In the early Nineties I was one of the artists of the gallery ‘L’homme qui rit’. The owner was a French count. The name of the Brussels gallery came from the novel by Victor Hugo.

Main character in the book is Gwynplaine, a man with a mutilated face. He is all kindness.

This face has been the model for the Joker in the Batman stories.

But there is more. The starlet sawn in two and found by Robert Duval had a similar grimace on her face. The name of the movie is True Confessions.

This brutal murder quotes a real life event. Elizabeth Short (Black Dahlia is another movie where she or better it appears) was found mutilated like that. According to Mary Pacios (in the book: Childhood Shadows) Orson Welles was responsible for Elizabeth’s ‘smile’.

The mutilation also appears under the name the ‘Glasgow Smile’. In the 1920’s it was fashion by street gangs in England and Scotland to cut faces up in that way.

As desert it is known under the name the ‘Cheshire Smile’ because of the cat in the book ‘Alice in Wonderland’.

Maybe the name of the gallery was of influence on the visitors? I met many colourful people there.

One of them was the editor of art books. He balanced a Warhol like wig on his powdered head. He was very gallant towards the women, especially the mother of the gallery owner. She had the money.

He was an exclamation mark on every opening in his blue blazer, heavily perfumed and with rouge on the cheeks. His appearance seemed to be permanently held up by scaffoldings. His teeth were a chaotic collection of ivory trying to conquer the right spot on the jaws.

When he’d spot me, he’d try to convince me that my work was ready for a luxurious edition in his collection of art books. He appreciated my works beyond limits; it had to be published as soon as possible. The funds were to be found on my bank account.

Several times I was driven around in his car. The bottom was covered with unsold art books.

I was present at the opening of an in Europe gone astray New York graffiti artist. Once he had painted the New York streets in the company of Haring and Basquiat. His work could be recognized by a hard green colour that nobody else used.

He was married to a real life Brünhilde from Bayern. She had grown up on the tones of all Wagner operas. Her hair was draped in round braids on her temples. A bigger contrast was impossible.

In a not far away past the museum of Groningen had bought works of him on the advice of Fred Haks.

Two curators stood whispering in a corner. The artist was not older than 30 years and his first career had come to an end. I have forgotten his name and could not find anything on the Internet.

The gallery owner was quite extraordinary himself too. On the openings the best wines were served. He was very generous, open minded and cooperative. In Brussels I used to stay at his place.

I sold quite a lot. But when after the opening we had to take stock of who had bought what, it became clear that he had had more attention for the girls than for the buyers.

Paying was also a bit of an item. He lacked the idea of money. He was an authentic fortunate bohemian.

Once, after many pleas to be paid, he invited me to come to Brussels for a party with photo models. I had to come!

I bought a train ticket of my last money and on arrival brought to the best Japanese restaurant, where the evening was drowned in sake. All on his expense.

I have no memory of the party or of the photo models.

I returned to Amsterdam with a part of the to be paid money.

Finest paradise bird of all was Tanguy. According to the gallery owner he was the last surrealist artist of Belgium.

He too was a count and in his red Lancia full speed on the way to oblivion. He lived in a castle of which he sold room after room empty for survival.

On the openings he appeared with his dog, dog food, a golf stick and ball.

After the speeches and some glasses of wine, he would play golf through the rooms.

This was performance number one.

Number two consisted out of him secretly putting dog food in purses of women. Consequently the dog would jump up against the victim.

Consternation in the gallery, especially when it happened with a possible client.

He held his best performance at a dinner after one of my openings. As usual I set next to the gallery owner and he sat on the other side of me. He was very, very sad. His girlfriend had given him the sack.

Between the starter and the main course he started to push me. He had to sit next to the gallery owner. I could not go anywhere. The pushing turned into hitting. After I had changed place, Tanguy started to quote out of copied love letters to his muse.

How on earth had this happened? How on earth had she reacted so cold and incomprehensive?

In Brussels he was famous. There was no reaction at the neighbouring tables and also the waiters kept on working normally while he recited hysterically between one sob and another.

The advantage was that with him present even the others could allow behaviour out of the normal. I chased a girl friend through the restaurant that same night.

Another story about Tanguy in which I fortunately was not present was of a couple of artist friends who after a scary ride with a totally drunken chauffer spent the night at his castle. Before putting them to sleep, he showed his vast collection of hunting riffles. They were loaded…

Poor Tanguy… Nobody had heard of him in Amsterdam. So when during a lunch in a restaurant he started to clean the neighbouring tables while the people had not yet finished; a furious waiter attacked me. With the help of the gallery owner all was set to rest.

The artist himself did not understand the fuzz. As well as he was in total astonishment, when the police officer summoned him to turn around in a one-way street that he had taken from the wrong side. All was ART!

Last beautiful creature I have to mention is a very high French diplomat with whom I lived quite some paradise moments.

Alas the gallery closed. It became all too much for the gallery owner. He had appointed a very capable assistant to take care of the administration, but he himself was a painter too. And that became his main occupation.

I regard the anti- bourgeois feast a more than decent end of the Brussels chapter. The only things to be eaten were oysters and smoked salmon. The champagne was poured without hesitation. I danced in a smoking with the phrase ‘Vive le bourgeoisie’ sticking out of my pochet pocket.

I still have a weak spot for Brussels even though the gallery owner escaped to Morocco.

I sold my canvas called ‘The bath of Fools’. My reversed version of ‘The Ship of Fools’.

This ship first appears in the book ‘The State’ of Plato as a metaphor for a society without direction. On the boat everybody thinks to know how to navigate, but nobody really does.

Ship of Fools, Jeroen Bosch

It is very possible that I was inspired by all the beautiful, opinionated and o so fragile fools I met there.

Tub of Fools

Click on 'Vive le bourgeoisie' to see the trailer of the movie after Hugo's novel.

‘Vive le bourgeoisie!’