When I was at primary school James Hunt was the big famous
racing car driver. He lived a fantastic fast-paced life of wine, wins and
women. Better was that we had the same initials. When you're a small kid that
means something. As we were both "JH" perhaps I could be a be Formula
One driver (I was that naive.) Barry Bridge could have been a Bjorn Borg and
David Dunn could have been a Desmond Douglas (the table tennis wizard.)
you seen the 2013 film Rush about the
fiery rivalry between James Hunt and Niki Lauda? It's well worth watching even if you find Formula 1
boring. I watched it on my computer on Saturday night (while my dad was
downstairs watching his 14th hour of some boring golf competition.) I'm not one
for sitting down and watching a film without doing something else. I got out an
A4 board and felt restless. I thought I'd do a weird abstract paintings
featuring a "J" and a "H" somewhere. I put myself under a
rule: start the painting as the films starts and finish it as the film
finishes. Here is the dismal result.
went well but as there're no rules with abstract stuff you can't go wrong.
Using only a knife I smeared on colours which complimented one another. The
film is 123 minutes long but I was finished and had washed the knife with
minutes to spare. I didn't see much of the film so I'll have to watch it again.
I like doing these abstract paintings as they massage my insides around and are
therapeutic. I know they're not real paintings but try telling that to abstract
artist Gerhard Richter who is often considered to be the world's greatest
living painter. Oddly this painting looked different in sunlight the next day as
the paint had darkened. I don't mind though and paint for pleasure. I've even
done a few under another name but they'll never see the light of day.
I couldn't believe it when I
heard that James had died of heart attack in bed at home in Wimbledon in 1993. He
was only 45 - all those races at 190 mph and he died in bed in his sleep. He'd been
married twice but neither marriage were successful (he admitted he'd been to
bed with about 5000 women.) He'd proposed on the telephone the day before he
died to Helen Dyson a waitress he met in a restaurant in Wimbledon.
I wonder what happened to his animals - he had a decent
menagerie: a German
shepherd called Jackson, a swearing parrot called Humbert
and 300 budgerigars in a state-of-the-art aviary in the back garden. In recent years the house was up for sale for £5.75 million. He lived
there for eleven years and could often be spotted cycling to the BBC TV Centre
(to do commentary on races) He was cremated but I've yet to find out where his
ashes are so I can go and salute them.
This painting isn't for sale
and now hangs in a room with my coveted collection of 684 airplane sick bags.