Gnomes with an opinion

A few years ago on a very hot summer’s day my telephone rang. Hi Renate, how are you says Monica, a German lady who I had met years earlier at an art fair. Monica asks me whether we could meet up, as her partner Gerda had 'been told' that we had to exhibit our work together in a village along the coast. I was curious and the next day I drive down the long winding mountain road to visit the remote cottage tucked away in a sea of green avocado plantations and silver-green olive trees. I turn right into a dirt track which leads to the house of Monica and Gerda and am greeted by big smiles on their round faces. It feels as if I am entering a delusional world and I suddenly think… They are going to eat me! However, I am warmly welcomed by the two very big ‘white witches’ as they call themselves. They are both wearing the same big blue dress without sleeves with a Kangaroo type pocket on the front. Their huge breasts are dangling clearly visible and freely under the thin cotton fabric. It feels soft, hot and humid during the awkwardly long hug. Messy long, grey hair is framing their white, sweaty faces, completing the picture. Makeup doesn’t fit into their world. Gerda looks somewhat wild with her watery blue eyes. They tell me that she is the creative mind and the healer of the two. I am invited into their home, an oasis of calm in a wonderfully warm atmosphere. Everywhere I look I see angels, Tutankhamun replicas, ceramic sculptures and buddha images.

I feel relaxed and at ease. Whilst Monica is giving me a cup of herbal tea Gerda tells me about the gnomes and fairies that are invisible to most people. With a mysterious smile she explains that many think she is crazy, but continues very seriously that gnomes and fairies have told her that it is time for a joint exhibition of my art and their dresses. Monica, who seems to attend to all Gerda’s wishes listens. There is a fairy-tale atmosphere and their strange harmonious relationship seems to work perfectly. Gerda pours me another cup of tea whilst Monica enters the living room with a large number of sweaters, jackets and dresses hand-knitted by her. I am totally amazed when I see the beautiful colours and motifs used. The cardigans and dresses have long pointed hoods that perfectly fit their pyramid-like shape. Gerda then explains that she has received a message from her gnomes to create square dresses. Monica leaves the room to get them and shows me a variety of thin one-size-fits-all square dresses made of thin cotton fabric, beautifully hand-painted by Gerda with colourful symbols and flowers, birds of paradise and Egyptian motifs on the square dresses. They tell me to try one on and I am pleasantly surprised as for someone who never wears a dress I am filled with enthusiasm. I very much admire the work of Monica and Gerda and tell them that I feel their clothing is certainly worthy of an exhibition. They don’t sell their work to the public but Monica and Gerda like to exhibit their dresses and cardigans along with my paintings and ceramic sculptures. It seems like a good plan and I feel optimistic and happy when I drive back home; the exhibition date set.
Two days later my phone rings... I am very sorry Renate, says Monica, unfortunately the gnomes have told Gerda that after all it isn’t the right time for an exhibition
I cannot help but feeling disappointed!

Talking about angels, feel free to check out my designs on environment-friendly tote bags (no more plastic bags floating in the oceans) in RedBubble

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A smoky adventure

Last Friday I was shaking whilst sitting on a cold iron bench at the bus stop, waiting for my bus to my ceramic class. It wasn’t an earthquake but an elegantly dressed Spanish lady. Her leg was nervously making rapid movements which made the bench vibrate. My fantasy took her along on a journey of possibilities. From a dentist visit to an appointment with her lover to tell him that she was going to leave him. I was soon distracted from my thoughts by the spring bird song in the tall trees on the small roundabout in front of the bus stop. It was 22 January and rather worrying to hear these migrating birds singing their beautiful song. A far too mild winter, with far too little rain is confusing the local flora and fauna. I didn’t get much time to think about that as the bus arrived and I had to prepare myself for my weekly discussion with the bus driver. I have to get off at a bus stop that is not very familiar to most drivers and for some reason I have seen a different bus driver every week, which means I have to explain, plead and put my foot down to be allowed on the bus. This day was no exception. When I mentioned my destination the initial reaction from the bus driver, like most weeks, was “I don’t stop there”. I then insisted and explained where it was and mentioned some landmarks. This usually does the trick, but this time it didn’t. The bus driver wasn’t having it and told me there was no such bus stop. The queue behind me was growing but I remained calm and friendly telling him that I was taken there every week and that he could check the existence of the bus stop on his digital ticket machine. Reluctantly he did and I was allowed on the bus. I sat down on one of the faded chairs and looked at the chair in front of me which said “fasten seat belt” a reminder of the long-distance international trips of these now local buses. The seat belts had been taken out and nobody, apart from me, seemed to think that this half an hour journey, for some even longer, along a bendy road and often next to sheer drops down to the sea, with, it has to be said, breathtaking views, is a good enough reason to fasten a seat belt. I said a little prayer and sent some white light to the grumpy driver to get me safely to my destination. It worked, and I walked into the ceramic studio all in one piece. It was a special day and I was nervous. I have done ceramics for many years but I had not experimented much with glazing and had never done Raku. This was my main reason to join the ceramics class with a nice mixed group of people, (English and Spanish, me being the only Dutch person) both beginners and professional artists.

It was my very first Raku firing experience and I came prepared with a mask as I was told it would be a smoky event. Our teacher is an interesting, very knowledgeable, sweet bodybuilder, usually scarcely dressed in shorts and a vest, both summer and winter, and most nights delighting us with the smell of his four boiled egg whites that he brings along in a Tupperware box and consumes during the ceramic class. For the occasion he wore some highly flammable sports trousers, which I found rather worrying. He had been firing up a kiln earlier that day, filled with the statues that had been painted with special Raku glaze. After the class, when most of my classmates had left, the kiln was opened. It was an amazing spectacle. The red-hot statues were taken out with a special tool and then dropped into an old oil barrel filled with sawdust. Every time the teacher had dropped a ceramic object into the barrel we rapidly added a few handfuls of sawdust, which of course took fire immediately. As soon as all the statues were in the barrel it was topped up with even more of the stuff. Then the lid was quickly put on the barrel and subsequently covered with a wet cloth. There was smoke, a lot of smoke, so we made sure to wait at a safe distance.

Approximately 15 minutes later the statues were taken out of the barrel and put into a big basin filled with cold water, to then be cleaned with a hard brush under a running tap, revealing the end result. The colours were stunning, a mixture of purple, blue and copper with silver and turquoise touches, reminding me of the colours of an oil leak on a puddle of water. They were better than I could have hoped for, it was a magic moment.

My hair, my skin and clothes were smelling like a wood log burned in an open fire, but I didn’t care. With my statues safely wrapped up for the journey back, I returned home. It had been a great and satisfying adventure. Three days later I was lying in bed and shaking. There was no Spanish lady to be seen. It was an earthquake, 6.5 on the Richter scale, which had woken up the entire Malaga and Granada coast region!

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Happy New Year

And now it is 2016 and I survived the Spanish festivities. I managed to stuff the 12 grapes in my mouth on every last second of the year, twelve in total, which made it rather hard to give my husband a romantic Happy New Year’s kiss with both our cheeks full of grapes, looking like a pair of happy hamsters, but they were soon washed down with former grapes better known as ‘bubbles’. The first of January was a day of laziness which included not wanting to prepare our lunch. In Andalusia most people have their main meal at lunch time, which is usually somewhere between two and three o’clock. I have happily adapted to this habit and as an artist I can decide on my own timetable so that is not a problem. My Spanish husband is absolutely perfect as he is a near obsessive cleaning disorder gentleman with the emphasis on gentleman. He says that I am not good at cleaning and he is probably right, my disorder is being disorderly. I am not allowed to clean, he does that, but I take care of the laundry, setting up and taking down the Christmas tree, and cooking, lots of cooking, two times a day. Well the main meal at lunch and the evening usually an egg variety, a salad and fruit or some bread with an orange with a tiny bit of salt and extra virgin olive oil for example. Don’t laugh, try it, you’ll be pleasantly surprised. Good thing I love cooking and he loves eating it. But this first of January I felt like a day off as far as my cooking duties were concerned and I also decided to postpone my healthy eating, no carbs, and no sugar New Year’s resolution for a few days. So off we went for a Chinese meal in the village. Unfortunately I forgot to take a stomach protector which I do need when eating fried food. Delicious as it was I nearly choked that night on my own acid reflux with a strong spring roll flavour and had to sleep sitting up the rest of the night out of fear the acid would come up again during my stay in dreamland. Not good. Luckily my time had not yet come and today is the last day of a rather long winter festivities period, Three Kings Day, a national holiday and very much celebrated in Spain. Last night, on the 5th of January we went out to marvel at the spectacle. The relatively small village of La Herradura is suddenly heaving with life. Mostly villagers and their families. Several beautifully dressed up carnival type wagons are slowly rolling along the sea-front, filled with people in colourful costumes. Three wagons carry the three Kings and their wives. Plastic footballs and lots of unhealthy, brightly coloured sweets wrapped in plastic are thrown into the crowd, creating a buzz amongst the children who collect as many as they can. In between the wagons there are groups of local children, from the very small to teenagers, dressed up in a specific theme and dancing to very loud music to the amusement of the spectators. Three Kings Day is the most important children’s ‘fiesta’ in this Mediterranean country. Although Father Christmas is now also commercially very much present in Spain, no doubt to the kid’s content as this means double ‘pressies’, Three Kings Day is the main event where children get their gifts. Around 19.30, the parade arrives at the main square and the Kings and their wives sit down on chairs on the stage. Gifts wrapped in shiny paper with big bows, previously handed in by the parents, are stacked in the background of the stage. One packet at a time is handed to one of the Kings and the name on the present is called out, the happy child comes up to the stage, receives the gift, gives the King a kiss to then rush off again into the save arms of mum or dad, all beaming with pride and happiness. Today is just a relaxed Day, all the shops are closed and children are playing with their new gifts. Tomorrow normal school life starts again. The New Year can truly begin. Mine as well. I am full of positive plans and with great hopes for this exciting upcoming year. Spring rolls are not on the menu anymore, but, drumroll, there is a spring in my step now that I have overcome the last hurdles in the process of writing my latest book, La Herradura Reflections. That’s it … you’ve heard it here first. 2015 was a year filled with interviews, investigation, writing stories, getting them translated, proofread and approved. The final result is a unique combination of guide book, history book and biography rolled into one in which you get a privileged, ‘behind the scenes’ look at life in La Herradura, and a fascinating glimpse into the minds of its artists and visionaries who live or work in this seaside village I now call my home. The book will be published in spring both in English and in Spanish. As usual the cover will be one of my paintings. Actually, this one!

Bring it on 2016 as I have every intention to make this a very happy New Year! Would you like to be kept informed about my books and my art news? Send me an email to renate@renatevannijen.com and I will add you to the list. All my books are for sale on Amazon!

Christmas with a difference

My family wasn’t very traditional and I cannot even remember having spent many Christmases together. Christmas has only grown into a commercial celebration in Holland over the last few decades or so. When I was a child it was merely a period of spending time with family and friends and having some Christmas decoration in the house. Giving gifts was not part of it. As a young adult I used to spent either the 1e Kerstdag (1st Christmas day) or the 2e Kerstdag (2nd Christmas day), as we call it in Holland, at my parents’ house for a meal and just to be together. But if I didn’t feel like it, it wasn’t a big deal, it certainly wasn’t an obligation. There also was no typical Christmas food tradition in Holland, apart from some seasonal sweets. It was more about extravagance in foods that we did not eat during the year and of course, the obligatory too much of whatever was served. On New Year’s Eve my brother and I were dragged off to some party, usually great parties, with lots of traditional ‘oliebollen’ which literally translates into ‘oil balls’. Don’t be fooled though as they are delicious balls of dough deep-fried and covered with powder sugar. Midnight was always amazing with the typical Dutch custom of firework displays by most families in every street and neighbourhood, turning the entire country for at least 15 minutes or so into a colourful display of lights and bangs with people going out into the streets with a glass of bubbles to start the New Year wishing everybody the best! Then I met an English man and together we moved to Spain. Christmas became a tradition and soon I found myself sitting in front of the television watching English shows with a silly paper hat on and a Christmas cracker in my hand. A fake nylon Christmas tree with cheap shiny balls, tinsels and lights were taken out of the box each year to be set up in some corner and then, during the weeks leading up to Christmas, lots of small gifts wrapped in shiny paper were accumulating below the tree. I loved it. My now ex-partner being an excellent cook also insisted in preparing a typical English Xmas meal every year, including all the vegs and Yorkshire pudding. The left-overs turned into a fantastic bubble and squeak that we ate on Boxing Day. Christmas decorations in Spain weren’t as over the top as we had known them to be in Holland and the UK, but the Christmas tree in the square and light decorations over the streets certainly brought us into a festive spirit. Then I married a Spanish man and got an entire family with it. The outside Christmas decorations were still the same and in some cities like Malaga they have turned it into a true art with lots of lights, certainly worth a visit. Another sure sign that the festive season had arrived is a television in a corner of the local bar or restaurant with children singing the winning numbers of the Christmas lottery in a boring tune and groups of people from a local choir going around the village singing songs to collect some money for charity, the Spanish equivalent of carol singers. However to me personally this festive season got a whole new meaning when I got to know the family traditions. Now at best of times I fail to understand why many of the Spanish people living in southern Spain don’t do heating and my ‘new’ family is no exception. Their excuse that it doesn’t really get cold and winter lasts only a couple of months is not very true as many expat living here can confirm. Oh yes, winters can be like northern European summers with temperatures over 20 degrees during the day, but when the sun goes down the temperature drops below 10 degrees, not only outside but also indoors. Many houses are built to keep the sun out and no natural heat is coming in. So out come the jumpers, many layers of them, and the dressing gowns that are put on as a final layer. There usually is a round table with a small under-table heating to provide some warmth to a cold body. Cold and cracked dry skin on the hands and a runny nose don’t seem to bother them. My Spanish family is no different. My mother in law, a tiny, possibly due to old-age shrinkage, feisty and very funny 84 year old can barely walk as she shuffles into the patio in her four or five layers of jumpers and trousers, to sit in the sun to heat up her, as she calls it… frozen legs. The under-table heating is only used as an exception as she is so used to a life time of saving up for the kids and spending the least possible on herself. She would not have it any other way. The December holiday makes no exception. Spain doesn’t know a second Christmas day or a Boxing Day so the festivities are squeezed into Christmas Eve, where the family enjoys a meal together and Christmas day where the family enjoys lunch together. In my Spanish family the only tradition is to eat lots of prawns, big prawns usually, which come with some side dishes and too many deserts and seasonal fried cookies and other sweet treats. The left-overs are then eaten on Christmas Day. The lucky ones get to sit at the table with the under-table heating, with the table-cloth held underneath their chins to get maximum effect of the welcoming heat, but the not so lucky have no option but to come in layers or to keep their coats on. No Christmas tree or decoration to create a pleasant atmosphere and gifts are only given to the two young children in the family on Christmas Eve. There is no obligation to spend the entire X-mas Eve or day together so when the last bite of super sweet desert has vanished into our bodies everybody rushes out to do whatever they fancy doing that day. After having taken part in two of such Christmases I suggested to somewhat break that family tradition. Now living in our new, renovated house with wonderful pellet-stove, which was a serious condition of me to even consider getting married, heating up the entire house and creating a wonderful atmosphere with its real flames, we have suggested to celebrate Christmas Eve at our place. A Christmas tree in the corner of the room with sparkly Christmas lights, a pleasant heat, no more coats on or runny noses, just a lot of cooking for me, but fortunately that is one of my hobbies. Last year it was Chinese, which was greatly appreciated and this year I will present an abundant selection of tapas. And the visitors bring the desert. Sounds good to me. And New Year’s Eve? According to tradition that is spent in the house of one of my sisters in law. A very cold house. We sit there with thick jumpers or our coats on, a television is showing silly sketches by men dressed up as women, slightly too loud. The family cheerfully recalls some curious past events in the local village. The meal consists of mainly meat dishes, something I dread this year. After having seen too many cute piglets, cuddly cows and happily jumping about lams with colourful knitted jumpers, all saved from the slaughter house, on Facebook I can no longer eat meat, even if it is disguised as a tasty pate or sliced salami. Guess I’ll be bringing my own dinner. At midnight we all pop 12 grapes into our mouths on the counts of the last 12 seconds of the passing year. A few hugs and kisses and best wishes and off we go…. Usually home to sleep off the exhaustion of the stressful Christmas season and with the full intention to comply with our New Year’s resolution to never do this again! But, as is the case with so many well-intended resolutions…! Wishing you all a wonderful Christmas and a Fantastic 2016! My Christmas Gift to you is a download of my Christmas art card. Feel free to use it as a digital X-mas card to send to your friends and family! http://renatevannijen.com/merrychristmas.pdf If you like to be kept informed about my art work you can enrol for my newsletter. Please send me an email at renate@renatevannijen.com and I will add you to the mailing list. MERRY CHRISTMAS

Close friends

She likes us to become close friends. She is short, abundantly curvy and her grey, very short hair does not really flatter her white face, but the colourful blouse with bird of paradise print turns her into a really pleasant appearance. She greets me with a bright smile at the Nerja Arts Festival, where I have an exhibition, and she says “Hi, I am Beate”. She turns out to be a fan of my work and buys my entire series of mandala cards. Soon it becomes clear to me that she has all the time in the world and I listen to a waterfall of words. She gives meditative dancing classes and asks if I want to join. I explain that it is not really my thing, but promise to meet up with her sometime soon for a cup of coffee. Three months later my phone rings. “Beate here” ... She explains that some of her friends from Germany like to also purchase my mandala cards. Hopeful she asks whether they can come and visit me in my studio. I hesitate, because saying that I am a messy person is quite an understatement. I look around the small old house that I am renting in the middle of the old, typical white-washed Spanish village and realise it is littered with stuff. A dining table filled with two bowls of fruit, all sorts of bits and bobs, my computer and keyboard and lots of papers and unopened bank statements. The state of almost every other surface in my house is not much better. Books on various bookshelves look cluttered with sheets of paper bulging out. Fluffs of dog hair are scattered around the tiled floor as I have not vacuumed the house for over a week. My ceramic statues are collecting dust. The old white walls are filled with paintings and in every other room in the house there are paintings stacked against the wall due to lack of space. My studio in the small garden is disorganised with too many plastic boxes filled with painting materials and brushes and tubes of paint lie scattered on the large table. There are tools and empty plant pots everywhere on the floor. I take a deep breath whilst deciding that I am not in the mood for a huge clean-up and suggest meeting up on the village square. Beate assures me that she and her friends don’t mind a messy house, so we agree to meet near the church where I am introduced to three grey-haired, elderly ladies. They look very polite and tidy with their wrinkle free white blouses all buttoned up and no make-up on their slightly pink faces. Feeling a sense of panic as we walk towards my home I apologize for the messy state of it, but they wave my worries away as they too are messy when on holiday they explain politely. However, there is no doubt in my mind that my mess is in any way similar to what they understand it to be and surely they will be tempted to call in the Spanish equivalent of the public health service to help me declutter. I clench my teeth and together we walk to my house. One and a half hour later, more than 100 euros richer and some mandala cards poorer, I'm perfectly happy on my balcony. Swallows skim right past my head. The late evening sun envelops the mountain range in a fairy-tale orange glow. White houses in the valley glister like gold leaves in the distance. The penetrating sound of the swallows is reminding me that summer has arrived. And Beate and me? We are now close friends.

My mandala gift cards come with a specific meaning. There are two sets of gift cards; one set of 5 cards, representing abundance, gratitude, balance, love and joy and strength and light. The second set represent the seven chakra’s which stand for: security and safety, creativity and self-worth, personal strength, give and receive love, communication skills, intuition and dynamic thoughts and energy. More details here:http://renatevannijen.com/products-page/mandala-card-series/

Adventures in Spain

Via this blog I will keep you informed about my life as an artist and writer in Andalusia in Southern Spain. What can you expect of me? Observations, real life stories and light-hearted stories with a touch of fiction. There will be some photos of my surroundings, my house, the village where I live but also of my art, my books and mandalas. If you would like to find out more about my art and books please visit my website: www.renatevannijen.com