The art of Ryno Swart

A table for two

  The Alcazar Club in Paris was probably the best of its kind. It was daytime; I summoned all my courage and walked in. The barman was a friendly enough type, and directed me to la patronne. Amid tablecloths, dancers and upside-down chairs, the choreographer was a youngish woman, and she listened to my request in the midst of all the chaos of a rehearsal. "C'est bon," she said, "As long as you come on a Monday or a Tuesday evening, you are welcome to sit anywhere that is not in the way, and sketch."

  To say that I walked out of there on a cloud, would be a miserable understatement. I was dancing dancing and singing inside, desperately trying to look French and calm.

  It was 1988. That Monday evening I gingerly stepped into the deep red neon foyer, to be stopped by a great big guy, who wanted to know, more or less, what the fuck I was doing here. "Er," I said, "I am here to draw the show. The choreographer knows about it..."

  He sent a young man into the depths, who returned with a big smile. "It's good, he can come inside." The big guy looked very doubtful, but he let me in. I had to squeeze past him, but he let me in.

  Inside the whole place was pitch dark. Waiters showed diners to their tables by candle-light, but with that typical French radar, they ignored me. I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness (it never did happen) and stumbled over some chairs to what appeared to be a table, sat down, and felt around my bag for my sketchbook and a pencil.

  And then the music started. Even with the moody lights from the dawning stage, I could not even see the pages of my sketchbook, but who cared: "The minute you walked through the door... bah-dam... I could see you were a man of distinction; good-looking, so refined..."

  Five girls, lowered onto the stage from above, dark, so dark, in a tableau, not moving until they touched the ground, and then, one at a time they started to dance. The whole room remained dark, the music and those exquisite bodies commanding awe, verging on passion.

  I went back, night after night, past the suspicious doorman, and into heaven. I even managed to sketch, chunky black lines ground into the paper, and in my dark corner, I felt comfortable, as if I belonged. After a few shows, a waiter came to my table, chatted for a while, and left a candle for me. I felt a kinship with him; the most beautiful women in Paris, and totally unattainable. But I never felt alone.

  It was only years later that I discovered, looking through one of my art books, that another artist loved the Alcazar, went there and drew in the dark; and that the person I was sharing my table with, was Toulouse Lautrec.

Books on art

The Simon and Schuster Guide to Painting in Oils

This little book was put together by Diana Armfield with input from top artists and lecturers in Britain. It covers every technical aspect of painting, from brushes to framing. Small enough to fit inyour pocket, it is the most practical book on art out there, but it might be hard to get hold of. My copy cost me R7.99.

British comic art

It was in Burgersdorp when I was about 11 years old that my life was changed. I visited a young English-speaking boy who had among his stuff, a copy of "Lion".

When I went home I borrowed this comic magazine. I know that I liked drawing before this; one of my earliest memories is cutting up a newspaper comic strip and gluing it into my drawing book, cutting out the speech bubbles and showing it to my mother who, as only a mother can, told me how lovely it was. "That's very good," she said, "Now go and do some more." Anything for a bit of peace and quiet.

But Lion was a revelation. Magnificent drawing by master draughtsmen, strong dramatic stories, and captivating characters, Paddy Payne, fighter pilot; Sandy Brown's schooldays; Robot Archie. I can still smell and feel the paper. My parents subscribed me and years later when I was a young airman at Central Flying School, Dunottar, I still had my weekly copy of Lion delivered at to the main gates.

This was the beginning of my own fascination with first, flying, and more importantly, drawing, picture stories, storyboarding and art.

Soon after "Lion", I discovered the "Battle Picture Library" series. These are 64 page (I counted them) mini-novels in magnificent chiaroscuro drawing. The British publisher, Fleetway, had single handedly sourced and developed a generation of popular art that has already become collectors items. I suspect that my current heroes, Ken Howard, Fred Cuming, and Bernard Dunstan, also had this as part of their development. The one thing that remains to make my celebration complete, would be to learn the names of the artists and if possible to thank them for their wonderful influence, not only on me, but on a generation of artists now at their peak. More than this, I would love to see their personal art.

There is something sad about the Fleetway story. As far as I can tell, they published these remarkable booklets from 1961 to 1967, stopping at the height of their success, and since then there has been nothing of the kind, the world and art the poorer for it.

In this issue

• A table for two
• Books on art
• British comic art

Workshops

Updated details on workshops here.

Website: artistvision.org

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