute Sandie, forced open Sailsbury's blue beak and with tweezers fed
the wild fluffy carnivore....I left feeling a little bewildered and
wondering who saves the chicks? That aside, this was an exciting day and
I'm delighted Salisbury has been given a second chance at life, a new
start and of course, we all need more of that! XX #Salisbury Salisbury, Wiltshire
When big brother came out I was amazed about how many people wanted to watch people sleeping in a room? Go figure..so tomorrow I am going to speak with Folly and ask some techheads (Luke Dunn) to see if we can get some headcams for Gary and Salisbury, the two tawny owls at Folly Wildlife Rescue Centre. I want to stream them live and then put advertisements every 30 minutes throughout the day...to raise money for the Centre..They are only there for a Month... https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=671399933251569&set=p.671399933251569&type=3&theater #Salisbury #Techies #Techheads #Geeks #Editors #Videos #camcorders #wildlife #tawnyowls #mypeople
When big brother came out I was amazed about how many people wanted to watch people sleeping in a room? Go figure..so tomorrow I am going to speak with Folly and ask some techheads (Luke Dunn) to see if we can get some headcams for Gary and Salisbury, the two tawny owls at Folly Wildlife Rescue Centre. I want to stream them live and then put advertisements every 30 minutes throughout the day...to raise money for the Centre..They are only there for a Month... https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=671399933251569&set=p.671399933251569&type=3&theater #Salisbury #Techies #Techheads #Geeks #Editors #Videos #camcorders #wildlife #tawnyowls #mypeople
 |
| Salisbury is at the back and Gary is being HARD at the front. |
Wednesday, 17 January 2018
IMPORTANCE OF LIGHT
 |
| Light on the Sea | Agadir, Maroc |
Smoke and mirrors, lies and deceit, bright sparks playing
with fire. Double-takes and blindsiding those that should find out that the stories told are falsehoods and terrifying fairy tales. Dying energy, the beams are fading,
turning into dim embers of golden days gone by. The old order is dwindling,
ever closer to the end, as that arrogant outdated supremacy ceases to burn as
brightly as before. Counting down the days, that surely must be numbered,
snuffing out the candles and replacing them anew. Lights of every kind,
omnipotent light that illumination, that luminous light that shines, and flares
into every corner. The contingent reality of our Celestial powers within the
infinite enlightened Cosmos. Revealing the tendency to oppress the primitive
and celebrate the unworthy. Seraphim
bring purity to our unblinking eyes, seeing truths where darkness overshadowed
certainty, coining belittling narratives. Fabrications of what serves best for
the few, those devious make-believes, deemed worthy by ambitious, cunning writers, turning
fiction into fact.
The Nanny State, control-freaks, “Witch Doctors” with their
multiple bags of tricks and ‘sandpit workshops’, building blocks of innovation.
Motivational speakers and lifestyle gurus', coaching ugly ideas of
ownership, brazenly spouting that privilege is merely for the few, hardly for the
many. Laughing through their implanted back teeth, tongue-in-cheek whilst
gainfully snorting through their noses. The Champagne Charlies with Oxbridge haircuts. Intellectual property rights, mental strategies, brainstorming
in ‘think tanks’ devising vile and cruel human experiments. Logos and catch-phrases, sound-bites and
sloppy orgasmic undertones with every filthy lecture. Edward Bernays
the "double nephew” of the incestuous Viennese psychoanalyst Freud and his
Century of Self, in an ‘Age of Mass Democracy’. Hypocrisy with divisive intent
to rule the one, fcuk them all. Power is contagious, dangerous and monstrous
with ethnic cleansing disguised as humanitarian Aid as the culling of
the Africans is set to continue.
Reptilian minds with their Lizhard tails; when mentioned,
ignored, neglected, pushed aside, rejected and seen as ‘Conspiracy Theorists’
with their fake news. Phraseology with the ultimate goal of causing global
media censorship. Edward de Bono and his lateral thinking. We are blinded by the light, a form of
disinformation, a blackout, curfew for the populace. An illusion, confusion,
the Bavarian Illuminati. Elite ivy-leaguers, integrating with the top brass on
the High-Table, feeding-off fattened swans adeptly scooped from mucky Hudson
waters. Neuro-linguistic programming, psycho-babble, cognitive behavioural
therapy of our present imperfect continuous tense everyday lives. Committees
and Gentleman Clubs, breakfast power meets, Crisis with Isis, terrorism and
bombs ready to explode on every street corner. Privacy, insanity mixed with
secrecy and all-the-while, being unknowingly hypnotised into an altered state
of false happiness by ‘Wisemen’, re-engineering our every thought. God forbid
we challenge the way it always will be. (Click fingers) And we’re back in the room.
JP. 2018
Friday, 29 December 2017
LOVE LETTER TO MYSELF
 |
| FIRES CREATED BY THE CATTLE KEEPERS OF NORTHERN UGANDA |
A Love Letter To Myself.
Dear Joe,
There is no medicine, no pill or gullible fool with letters
after their names can wipe away my anguish and in some perverse way I relish
it, nurture it even. I simply hold it as my own as I try unsuccessfully to work
through the pain and stand firm for all those tiny things I value so highly. I
am but myself, none will come after me, when I am gone I will basically cease
to be. There seems to be an emptiness inside of me.
I thought at first I could write it off, write it out of me,
but it seems to be growing. It is a loneliness, a sense of isolation and others
judging, pointing with angry faces, yet none of them know me, they don’t want
to know me, they just seem to want to judge me, mindlessly. Is this my imagination working overtime or
is it my unhappiness shining through, I just can’t tell?
I seem to be trapped in a place I refuse to call my home.
Nobody here is like me. The odd man out, the weirdo, there’s always
one and here it seems to be me. I have never felt this meaningless before and
it is beginning to show on my face. I can no longer hide my misery in public.
That skip in my step has gone, replaced by a shuffle now, as if waiting for
life to finish me off. Maybe this mood will pass and I will forget the agony of
these moments alone, the sad, unshared discord that makes me so incredibly
sick.
I wish I had a friend to share my melancholy with, that
lonely sense of grieving over a life that has not yet ended. This slow
excruciating death that has no sickness attached, hours spent writing and
finding no readers, with all these reams of wasted days soon forgotten. I
gently rock myself in my director’s chair, trying desperately to think of
better times. Will I ever love again or be loved or have those chances all put
disappeared? Is this what life is like when all is lost and the future seems so
cold and alone, like gazing into a pointless well and just wanting to fall in
and be consumed by the void that seems to be the latter part of a life lived so
poorly?
This is but a phase, a necessary process, a passage of time we must endure,
the growing pains of coming to terms with middle age. That depressing
knowledge, that your future is shorter than your past. Like the bald eagles
from Mexico, Northern America and Canada, who courageously pluck their own old
rotten feathers then carefully rips off their talons and have to break their
sharp beaks in their forties, smashing them relentlessly on the cliff faced
rocks in order to live for a further thirty years. If this dreadful process is
not done, they too, will fall from the sky and be no more. Or perhaps like the
snakes in the deserts of Africa that shed their skins whilst crawling sorely on
their bellies in order to gain that necessary change in order to survive. We
humans are no different, we also have to suffer in the passing of time and
regretfully accept that heartbreaking end of that wonderful sense of eternal
youth. We must gracefully come to terms with the knowing nothing will quite be
as it was in those brighter, hopeful days of yesterday. So we must be patient and embrace this
solitary transformation and have confidence in seeing what our tomorrows will
brings…..
Wednesday, 29 November 2017
Mental Health | My Story
Mind Matters | AFRICAN JOE
So I see my therapist and tell him all about the wonders of Voodoo, how I want to join the Gays and take over the world, how African I am, we all come from Africa, surely he must know that. He, himself is Sudanese and been to South Sudan but declared to me he'd never been to Africa and the more I speak the more I can see his eyes widening, like the cat that got the cream. I tell him about my failing shoeshining business and how the Police wont let me SHINE. How I need his help to take down the UN as Aid is killing my beloved AFRICA, which I went to see off my own bat, went to Uganda, spent a small fortunate to see the AID CRISIS for myself and have evidence of the lack of Development in the North and East of the country where those living there, live under the most horrendous conditions of Underdevelopment and lack of care by their supposed Government that is being supported by the Americans and people like ourselves. The Ugandan Government actually pay CNN to never show the world the true story of those inside the country because for Corporate America, Uganda is big money, the people are just a nuisance. I have photographic and video evidence to back this up. Any NGO in Uganda has to sign an agreement that they will not speak badly about them, otherwise they are unable to establish themselves. They are effectively silenced, meaning that any NGO in Uganda are "African Haters" and only interested in dipping their filthy paws into the honey pot that is "AID". I could not believe it, it made me so angry I wanted to explode. The Africans are being used to create "AID", human sacrifice on a huge scale. War and man-made famines, these are pushing up the prices and bringing in "AID" and the UN is happy, job done. They laugh at the "C130 Runners", as they call them, these are my AFRICANS, whole families, starving desperately running after the only chance they have of staying alive. They are running to catch a C-130 Super Hercules military Aid plane, which is filled with just two pallets of GMO American rice for photographers to shoot to say, "LOOK, WE'RE Saving Africa", no, you're helping yourselves and nobody else and the world should fucking well know about this. A UN spokesman in Uganda telling me, Joe Pollitt the Freedom Writer, how to write about Africa, and in his plummy Norfolk voice instructing me to write it as if it where my Mother or Grandmother fleeing a famine. Well I wont write it like that, I will write like this. "I heard from the Red Cross the work is so stressful you fizzle after 3 to 4 years. So Charlie, how many years can you do this before you just burn out?" I asked to which he answered, "I'm here until I retire. Best job ever." My blood is boiling and I am not unwell, I am perfectly fine. The Press is selling us all an extremely skewed version of the truth. The pathetic so-called journalists are just re-writing UN press releases, all too worried never to work again if they do their jobs correctly, especially about Africa, they avoid it like the plague. I can show you all, I've been there and bought the t-shirt but in this Mental Unit in Royal Tunbridge Wells, they don't believe me, well who would? I have a stamp in my Passport that says otherwise. I have an Ugandan Press Pass, not for just Kampala for the entire country, which clearly states I'm a freelance journalist, working for the UNHCR and I can tell you all, Save the Children, UNICEF the whole bloody lot of them, are just putting up their flags and nothing has been done. Money has somehow got lost in the post.
Back in the Mental Home, it's a prison not a home, it is structured like the cells in every Police Station I have had the joy of staying in and eating their shitty breakfasts. This place makes me nervous because I know what they can do. I am physically ill and shocked to the core as we speak about the voices on the radio, which I think are talking to me about Mental Health on BBC Radio 1 (but it was on the radio, BBC1 it wasn't my imagination, my hearing voices, come on, it has been advertised, it's clearly underneath this post...it's real not imagined), I'm kidding about the voices go away when I'm not in the car because to me, this pretend system too, is broken. Looking into Dr El Misery PhD's excited quizzing eyes set behind gold rimmed, round Gandhi-style glasses, I proudly talk about creating my own language, which nobody seems to understand, apples and stairs meaning, "Bus Fares" and how I adore writing to myself on Facebook, well I do, this to me is therapy but the Facebook Police have already come after me on a post about a Guggenheim Museum, can't even mention the American Photographer's fucking name on this platform and have to say "Robert Mapplesyrup" to disguise who I really mean. All that I've shown the world has been deleted by the Internet Police, the White Knights of Google, Yahoo, Sony, Apple, Bill and Melinda Gates, the Guggenheim's of this world, to save the face of this disgraceful Museum. I was arrested on suspicion of being a pedophile, my house broken into by seven Policemen and women, humiliated on my street, publicly destroyed and made a mockery of, thanks Facebook, like I needed that. Please excuse me whilst I just take a deep breath and start to laugh out loud for real. Thank my lucky stars that nobody reads my silly posts but I love the craft of writing and playing with the most powerful weapon we have on earth, our words and our letters. With them we can change every system and point out the rotten apples, and there are many.
Back to the Mental Wellness Institution. The "Doctor" looks at me with such delight, licking his lips, you can imagine his surprise when I share my life story with him, he just thought, he doesn't tick the boxes, goody, goody, gumdrops (we have a complete nutta in our midst) and of course he wants to keep me in for further investigations and wishes me a "speedy recovery"....Dr Ahmed El Misery PhD....(Prof. Uck-Med El Misery PhD), Just my luck, you can't make this shit up! Luke Dunn show this to the Mayor. The Institutions set up for Mental Health are failing to understand their patients lives are not the same as theirs and fail to come to grips with others, in just suggesting this I put myself in danger because the system is built around the thinking that the world is insane. They have built this lawless, uncontrolled, drug pushing system around that very concept and it is not in their interest to listen to anybody, they simply don't have to because they are the "Doctors" with PhD certificates, glorious paperwork, just the ticket and they know best, so butt out for speaking. The Institution is simply bogus, more fraud than Freud as all they seem to want to do is medicate those that speak out and send them all to sleep. "We want Zombies", they seem to be shouting but they can give me the expensive medication but I want to stay awake, that is my dream! Some live extraordinary lives, unbelievable lives but when facing the inside looking out, it is absolutely terrifying and I've been in a Kenyan remand prison, just outside Nairobi for not giving bribes to Policemen, so I know exactly what terrifying looks like. Letter ends: Finally, please feel free to bring a family member or friend with you for support and assistance. Yours sincerely....l am in a personal Hell as they are about to duff me up for my own protection, kick and punch me in face for my security and squeeze my balls for my well-being. They seem extremely keen to break my nose and detach my eye balls for what they like to call a full Mental Health check up. Did I mention the electric shocks on my feet and fingertips, what a buzz! I really don't have any mental health issues but suddenly I to them am "Christmas Pudding" come early. I am a 47 year old man, I am not a boy anymore and it is my duty as a man to do my job. Be proud of supporting the underdog, the African, proud enough to say I am one because that is the side of the fence I want to stand by and just like the educational system that teaches Africans to hate themselves, it is so flawed it is broken, set up to keep the wealthy in their seats of power. This is Biblical and just like Samson, I too want to take down the pillars and expose all that is going on. Do all that I can to make others comprehend that a British System is a Broken System in every respect and I am ashamed. (Nobody is gonna Publish this Joe, it's all in your wild IMAGINATION!) So declare me insane and be done with me. "Minds Matter"....who is really behind this? None other than our Dutiful Royals, off I jolly well trot, spoiling all their fun as they giggle at us "nuttas" out here in the real world, rubbing their hands with glee, jog on! I have absolutely no respect for those that have made their money through the blood, sweat and death of so many Africans. Tell me now, WHO IS FUCKING MENTAL?
Joe Pollitt from the Guardian Newspaper London 29/11/2017
 | |
Expelled Again
Joe Pollitt | the African 'ShoeShiner'
Somerset House
African Art Fair 1:54
Magnin-A Gallery
London, 2017
Photo by Serge Clottey
|
So I see my therapist and tell him all about the wonders of Voodoo, how I want to join the Gays and take over the world, how African I am, we all come from Africa, surely he must know that. He, himself is Sudanese and been to South Sudan but declared to me he'd never been to Africa and the more I speak the more I can see his eyes widening, like the cat that got the cream. I tell him about my failing shoeshining business and how the Police wont let me SHINE. How I need his help to take down the UN as Aid is killing my beloved AFRICA, which I went to see off my own bat, went to Uganda, spent a small fortunate to see the AID CRISIS for myself and have evidence of the lack of Development in the North and East of the country where those living there, live under the most horrendous conditions of Underdevelopment and lack of care by their supposed Government that is being supported by the Americans and people like ourselves. The Ugandan Government actually pay CNN to never show the world the true story of those inside the country because for Corporate America, Uganda is big money, the people are just a nuisance. I have photographic and video evidence to back this up. Any NGO in Uganda has to sign an agreement that they will not speak badly about them, otherwise they are unable to establish themselves. They are effectively silenced, meaning that any NGO in Uganda are "African Haters" and only interested in dipping their filthy paws into the honey pot that is "AID". I could not believe it, it made me so angry I wanted to explode. The Africans are being used to create "AID", human sacrifice on a huge scale. War and man-made famines, these are pushing up the prices and bringing in "AID" and the UN is happy, job done. They laugh at the "C130 Runners", as they call them, these are my AFRICANS, whole families, starving desperately running after the only chance they have of staying alive. They are running to catch a C-130 Super Hercules military Aid plane, which is filled with just two pallets of GMO American rice for photographers to shoot to say, "LOOK, WE'RE Saving Africa", no, you're helping yourselves and nobody else and the world should fucking well know about this. A UN spokesman in Uganda telling me, Joe Pollitt the Freedom Writer, how to write about Africa, and in his plummy Norfolk voice instructing me to write it as if it where my Mother or Grandmother fleeing a famine. Well I wont write it like that, I will write like this. "I heard from the Red Cross the work is so stressful you fizzle after 3 to 4 years. So Charlie, how many years can you do this before you just burn out?" I asked to which he answered, "I'm here until I retire. Best job ever." My blood is boiling and I am not unwell, I am perfectly fine. The Press is selling us all an extremely skewed version of the truth. The pathetic so-called journalists are just re-writing UN press releases, all too worried never to work again if they do their jobs correctly, especially about Africa, they avoid it like the plague. I can show you all, I've been there and bought the t-shirt but in this Mental Unit in Royal Tunbridge Wells, they don't believe me, well who would? I have a stamp in my Passport that says otherwise. I have an Ugandan Press Pass, not for just Kampala for the entire country, which clearly states I'm a freelance journalist, working for the UNHCR and I can tell you all, Save the Children, UNICEF the whole bloody lot of them, are just putting up their flags and nothing has been done. Money has somehow got lost in the post.
Back in the Mental Home, it's a prison not a home, it is structured like the cells in every Police Station I have had the joy of staying in and eating their shitty breakfasts. This place makes me nervous because I know what they can do. I am physically ill and shocked to the core as we speak about the voices on the radio, which I think are talking to me about Mental Health on BBC Radio 1 (but it was on the radio, BBC1 it wasn't my imagination, my hearing voices, come on, it has been advertised, it's clearly underneath this post...it's real not imagined), I'm kidding about the voices go away when I'm not in the car because to me, this pretend system too, is broken. Looking into Dr El Misery PhD's excited quizzing eyes set behind gold rimmed, round Gandhi-style glasses, I proudly talk about creating my own language, which nobody seems to understand, apples and stairs meaning, "Bus Fares" and how I adore writing to myself on Facebook, well I do, this to me is therapy but the Facebook Police have already come after me on a post about a Guggenheim Museum, can't even mention the American Photographer's fucking name on this platform and have to say "Robert Mapplesyrup" to disguise who I really mean. All that I've shown the world has been deleted by the Internet Police, the White Knights of Google, Yahoo, Sony, Apple, Bill and Melinda Gates, the Guggenheim's of this world, to save the face of this disgraceful Museum. I was arrested on suspicion of being a pedophile, my house broken into by seven Policemen and women, humiliated on my street, publicly destroyed and made a mockery of, thanks Facebook, like I needed that. Please excuse me whilst I just take a deep breath and start to laugh out loud for real. Thank my lucky stars that nobody reads my silly posts but I love the craft of writing and playing with the most powerful weapon we have on earth, our words and our letters. With them we can change every system and point out the rotten apples, and there are many.
Back to the Mental Wellness Institution. The "Doctor" looks at me with such delight, licking his lips, you can imagine his surprise when I share my life story with him, he just thought, he doesn't tick the boxes, goody, goody, gumdrops (we have a complete nutta in our midst) and of course he wants to keep me in for further investigations and wishes me a "speedy recovery"....Dr Ahmed El Misery PhD....(Prof. Uck-Med El Misery PhD), Just my luck, you can't make this shit up! Luke Dunn show this to the Mayor. The Institutions set up for Mental Health are failing to understand their patients lives are not the same as theirs and fail to come to grips with others, in just suggesting this I put myself in danger because the system is built around the thinking that the world is insane. They have built this lawless, uncontrolled, drug pushing system around that very concept and it is not in their interest to listen to anybody, they simply don't have to because they are the "Doctors" with PhD certificates, glorious paperwork, just the ticket and they know best, so butt out for speaking. The Institution is simply bogus, more fraud than Freud as all they seem to want to do is medicate those that speak out and send them all to sleep. "We want Zombies", they seem to be shouting but they can give me the expensive medication but I want to stay awake, that is my dream! Some live extraordinary lives, unbelievable lives but when facing the inside looking out, it is absolutely terrifying and I've been in a Kenyan remand prison, just outside Nairobi for not giving bribes to Policemen, so I know exactly what terrifying looks like. Letter ends: Finally, please feel free to bring a family member or friend with you for support and assistance. Yours sincerely....l am in a personal Hell as they are about to duff me up for my own protection, kick and punch me in face for my security and squeeze my balls for my well-being. They seem extremely keen to break my nose and detach my eye balls for what they like to call a full Mental Health check up. Did I mention the electric shocks on my feet and fingertips, what a buzz! I really don't have any mental health issues but suddenly I to them am "Christmas Pudding" come early. I am a 47 year old man, I am not a boy anymore and it is my duty as a man to do my job. Be proud of supporting the underdog, the African, proud enough to say I am one because that is the side of the fence I want to stand by and just like the educational system that teaches Africans to hate themselves, it is so flawed it is broken, set up to keep the wealthy in their seats of power. This is Biblical and just like Samson, I too want to take down the pillars and expose all that is going on. Do all that I can to make others comprehend that a British System is a Broken System in every respect and I am ashamed. (Nobody is gonna Publish this Joe, it's all in your wild IMAGINATION!) So declare me insane and be done with me. "Minds Matter"....who is really behind this? None other than our Dutiful Royals, off I jolly well trot, spoiling all their fun as they giggle at us "nuttas" out here in the real world, rubbing their hands with glee, jog on! I have absolutely no respect for those that have made their money through the blood, sweat and death of so many Africans. Tell me now, WHO IS FUCKING MENTAL?
Joe Pollitt from the Guardian Newspaper London 29/11/2017
Thursday, 23 November 2017
I AM A RACIST
 |
| Untitled, POWERLESS by Joe Pollitt |
I am screaming at you. POWERLESS. We have no voice, we have nothing now. We are killing ourselves and are just too busy to notice. Africa is King, she is a lioness so let us hear her roar. The youngest Continent on earth looks healthier than ever, as we in the West rot in our own White sickness.
I AM A RACIST, I FUCKING HATE WHITE PEOPLE! NOT SOME BUT ALL OF THEM.
"Oh look, there is always one!" I heard the Whites say last night, well I AM THE ONE! We are a world divided. Black and White, it is that simple. As I listen to Conservative Ministers talking to the first time buyers, those Ministers with property portfolios are daring to generously give them tax breaks, what a joke. Corporations are slowly taking over countries. The high street is full of empty buildings and those homeless are there in their numbers, sitting begging for a fix and a sense of belonging. "Spare any change mister? BIG ISSUE! Please mister, give me money for more drugs, help me to kill myself, I am begging you. BIG ISSUE!" Turning themselves into the ghosts of London Town. We are witnessing the death of Retail, as we busy ourselves shopping online for more bargains. The Council can no longer afford the electricity for the Christmas lights, they will soon become Ebay Lights on Oxford Street and Amazon Lights on Regents Street as they turn Christmas into a business, the sick-Mother-fuckers, cunt-suckers and we watch, powerless to do anything. I hate your Whiteness, your greedy thinking, your off-shoring and creative accountancy, what is mine, is mine mentality. I hate the skin I am in...it just doesn't suit me.
Joe Pollitt, 2017
Thursday, 15 June 2017
FOR DANNE, CHAMPION OF THE WORLD.
Here is a poem I wrote for me dear friend Danne Van Cleve-Norton over in Las Vagas.
Danne Flying High
You to me are like the long awaited rains and
as your goodness falls so the land responds.
Nothing can grow without you. You are my constant.
You are like the glorious smell of just cut lawns.
That fresh wild scent of happiness found and
the splendid joy of seeing in brand new beginnings.
You lift me up when I am down and go that extra mile.
For that and for so much more, I am forever grateful.
You shower your light on the darkest of corners searching
to find those hidden meanings in all things worth knowing.
Never change, you are perfection and loved just the way you
are. You are kind, loving, caring but most of all you are true.
are. You are kind, loving, caring but most of all you are true.
Those agonizing days when stupidity wins and reason is
rejected you are there, to battle out the issues and to
comfort.
Like the seasons you are constant. Constantly evolving.
Finding new reasons to wake and explore some more.
You supported me when others turned their backs.
I just wanted to write and say. You’re the best bird
in the sky.JP. 2017
Monday, 15 May 2017
Tuesday, 31 January 2017
Serge Clottey by Joe Pollitt
New Ways of Seeing Art / Culture
By Joe Pollitt
(In Tunbridge Wells – United Kingdom)
Today begins an ongoing debate about life in Ghana, the first country on the Continent to gain Independence, back in 1957. Spearheaded by the artist, Serge Clottey, along with an entourage of fellow artists from Labadi, Nima and elsewhere in Accra, Gallery 1957 is opening its doors to the public at the Kempinski Hotel Gold Coast City.
The aim of the project is to pioneer new ways of seeing Art and the purpose of culture to any society. Unlike the previous generations of Post Colonial artists from Africa, those that were given scholarships and awards to educate themselves in various European art colleges like the Slade, the Royal Academy, the International Art College or Ecole Beaux Art Superiore in Paris, we are now beginning to see a change like never before. The artists are choosing to turn their backs on the more formal training from the West and preferring to exercise something far more organic, original and home-grown, pulling from every aspect found in their proud indigenous cultures and remaking what is considered art in West Africa as a stamp for the International Art Community to look toward.
This is developing a certain shift in the global mindset towards the Continent. There is suddenly a need for a re-education and a greater understanding of the purpose and meaning of Art. Through a series of unique and authentic installations, works of art and performances, the gallery is setting an impressive standard for others to follow.
Serge Attukwei Clottey has gained international recognition via the Internet and through his travels overseas with his works focusing on the yellow jerry cans, an iconic visual symbol that have become central to his work; these yellow gallon drums used to bring water to homes of the underprivileged can be seen throughout the poorer neighbourhoods of Accra and becomes his optical metaphor for the underdevelopment of Ghana’s Capital. Water is at a premium and although considered the most essential human right on earth, in the Accra, tap water in homes is strictly reserved for the wealthy and well-to-do. Good drainage and plumbing throughout the city has yet to be achieved for all. Serge is often regarded as one of the leading lights of his era has effectively emotionally taken from the rich to benefit the poor creating a new generation of artists from Africa – Generation X but what would his father say to his son, dressing up in his Mother’s clothes and calling it Art?
Those that have followed Serge’s earlier years saw how initially, he bravely took on the mantra from his father Mr Seth Clottey, whose formal, conventional more conservative artworks brought him fame in the years during Independence and beyond. Although his father’s paintings are highly accomplished works of Art they do tend to favour a Colonial appetite. The idea of creating portraiture, figurative works or landscapes, stretched onto canvases and set in gilded frames seemed a little unadventurous for his fiercely competitive son. Those old-fashioned and outdated works seemed to somehow play into the hands of an oppressed past. They were created on demand and on the basis to be sold. To find a specific market for an invisible dominance that seems to have remained in Ghana since Independence. The young artist felt that his father’s generation was nothing more than Ghanaians copying the West.
The culture in West Africa, just like elsewhere on the Continent, is to show your respect for your elders at all times and never to confrontation them. To do so is regarded as being utterly impertinent and rewarded with a handsome beating. His father, Mr Seth Clottey simply couldn’t understand what on earth he was up to. This tormented father/son relationship was certainly not an easy one and the very idea of creating works out of discarded rubbish was difficult for the older generation to come to terms with and virtually impossible to comprehend. Mr. Seth Clottey was furious with his non-conforming off spring, thinking him rude and disrespectful. It was at this time when I first met Serge, at his poorest and his best. He was at war with himself and all those around him. The two artists young and old were at loggerheads. His father was completely baffled by his son’s antics, thinking he would never make anything of himself playing with the discarded scraps of the city.
What kind of livelihood could he make from such efforts? He never for one instance considered what he was doing could possibly be taken seriously and Ghana would end up making fun of his son and ruin the family name, so began the agonizing early years and the beginning of Serge’s artistic endeavours.
These were the tough days as the hardships Serge faced without financial or emotional support meant he was limited to the materials he could afford and the places he could sleep. Having such little money he found solace in his friends in the impoverished areas of Labadi and Nima, these are some of the poorest neighbourhoods in Accra, but it was here that the banished son found his support.
He would assist in the pulling in of the nets for the fishermen in Labadi to earn a decent square meal. He lived in a simple room without running water or electricity so painting in oil or acrylics was too much to ask so these limitations became his greatest assets. During the day he became a beachcomber looking for any washed up garbage he could use as artistic materials and bind together to create his artworks. The difficulty in the early days was to break that classic mindset of the past, that hangover from Colonialism that Art can only truly be art if it looks like the Art being produced in the West (Europe or America). It took great will power and an artistic stubbornness from the young buck, determined to make his make in the world of Art but through the introduction of the Internet and access to a wider world all this thinking was echoed elsewhere. The artist’s true pathway was rising to meet him and the battle for true cultural independence was set.
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