Tony Mafia, Chicago August 4 1931 - Antwerp, Hoboken, May 9 1999

Fourteen years ago Tony Mafia died after a life lived fully. With many friends he is not forgotten and his paintings still make a house a home.

This large and wonderful painting is hanging in the public entrance of the European Parliament in Brussels. Once in a while someone tells me they have seen it.

The tearful eye of god, where not only god is crying but also the guitar player, lovers, doves and a dog and a stallion all this  one can see on the painting.

Tony loved his guitars, loved Spain had been for half a year in Casares, Andalousia. A strange place where he painted the locals as he saw them. These paintings were shown at Gallery Françoise Besnard and the show sold out. Jack Nickolson, being in Canes for the film festival, came to Paris, visited the show and signed the guest book.

Hopefully soon, I hope to organize a larger exhibition of Tony's work with the help of some friends.

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All is changed

nothing stays the same

but the street

on which the changing

walk until words

of past

hurt

for lack of a tomorrow

The fading star

of laughter lost

hears but the

murmur of memory

on rue St André des Arts

meeting Madame Françoise Besnard

Funerals and the celebration of life

In the span of a few weeks I attended three funerals and in this misty November it made me pensive. I learned from each of the services, which all three happened to be non-religious memorial services. In one case, I saw the person as a gruff, a bit rude, uncompromising, self-righteous man, yet I learned how he doted on his wife, how he was a kind father and kinder grandfather still, always preparing fun and grand holidays involving boats. In the second funeral, the character of the man shone through in the music his wife and sun had picked out. An ardent tango - they did dance together for years - spoke of the kind of love they felt for each other. And two rather irreverent songs about life and death and yes, it was in keeping with his mentality. I also learned how much he had been there for other people. And the third, a brother of a dear friend passed. The speakers were friends and the family, not professional speakers. Two different personalities emerged from the memories people held dear: from a cantankerous contrarian, who loved jazz and loved discussions. The heartfelt thank you was: thanks for the headwind you provided. And then out of the family's words there emerged the kind, attentive uncle or brother and brother in law, protective of those he loved. He used his stubbornness trying to beat the odds and his sister said: I couldn't have wished for a kinder, better brother...

Goodbyes are hard. Pain mixes in with cold of night and yet life has to be celebrated, their life and ours.