Right from the word go, working with Josef was a voyage into the unknown.

From the very first time I rang the bell on his large, red front door, to be greeted by his diminutive, rotund figure topped by a halo of white hair; to be dragged over the threshold by his chubby, welcoming hands; to be taken through the dark hallway lined with drawings ,through his bedroom to descend the caramel coloured wooden steps into his studio; I never knew what to expect and ,I suspect, neither did he.

 

I had been visiting Josef for 12 months, as a collector, having fallen in love with his work which I first saw at the Camden Retrospective in 1980. I wasn’t aware of his subject matter before then and was completely “bowled over” by the miners. So much so that I could actually smell coal and taste it on my tongue whilst I was viewing the exhibition.

I reached a nadir in my personal life later that year, and, out of nowhere, started to draw.

At the time I also took advice from Howard Hodgkin, Leon Kossoff, Willam Coldstream and Carel Weight. They all had ideas but it was only Josef who offered me a solid way forward, and so we started to work together.

 

I’d go, on a Sunday morning, to his studio, taking my studies with me. I couldn’t wait for those days; to descend into his cavernous studio, to be in that warm, comforting atmosphere, where the smell of oil paint, the light and the presence of his African figures held so much for me, promised so much. Offered me a world which I wanted to take for my own.

 

He'd sit me on an old country chair whilst, opposite, he nestled comfortably into his old leather armchair, which had been with him since the Glasgow days. Snuggled in his old painting coat which must have been, years ago, white, he would look through my studies making comments where necessary and setting my task to be tackled next.

 

Then he’d sit back and expound. Expound at length, on anything and everything:  his childhood in Poland, old Jewish tales, his family, his flight across Europe, the artist’s he’d known, his time in Wales. Stories, stories, stories. Taking me to unknown lands, unimagined experiences, times long gone. Leading me, expanding my very limited horizons. And he’d chuckle. I’ll never forget his chuckle. So full of life, love and experience.

 

We’d then work- whether it was rehanging some of his extensive collection of European drawings and paintings. Handling Rouault close up. And Carriere and Bonnard and Derain- an education in itself. We would frame and reframe some of his own studies, I would photograph his latest watercolours or earlier work for a book or article. He would get so excited at seeing the results. Or, maybe, we would rearrange some of his wonderful Tribal collection. If there was nothing to be done, Josef would let me rifle through his sketchbooks on the shelves in a corner of the studio. Work from every period, some of which, he himself had forgotten- great discoveries were to be made. But, all the time, learning and assimilating those lessons which would be essential to my ongoing development and would sustain me in my work which is now in it’s 45th year.

 

Josef took me down neglected pathways, down roads less travelled, and always deeper and deeper into myself, undoing the years of damage wrought by a well-meaning but unsuspecting family.

 

And always, at the end of a phone, his deep rich-brown voice reassuring and encouraging, supporting and life-affirming.

 

I shall never forget him- my friend Josef.

 

 

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Roger Thornton