Hello, My Darling!

04.12.202412.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Triptych August 1972

Oil and sand on three canvases

My five-day trip to the most glorious jewel, London, was bittersweet. I got a call from Vanessa saying that Clive’s cancer had proven stage four with little time left him. There was but one choice, nothing to do but hurry off the phone, book a flight tout de suite to London. Back in late October 1982, after having met Merlin, my friend Clive, studying in the city, I set up on a blind date with Vanessa. She broke off the date at the last minute to rush home to Bermuda and attend her grandmother’s funeral. Undaunted, on her return, I insisted that they get together. By this time, Merlin was returned to New York and holding up at the actor, Patricia Neal’s UWS airy apartment. Merlin had met Clive and Vanessa separately and thought to have them to dinner; naturally, he cooked his favourite dish, chicken paprikash, which he had been taught by Stratford Festival Theatre’s artistic director, John Hirsch.

Manhattan rooftop water tanks

As we dined, with the shadows of water towers beyond the large living room windows, it was fairly obvious that my attempt at matchmaking had proven successful. From time to time, Merlin winked at me and squeezed my knee beneath the table as Clive and Vanessa on their first date had handsomely struck it off. As the blind date was going so well, Merlin suggested that they were welcome to stay and continue visiting whilst we headed off down to midtown Manhattan to take in the midnight showing of Gandhi at the Ziegfeld cinema. Merlin suggested that they could leave the apartment’s keys with the concierge and we would collect them on our return; it was obvious that they were getting along well and needed more time together, minus us as well. Clive and Vanessa laughed a lot and it was clear that they were smitten with each other.

Portrait of Isabel Rawsthorne

Oil on Canvas

Provenance: Tate Britain

Pushing five in the morning, we returned and thought it odd that the suite’s keys had not been turned in. We got off the elevator and on making our way down to the hall, there was the familiar shower of both persons laughing and giggling. Merlin knocked, not loudly, and we were greeted at the door by the smitten couple, each with cake frosting on their nose. They had been up talking and decided that, as it was well past midnight and therefore her birthday, they would bake a cake! Lots of laughter and warmth, whilst the cake set, Merlin decided to make a hearty breakfast of pancakes with Canadian maple syrup! Since that day, Vanessa and Clive have never been separated once; they even slipped into Toronto to visit me a couple of weeks after Merlin’s passing.

The bust of a man

Pen and Ink

c. 1545

Baccio Bandinelli

Hopped off the Piccadilly line, I crossed Green Park, on day one, to alight at The King’s Gallery, Buckingham Palace. The red-interiored salons were familiar, warm and grounding. I was bothered by the fact that the exhibition of Renaissance Drawings among which were works by unsurpassed genius, Leonardo da Vinci, was masterfully curated and hung. Each piece was expertly placed such that you could never evade the glare of intrusive lighting and the works of art hung on the opposite wall. I laughed aloud to a couple of women staffers, then eventually on making to the next salon, a lone silver-haired beauty engaged me. She wanted to know where I was from; naturally, my Canadian accent as articulated with the women registered with her. She lived, it turned out in Mississauga as her husband had worked at the corporate headquarters of the elegantly designed Mies van der Rohe TD Bank (Toronto Dominion Bank) for a couple of decades. She insisted that I make the trek to St. George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle before leaving; I assured her that the journey was foremost in my plans, having shared that there were 4 governors-general in my extended family to date. She was a gracious human of whom I dreamt two nights later and her aura unsurprisingly was most pronounced.

Reclining Figure

Plaster and string

1951 Henry Moore

Henry Moore & Francis Bacon, Tate Britain

From the King’s Gallery, I briskly made my way to Victoria Station, alighting at Pimlico where after being moved by Chris Ofili’s tribute to the Grenfell Tower tragedy, I scuffed at the Turner Prize fare, which would have been more convincing if there were also homeless persons encamped. The Francis Bacon & Henry Moore exhibition was soul-stirring. By now my feet were beginning to seriously ache as I had forgotten to pack walking shoes. Stepping into the unseasonably crisp sunny air, I hopped aboard the Uber boat and swiftly cruised down the river Thames to the Tate Modern. I was not especially inspired for having visited and for the first time, after so many visits, successfully strode across the millennium bridge where I ended up at St. Paul’s Cathedral. As always, I paid homage to Henry Moore’s plaque. From there, I returned to my hotel in Russell Square. My feet were blistered and ridiculously ached.

Moore, Henry 30/7/1898<O>31/8/1986

Michael: This fragment was a first-level old artisan – third life thereat. Henry was in observation mode with a goal of dominance. A realist, he was in the moving part of intellectual centre.

Henry’s body type was Saturn/Venus.

Henry’s primary chief feature was stubbornness and the secondary of arrogance.

The fragment Henry is fourth-cast in the second cadence; he is a member of greater cadence one. Henry’s entity is six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414 – he is an entity mate.

Henry’s essence twin is an artisan and the task companion a warrior.

Henry’s three primary needs were: expression, freedom and security.

There are 8 past-life associations with Arvin and 6 with Merlin. ______________________________________________

Though I had about 1.5 hours to showtime, in light of the election results in America and because I simply cannot bring myself to make compromises when it comes to Jazz, I chose not to attend the oppressive brutalism of the Southbank Centre and endure Jamie Cullum apeing Black culture. Fuck that! Besides, I realised on arriving at the hotel that the ticket was for a standing room spot; not with with blistered feet was I going to time-waste. When Whites said fuck you, we are not voting for a Black woman, all bets are off that I’ve got time to suffer stubborn racially predatory boors. Whites were enticed by the spectre of Trump’s Bible, which omits amendments 11 through 17, most importantly, the 13th amendment which promises mass incarceration if not enslavement for American Blacks. Thus, I spent a couple of hours talking to Vanessa, Clive and my spouse whilst icing my sorely battered feet.

Fortnum & Mason, Piccadilly

Rested and with lots of buzz from London’s vibe, I decided at 2215 to head to Leicester Square. Got off the tube into the thick of the Friday night throngs, making my way past the Hippodrome Casino. Outside beneath the marquee was a group of statuesque, beautiful Black women in their mid to late twenties, walking past, I said to the tallest with her back to the street, “You’ve the most beautiful hair!” “Oh thank you!” She had the largest afro of the group and wore the most gorgeous, large silver hoop earrings. As I gingerly walked along, they could be heard howling and remarking at the fact that in the middle of the chill late evening air, I was fanning myself – thanks in part to the side effects of one of the medications which regulates my health well into my seventh decade. I then slipped into the Knatchbulls’ formerly owned Curzon cinema in hopes of seeing Gladiator II; however, it was sold out and I would not likely be able to see it until after midnight. Next stop, the Vue cinemas to attempt seeing Wicked; still no luck. Never mind. I then gingerly ambled to Piccadilly Circus and enjoyed the groovy beauty of Fortnum & Mason then headed back to my Russell Square hotel.

Royal Academy of Art

Next morning, bright and early, I got to Russell Square tube station only to be horrified by the note that read that the Piccadilly line would be closed both Saturday & Sunday; perhaps, I ought to have ventured out to Windsor the day of my arrival. Undaunted, I elected to head by bus to Piccadilly circus and made my way to Lilywhites where I purchased a pair of sneakers and chucked the pair of too tight and heavy, foot-blistering nuisance in the bin. Spent little time at RAA; the Michelangelo was underwhelming and too crowded for my ubiquitously masked comfort – my spouse is 24/7 on oxygen; I can ill afford to become exposed to respiratory contagion.

Iris

Oil on Canvas

1890 Vincent van Gogh

Provenance: National Gallery of Canada

Next stop, Trafalgar Square and the rapturously overwhelming Vincent van Gogh exhibition at The National Gallery. Breathtaking beauty that is each canvas was marred by the fact that there are simply far too many persons currently incarnate. Sixty-one phenomenal works of art by the modern Dutch genius, which must have a market value of at least 2B£. Obviously, it is all about the biggest bang for one’s buck but the heat radiating off the masses moving from salon to salon was at times overwhelming. There could have been a system whereby 50 persons max per salon to allow everyone a good appreciation of each piece. As ever, the tallest persons always have a knack for planting their obstructive frame before a painting and taking their sweet damn time before moving on.

Sketch for a Portrait of Lisa (Sainsbury)

Oil on Canvas

1955 Francis Bacon

This exhibition, next-door at The National Portrait Gallery, because it left me so pronouncedly aware of George Hawken being ‘around’ that it, plus the sheer staggering beauty of Francis Bacon’s genius moved me to tears. This portrait of Lisa Sainsbury, the way her eyes mimic Akhenaten’s end up remarkably resembling singer, Thom Yorke’s delicate beauty; even the colours betray the haunting melancholia of Yorke’s soulfulness. By the time that I left The National Portrait Gallery, I was listening to Radiohead’s 1997 debut album, OK Computer. The movement and emotional brilliance of clarity in each Bacon canvas is humbling in its beauty. This, by far, was the most ravishing drink for the spirit. Also the very posh Milanese couple and family members were grounding to be around; they sung the language, which I studied for two years in high school.

Bacon, Francis 28/10/1909<O>28/4/1992

Michael: This fragment was a fifth-level mature artisan — fourth life thereat. Francis was in perseveration mode with a goal of rejection. A sceptic, Francis was in the moving part of intellectual centre.

Francis’ body type was Saturn/Lunar.

Francis’ primary chief feature was impatience and the secondary arrogance.

The fragment Francis is fifth-cast in the fourth cadence; Francis is a member of greater cadence five. Francis’ entity is five, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414.

Francis’ essence twin is an artisan, who is extant, an interior decorator and female; his task companion a sage.

Francis’ primary needs were: expression, freedom and expansion.

There are 12 past-life associations with Arvin and 5 with Merlin. (February, 2018) _________________________________________

Portrait of D. H. Kahnweiler II

Crayon transfer Lithograph

1957 Pablo Picasso

British Museum

Day two of the Piccadilly line being down, and out into the grey-skied chill air, I ventured from the hotel, cutting across Russell Square and proved the first in line on Great Russell Street for the British Museum. Soon, Juan and I were chatting; he is in his eighth decade, enjoying retirement after a career spent at the Prado; he never said what he did. He clearly loved art and came every few months to London where the best exhibitions were to be had. Paris was long passé, Juan declared with a dismissive clipped laugh. After the not very dramatic Picasso print exhibition, I took off for The Japanese Galleries where, as ever, I found centre whilst visiting London. As agreed, we met up in the café, close to the two beautiful totem poles that lord over that sector of the sprawling institution.

Picasso, Pablo 25/10/1881<O>8/4/1973

Michael: This fragment was a seventh-level young warrior — third life thereat. Pablo was in aggression mode with a goal of dominance. A sceptic, Pablo was in the moving part of intellectual centre.

Pablo’s body type was Venus/Saturn.

Pablo’s primary chief feature was exalted arrogance and the secondary greed fixated on accomplishments.

The fragment Pablo is second-cast in the second cadence; Pablo is a member of greater cadence four. Pablo‘s entity is six, cadre one, greater cadre 6, pod 404.

Pablo’s essence twin is a warrior and his task companion a scholar who was known to him.

Pablo’s primary needs were: expression, freedom and security.

There are 3 past-life associations with Arvin and 1 with Merlin. (January, 2018) __________________________

The Japanese Galleries, The British Museum

Returned to the hotel, I quickly fell into sleep’s welcome embrace. As is habit, I dreamt rather lucid dreams, especially so for being in London. Among those eight dreams in 3.5 hours was a rather lucidly awakened encounter with Prince William and his wife; she was cool, tense and disinterested. I had a distinct impression that her mood was more so to do with their state of affairs than myself or anyone else for that matter. The three of us were the only persons. Catherine who had been stooped to the moist, wet ground was planting clippings. She declined to look when William called after her announcing, “Look who’s here.” When she finally stood up, being clipped, dismissive and took leave of more so him than me, William placed his left palm on the small of my back, caressed me with his left thumb; throughout the dream, I could very intensely smell him. He was calm, centred and without the trappings of his waking persona – numerology, chief features and centre. William is an older soul – sixth mature, who like every one in acceptance was gracious and civil – his father, King Charles III is also in acceptance. I awoke and ventured by taxi to an evening with Vanessa, Clive and two of their four sons. It was a very emotional evening and none of the past 42 years of rich memories, family life and subsequent generations would have unfolded had I not acted on spirit and dreams which assured me that I had to set up Clive and Vanessa on a blind date, a lifetime ago.

St. George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle

Moments after having spent a good two minutes in reflection, head bowed, facing due north, I quickly took this photo looking eastward. I was not the first to have arrived in the line at Windsor castle on day four, but as everyone ventured towards the castle’s staterooms, I turned westward and briskly walked towards St. George’s Chapel. There was an American family who’d never been before. On entering, they turned right, as I turned left towards the great west doors, en route to pay homage. After a few words with the crimson-garbed cleric, I bowed and meditated. Suddenly, the first dream had of the recently passed Elizabeth II lucidly mushroomed in my mind. The dream reanimated about me as I watched myself walk towards the transitioning astral plane habituée and placed a garment about her, keeping her warm, honouring her richly ennobled life.

King George VI Memorial Chapel (DailyMail)

I came to as the American family, having erroneously wandered off to the Albert Memorial Chapel approached. I took leave, allowing them to visit with the large black Belgian marble slab with bronze inlays that marks where Queen Elizabeth II, Elizabeth, her mother, George VI, her father, Margaret Rose, her sister and Philip, her husband are together entombed. Simple, elegant… poignant.

Freedom. George Michael 1990

Naomi

Well before noon and I was returned to London where I alighted in South Kensington. Small, intimate and the two films that accompany the exhibition leave no doubt in one’s mind that Naomi is a Queen. If weight considerations were not a concern, I would have purchased a few coffee table books from the exhibition. I listened to George Michael’s Freedom for the rest of the afternoon until taking a nap. This tiny exhibition infuses the Victoria & Albert Museum with intense beauty and style.

Campbell, Naomi 22/5/1970 London, England.

Michael: This fragment is a second-level mature artisan – third life thereat. Naomi is in caution mode with a goal of rejection. A realist, she is in the moving part of emotional centre.

Naomi’s body type is Saturn/Mercury.

Naomi’s primary chief feature is arrogance and the secondary stubbornness.

The fragment Naomi is fifth-cast in the sixth cadence; she is a member of greater cadence four. George’s entity is two, cadre four, greater cadre 7, pod 414.

Naomi’s essence twin is an artisan and her task companion is a sage.

Naomi’s primary needs are: exchange, expression and freedom.

There are 6 past-life associations with Arvin and 4 with Merlin. ____________________________________________

Andy Warhol & Jean-Michel Basquiat. Michael Halsband 1985

Next stop, I was off downstairs at the Victoria & Albert Museum to be thoroughly consumed by the staggering creative legacy of pieces from Elton John & David Furnish’s art collection. Truly arresting and brilliantly impressive, Fragile Beauty is a masterful exhibition. In light of Quincy Jones’s recent passing, the constrictor enrobed Nastassja Kinski photographed by Richard Avedon proved even more captivating. Why have I yet to get the hype over The Beatles? George Harrison and his vibe, I fully get. Hey Jude will ever be a touchstone, but them as a ‘thing’ remains for me utterly elusive. Billie Holiday captured in song proved more captivating than I anticipated. Some shots brought back memories of living in New York City in the early 1980s. Always found Keith Haring’s pheromones off-putting; he moved in the same art circles as dancer turned designer and lover, Attila Isaksen. Smiled at the memory of Attila and I, watching through a skylight Robert Mapplethorpe engaging in S&M at a loft in Chelsea. Our one sexual encounter was intense; I felt overwhelmed by the inordinate looseness of the man. On two occasions he had been leaving the S&M loft upstairs as I came bounding up the stairs to the second storey loft below his friends’. The third time this occurred, he rushed into the loft after me and our tryst was a noisy, feverish business; it was obvious that he was taken by my explosive kinetic energy. The exhibition’s photograph of Mapplethorpe reveals a possessed ghost of the dazzling persona I had encountered in late 1982; clearly, at the time of the photograph, he was being consumed by AIDS. By far, the best photograph of Malcolm X is part of the Elton John & David Furnish collection.

Trial proof of Self-Portrait: Reflection. Lucian Freud 1996

There could be no doubt why the pilgrimage was undertaken. This Lucian Freud exhibition of prints, though, not disappointing, was not the soul-stirring rapture that was the Francis Bacon exhibition at The National Portrait Gallery. I had been hoping to see Kai, Bella and other more notable works. The whippet Hugo was, without doubt, the highlight of the exhibition… at least for me. Feet sore though manageably so, I was returned to Russell Square and a dream-filled nap with one very memorable flying dream.

Freud, Lucian 8/12/1922 Berlin<O>20/7/2011 London

Michael: This fragment was a fifth level mature priest – third life thereat. Lucian was in observation mode with a goal of dominance. Lucian was a sceptic who was in the moving part of intellectual centre.

Lucian’s primary chief feature was stubbornness and his secondary chief feature was that of impatience.

Lucian had a Saturn/Mars body type.

Lucian’s casting is in the fourth position of the fourth cadence in the sixth greater cadence. He is a member of entity six, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod 414 – Lucian is an entity mate of both Arvin and Merlin’s.

Essence twin for Lucian is a priest and his task companion is a slave.

The three primary needs for Lucian were: exchange, freedom and power.

There are 17 past-life associations with Arvin and 14 with Merlin. __________________________________________

The Tales of Hoffmann. Royal Opera House

Ah the magic of theatre. Naturally, as the house lights go down, Merlin always falls into my mind. I loved the fantastic elements of the Offenbach opera; so very rich, pandimensional and dream-like. A good seat was mine and adding to the experience was, the man in his early 30s sat next to me. He was possessed of that yearning so common to us the tribe of men. A Briton, he seductively danced as he had since boyhood with his chums. I sat comfortably engrossed in the opera, but was ever mindful of his arm and leg gently, with increasing tension, caressing against mine. By act three, he was sat arms folded his index and middle finger gently caressing my arm. Neither of us had moved from our seats during the second intermission; the date, copine, épouse whomever did leave whilst I sat deeply engrossed in my phone. Rhythmically, his thigh muscle flexing, thus he kept up the dance’s intensity. Though he proved arousing distraction, I was still disturbed after having visited with Vanessa and Clive, the latter clearly not much longer focussed in this world.

The Farnese Hercules. Royal Academy of Art

Last full day in the city where in the 18th century I enjoyed a life (male) at court as a musician. Always indeed, it is good to go home. I was returned to the Royal Academy of Art to finish off my tour of the place. There were, three days prior, too many kids screaming their lungs out. Satisfied, I then crossed Piccadilly and indulged in putting together an F&M hamper of goodies just in time for the holidays. Returned home, I read and rested up for the night ahead.

Tosca, Royal Opera House, Covent Garden

Round two and back for more! Returned was I for a glorious night of Puccini as the most beautiful production of Tosca unfolded. Gloriously improved seating; good to feel the orchestra fully washing over me. This performance was riveting and its staging and design were stellar. During my return from the first intermission, I looked up to where I was sat the night prior. My yearning seat companion leaned forward in his seat to peer down at me. The dance ever endures. The sets were marvellous.

Royal Opera House, Covent Garden

The second intermission and I went outside to make a phone call. Whilst admiring the monstrous Rolls across the street and whose grill is visible in the right corner of the preceding photograph, a concert goer approached and declared that he was alone. Did I smoke? No. Would I like some company afterwards; I had almost forgotten how cocky I used to be when young. My phone buzzed; there was my cue. Silently, I returned across the street and pleasurably relaxed into my seat for Tosca’s final act. Midway through the curtain call, I made a dash for the exit and hung out just inside the stage door for about half an hour then made it to the Covent Garden tube station… alone. Yes, my darling, à la prochaine, London!

Jones, Quincy 14/3/1933 <O> 3.11.2024

Michael: This fragment was a fifth-level mature artisan – third life thereat. Quincy was in the power mode with a goal of dominance. A sceptic, Quincy was in the moving part of intellectual centre.

Quincy’s primary chief feature was arrogance and the secondary stubbornness.

Quincy’s body type was Venus/Mars.

The fragment Quincy is second-cast in the first cadence. Quincy is a member of greater cadence four. Quincy is a member of entity one, cadre one, greater cadre 4, pod 129.

Quincy’s essence twin is an artisan and the task companion is a sage.

Quincy’s four primary needs were: expression, adventure, power and communion.

There are 6 past-life associations with Arvin and 11 with Merlin. _______________________________________________

Quincy Jones & Orchestra

Jazz pour tous

___________________________________________________

You are to Jazz what wings are to an ostrich; what the fuck do eagles care that queer, unaware ostriches have wings?

_______________________________________________________________________________

I Love You. Good Night & Sweet Dreams…

03.09.202310.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Self-portrait by Sir Anthony van Dyck

van der Pelster, Joop 12/7/43 ]O[ 29/8/2023 NLN/Montréal

Michael: The fragment who was Joop was a fifth level old artisan – second incarnation at this level – in the observation mode, with a goal of stagnation, a pragmatist, in the emotional part of intellectual centre.

This fragment had a Saturn/Lunar body type.

Joop’s primary chief feature was stubbornness with a weak secondary of self-deprecation.

Joop was sixth-cast in his cadence and his cadence is fourth in the second greater cadence. He is a member of entity one, cadre one, greater cadre 7, pod/node 414 – cadre mate of both Merlin & Arvin’s.

Joop has a discarnate artisan essence twin whom he did know in childhood and an incarnate priest task companion, with whom no plans were made to meet in this lifetime.

This was a resting life for this fragment, whose three primary needs are: security, communion and exchange.

He was a sculptor in Russia – at the time of the 1917 revolution, took a stand with the communists and was killed in a riot in St. Petersburg. He chose not to be reborn during the Second World War, in Western Europe, but in an old soul country, rather than a mixed young/mature society.

At that time, the Soviet Government was very early-young soul repressive, while the general population was mid-cycle mature and even though he was only 30 when he died in that previous life, he chose not to be reborn in the Soviet Union and took a resting life in the Netherlands.

Arvin feels a connectedness with Joop because they are in the same cadre and Joop has a great deal of service in his casting, as does Arvin. Here is a priest-cast artisan who is a member of an entity one, so he has needs to serve both the higher ideal and the common good.

There is a great deal of the “Visionary” here, which is one of the seven aspects of the Artisan. He is also a “walker” in that he can pierce the veil between the planes at will, even though Joop did not call this phenomenon by name.

Joop and Arvin have known each other in many previous lives. They have been lovers of both sexes and of both hetero and homoerotic orientation. Joop has filled the mentor position in Arvin’s support group three times.

Perhaps the most notable life that this fragment had was in the late sixteenth century-early seventeenth century, when Joop was the Flemish portrait painter and depicter of religious themes, Anthony Van Dyck. Anthony was later knighted, and is known historically as, Sir Anthony Van Dyck.

He was a good friend, sometimes-lover and collaborator of Peter Paul Rubens. Both of these men were bisexual and lusty and enjoyed the company of both men and women, even though they pretended to be very good Catholic boys.

Interestingly enough, the fragment who was Peter Paul was in the immediate past life, the imminent American photographer, Ansel Adams; same great artistic ability, different medium.

Joop did have great ability to make his lovers feel loved and this is something that generally goes along with the latter part of the old soul cycle.

They are no longer so concerned about their own sexual pleasure, mainly because it is easier for them and rather commonplace but they do generally enjoy bringing others to the heights of ecstasy.

Every mature soul should have a late old soul lover at least once, just as the opposite is true. The mature soul brings to the sex act the passion and the fire, while the very old soul brings to it the skill and patience of so many lives.

All told, to date the soul which was incarnate as Joop has had 18 past lives with Arvin and 12 with his task companion who was recently Merlin.

One of those past-life associations was in late 16^th century, early 17^th century Belgium when Arvin, then female, was a lover and muse of painter, Otto van Veen’s.

*From incarnation to incarnation, there are always touchstones. For Joop this was validated when venturing to his Oakville home, there I discovered that Joop collected the tiniest and most ornate, mostly gold, old world frames like those favoured from the great masters of the Flemish school. For me, having been a muse of Otto van Veen’s and Sir Peter Paul Rubens, it was no surprise that I would prove a favourite of George Hawken’s. Interestingly enough, Joop’s numerology at his passing perfectly mirrors mine at my birth. 2.1.8 = 11.

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Buster, aged 11. Buster Is Now aged18.

Last weekend, as I had not in ages felt, I became splayed. I was not depressed – I am not given to being thusly indulgent – too old to give a damn, frankly. In any event, Buster was being unusually withdrawn. Late at night, I caught him a couple of times, looking spooked and looking off into the pyramid room, being wide-eyed and even taking cover a couple of times. On Saturday evening, August 26, 2023, I missed my 2200 call to Joop; then again, it was not a cause for concern. I had overslept and if need be Joop would call up. Since late last year, we had been speaking every weekend, by early June, it became nightly.

Harbord Collegiate Institute

Joop had cancer and was slowly ebbing away. Back in September 1977, I had just begun my final year at Harbord Collegiate Institute. The storied high school was where architect Frank Gehry also attended. I was then in grade 13, which no longer exists, and along with studies also actively pursued dance studies. There were a few classmates with whom I messed around, nothing serious. The only adult with whom I then interacted was an artist and true eccentric. Ours, though, was never a sexual relationship, which I rather valued. He was knowledgeable, a sculptor and lived on and off in New York City, the El Dorado to which we all gravitated.

Robarts Library, University of Toronto

One cool Wednesday afternoon, instead of walking home from school to our East York residence at 122 Mortimer Avenue, along Bloor Street and across the Bloor Street viaduct, I continued along Harbord and made it to University of Toronto’s Fort Book, its central library, Robarts Library. Before getting down to studies, I had been poring through copies of African Arts magazine; I was eager to start an African mask collection so research was essential. Just as I began leaving a couple of hours later, I emerged outside facing due east at the top of the steps, a plume of smoke drifted my way and looking over, I caught the eye of the smoker. Diminutive, he was readily recalled from a dream the week prior. He smiled, just as he had in that dream and we both made for each other. He offered his cigarette, I declined by forthrightly stating, “you know, if you want to kiss, all you have to do, is ask?” Twenty minutes later with the most spectacular twinkling blue eyes ever, we shared our first kiss in his Oldsmobile Cutlass in the parking lot at 1111 Broadview Avenue, less than ten minute walk from my home.

Soon, I would abandon Robarts for the drive out to Joop’s Oakville home, which he shared with dark & handsome, Niles Milford. They kept their swimming pool open for lots of frolicking fun well into October. There were a few threesomes but most of all, I had the most sublime moments of ecstasy when lovemaking with Joop. The first time we were intimate, we walked into the bathroom to shower together and he winked at me as I stood arrested and awestruck at seeing, for the first time, my aura; Joop’s aura was also visible. Clearly, it was not the first time that he had witnessed this. Every timer thereafter, I always saw my aura when Joop and I were intimate – it was always intimate rather than sex or fucking; there is simply no other way to describe what it was like being with Joop.

The Belvedere, Montréal

Soon, Niles & Joop were relocated to Montréal, living in tony TMR (Town of Mount Royal) by late winter 1978. For the rest of my life, each August, I received a birthday card from Joop. Our love was deep and abiding. No matter where we were, we always managed at least once per month to talk by phone. From that first phone call, we had the most intense phone sex. Every time, we came simultaneously and few were the times when I saw my aura afterwards on taking to the bathroom. Though they never met and never spoke, one thing always fascinated me; Merlin & Joop sounded exactly alike on the phone. This was even more so evident with Merlin’s passing in November, 1989. A month later, December 1989, Niles died of cancer; Joop and I then had each other, preventing the other from falling apart.

Copper Pyramid in Green Bedroom

Sensing that the end was nigh, I recharged my trusty crystals and burnt beeswax candles through my art-filled home whilst meditating and sleeping in the pyramid. As the energy of the pyramid is considerable, I never sleep longer than four hours at a time, the dream activity therein is intense and any longer duration proves exhausting. Saturday, Sunday and Monday, I slept more than 7 hours each day, which is unheard of for me. I was splayed and feeling dislocated; I knew well what was about to unfold. Sunday night, we talked for just under five minutes in our daily communion. On Monday, he did not answer, which had previously occurred. Again, on Tuesday, he did not respond; he did say that he was sleeping longer and dropping off well before 2200. I thought to suggest that we speak, going forward, changing the time of our rendezvous to 2100. I wrote an email and suggested we chat in the daytime on Wednesday, if not, I would speak later.

The phone finally answered; however, it was Joop’s executor. Joop had been discovered seven hours earlier. Instantaneously, the dross that had enervated me, evaporated. My longest enduring friendship, love affair was over. The one lover/friend with whom I had never once had a falling out; on the cusp of 46 years, after months of cocooning, Joop unfolded his wings and took flight, becoming refocussed elsewhere. Sweet and blissful dreams my love; the most intimate lucid dreams, we shall yet share.

After having a good cry, over two days, I slipped into six- inch Bally, black patent leather pumps, plopped in my red-tailed butt plug – I plan on going as Prinz Wilhelm von Pegged und Fisted for Halloween celebrations with a faux Irish Guards tunic. For the next several hours, West Indian to the core, I played the previous compilation of the Mighty Sparrow’s music from my Calypso-sodden childhood in the Caribbean, thoroughly enjoying myself whilst celebrating Joop’s magical, beautiful life.

Damn right! Life’s no dress rehearsal, shake arse at racist boors whilst laughing loudest!

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Life is like a flying dream; if you look down, you’re fucked. Enjoy the ride and fear no one!

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Catherine: A Deeper Shade of Vermeer.

08.07.201909.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Girl with a Pearl Earring, Oil on Canvas Johannes Vermeer 1665.

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Camilla, HRH Duchess of Cornwall. HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales. Doria Ragland. HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex, Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, Archie Harrison Mountbatten-Windsor, Earl Dumbarton. Jane, Baroness Fellowes. Lady Sarah McCorquodale. HRH Prince William, Duke of Cambridge. Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge.

As I stated to a dear friend, “Doria is all the Queen they need in that photograph!” Not for a second do I buy the notion that HM The Queen stayed away because, when it is all said and done, she does not approve of Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex. Her Majesty also did not attend HRH Prince Louis of Cambridge’s christening last year.

It is so immensely satisfying to see HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex matured into fatherhood and his numerological double-sixthness is validated by his open warmth, love and protective care of both his wife and his beautiful baby boy.

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Archie, a seventh-level mature priest soul; he is infinitely more evolved than either his parents, or the Cambridge’s for that matter. He is, though, the same soul age as his paternal grandfather, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, however, Charles is a seventh-level warrior to exalted role priest, Archie. This man is going to perform a rather dynamic role within the history of the House of Windsor.

Much has been said about Prince William’s demeanour in this portrait. Without doubt, both the Cambridges attended Archie’s christening with an agendum of their own. I don’t know if William put his wife up to her power play but I do know this, it was decidedly vile and you can bet your bottom dollar that none of this went unnoticed, nor for that matter will it go unchallenged by Meghan – she who was Margaret Beaufort in a past life.

So, William threw shade. Quelle surprise ça. William does as William does. Born on the summer solstice of 1982, he has a geniture that is most unique; it comes with an intense stellium. That is not necessarily a good thing; with so many planets closely concentrated, this gives him a tendency towards short-sightedness and in his position as future Prince of Wales, he takes very seriously his role as future king and acts autocratically at every turn. He did not invite his aunts to the christenings of any of his three children. William did not invite, Sarah, Duchess of York to his wedding. After the birth of his firstborn, he decamped at the Middletons in Bucklebury and avoided his father, the future king. As with most people with a numerological attitude of 9, which is the hardest number to master, he does things more often than not for spite.

Of course, he could not be more different to his brother, HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex who is born in the year of the rat, like his father and his paternal great-grandmother, Queen Elizabeth, The Queen Mother. Rats, I am one, are deeply loyal and will always be inclusive of family to the point of appearing sentimental. This would be especially pronounced in a rat like Harry who is a warrior soul and such souls are deeply loyal. So, too, is HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales a warrior soul and also, HRH Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh a mature warrior born in the year of the rooster like Meghan. Warriors forget nothing and do not readily forgive insults – a pity William in his myopic blissfulness remains unaware of this.

Saturday, for Archie’s christening, true to his warrior/rat spirit, Harry had his beloved mum’s sisters present at the christening just as Jane, Baroness Fellowes read scripture at his beautiful, historic wedding to Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex. Every rat would do exactly the same. Well there were TRH Duke & Duchess of Cambridge smugly telegraphing their ennui for all the world to see. As a warrior soul, I would not have expected such a gutter snipe move on Catherine’s part on Saturday.

As this was Harry’s firstborn’s christening and he was so deeply bonded to his mum, Catherine who had never worn those earrings of Diana, Princess of Wales’, to any of her three children’s christening, rather than loaning the earrings to Meghan by way of affording them to Harry so that his lovely wife could wear them as they would mean so much to Harry as his mother had worn them for his christening, instead, there sat Catherine feigning hauteur whilst smugly smiling to those in the know. Indeed, this was Catherine’s star turn, which was just as vile as HRH Princess Michael of Kent’s infamous blackamoor brooch outing in December, 2017.

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Positively nothing that these courtiers do is happenstance. In essence, in wearing those earring of Diana, Princess of Wales’, which she had worn to Harry’s – and William’s for that matter – christening, Catherine was in effect saying to Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex, as much as Harry would like for you to have them, seeing as you are straight outta Compton, there is no guarantee that you’ll return them. No matter, as long as I wear them, Diana’s spirit will be present. This was a very cruel and low blow and not the sort of dirty pool that warrior souls engage in. I am betting that William put his wife up to it; however, as Catherine’s right eye has become increasingly pained and umbraed in the past few years, she is clearly deeply stressed by the pressures of being married to William, who also happens to be her task companion. Notice the way that Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge wears her hair at Archie’s christening; the high headband, with the hair fully pulled back and the headband ruby-coloured to best set off the pearl earrings, worn by Diana, Princess of Wales at her sons’ christenings. With the headband, there is no chance of Catherine luscious main covering the pearl earrings, the choice of which are to telegraph much to those courtiers in the know.

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Catherine’s right eye since HRH Prince George of Cambridge’s christening in 2013, has become pained, saddened and distant. I also suspect that she may have become anorexic from the stress of being wedded to William who as a scholar soul is void emotional depth and can be expected to be keenly spiteful.

In this clip for William’s christening, at the five second mark, Diana, Princess of Wales turns to the left to look and speak to Charles who wanted to mop up William’s dribbling and it is then that you see that Diana is wearing the same earring. It is not lost on me that clearly Diana is being rude to Charles when he offers to wipe away the dribble. Of course, William was christened on August 4, 1982; it was Charles’ beloved grandmother’s 82 birthday, which is precisely the sort of gift that a rat would present his much loved family member. Ironically enough, on that day, it was Prince Charles’ future daughter-in-law’s first birthday, the admired and adored Tungsten.

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At all three christenings for her adorable children, Catherine did not wear those earrings of Diana, Princess of Wales’. I am sure that if she wanted to, William would have decided against it as there is nothing sentimental about him and scholars by their nature are not given to being sentimental. Three different earrings for all three children’s christenings. I think that it would have been especially cruel if Meghan had thought to ask her husband, Prince Harry to request those pearl earrings that Diana wore to his christening, only to have William veto the request then turn around and have his wife parade them at the christening – this of course would play beautifully to those courtiers like the Michaels of Kent et famille; it is precisely the sort of petty spitefulness that would have made Meghan put her foot down and insist that they relocate to Frogmore Cottage and away from the vipers’ nest that Kensington Palace so clearly had become for the Sussexes.

Of course, wearing the earrings would be seen as further rejection, coming so close on the heels of the disbanding of the Royal Foundation. Not to worry, as an American and Black American, you can bet your bottom dollar the very shrewdly canny Tungsten will have a rebuttal. Besides, who is Catherine to Meghan, she is a mousy little thing, who did not walk the aisle at her wedding alone; indeed, how Meghan must sniff and look sideways from beneath raised, bored brows every time Catherine has to go gag on a mic as William pushes her to be more relevant and not be eclipsed by the Compton interloper. As for William, Meghan is likely little bothered by a petulant, spiteful man-child, who has to be told not to sit with his back to the horses on entering the open landau on his wedding day.

Just as including his aunts, Harry would have thought to have his wife wear the earrings that his beloved mum wore to his christening. This is the sort of warrior/rat thoughtfulness that saw Prince Charles salute his beloved grandmother – another rat, though, a second-level mature slave soul – by having his firstborn christened on her 82nd birthday.

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HM King Henry VIII’s ruthlessness was the result of having been mentored and much loved by his grandmother, Margaret Beaufort – Matriarch of the Tudor Dynasty… kingmaker. Well, that soul who was then Margaret Beaufort is back and did not return to be anyone’s pushover, as her entrance unaccompanied at her wedding in May, 2018 demonstrated. A mean-spirited move, it most definitely was on the part of both William and Catherine by having Catherine wear earrings, which I am almost certain, Harry would have requested of them that his mother’s pearl earrings be loaned to his wife as a continuation of that rat/warrior reference and homage to both history and his beloved mum. Naturally, such a request would have been a perfect opportunity for William to have been callously spiteful as he has proven time and again with others – Sarah, Duchess of York, HRH Prince Charles, Prince of Wales, his father.

Naturally, the media did not portray Catherine, HRH Duchess of Cambridge as having been duplicitous by having worn the earrings that Diana, Princess of Wales wore to Harry’s christening. Why on earth had it never occurred to Catherine to wear those earrings to any of her children’s christenings? Just imagine if Meghan had done any such thing, it would have garnered an excessive response of outrage on the online tabloid portals with their legions of bigoted trolls.

Indeed, lynching Meghan is now big business, just imagine, even that Trenchtown jagabat came yammering that can’t-shake mid-Atlantic accent of hers as she opined on both Meghan and Diana, Princess of Wales. Running off at the mouth as though she knew Diana, Princess of Wales. Would that she would just shut up and crawl into her casket… I want a damn good return on that godawful, and justly pulped, ode to specious slander – a copy of which sits in my library, awaiting her exit. She no more knew Diana, Princess of Wales than she does or ever will know Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex.

At the end of the day, the real masterpiece, worth more than a gaggle of Vermeers, is the product of the love that Harry and Meghan share; it has resulted in the most beautiful baby boy, Archie, the Earl Dumbarton.

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As ever, thanks for your ongoing support. Here’s wishing you the most gloriously lucid dreams. I love you more.

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Two Albrechts But What A Giselle!

10.03.201807.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Second night in London and there was still lots of snow — at least, by London standards; after Montréal where three feet of snow is no horror, 1.5 inches seemed to have arrested London in its tracks — I was all excited to see David Hallberg whose recent memoir I read on the flight over and carried in my custom Ruben Mack messenger bag, to have it signed after the performance. Enjoyed my glass of champagne and being in the balcony at Royal Opera house was magical. My seat was smack in the middle of three Japanese young ladies who were being chaperoned by their lovely teacher. I negotiated and they excitedly expressed their appreciation at being able to switch with me being on the end so that that they could all sit together. The closest two sat on their coats and I even offered the tinier future Giselle my coat to sit on.

Naturally, I was returned to London as last June, I had pleasantly discovered Natalia Osipova dancing in Marguerite and Armand and was instantly a fan. There was no way that I was going to miss her Giselle. Midway through Act I of Giselle, David whom I had never previously seen perform, failed to have impressed. He seemed not to be dancing full out and the partnership seemed strained; it was as though they had not had enough rehearsals. Then after intermission and really good champagne, the company’s artistic director came to the stage to announce that Mr. Hallberg had been injured during Act I and would not be proceeding; he then announced that the youngster, Matthew Ball would dance the role of Prince Albrecht in Act II — the house went wild as he had days earlier made his debut in the ballet.

What then unfolded was the most glorious of evenings in the theatre. Ms. Osipova, who has the most phenomenal ballon ever witnessed on any ballerina — to say nothing of her turns — danced as if truly overjoyed. Mr. Ball was also fantastic and I howled for joy at their curtain calls. Heck, I, who never go backstage, went in hopes of having Mr. Hallberg sign my copy of his book; however, he was a no-show. Ms. Osipova, inordinately gracious and an ecstatic Mr. Ball, who had had to dash back to the theatre that evening, was only too happy to sign my copy of the program as a steady drizzle fell beyond the double, glass stage doors.

Of course, the night prior, I had trekked in even more snow out to Barbican Centre to catch yet another performance of the Jazz at Lincoln Centre Orchestra led by the unparallelled genius, Wynton Marsalis. The programme was exclusively Leonard Bernstein in a celebration of his centenary… and what a phenomenal show it was. London’s Jews were out in force to be sure. I sat next to a princely 93-year-old Jew whose energies were rather like those of Yehudi Menuhin and boy was this man gracious of spirit. To say the least, I had a ball.

Naturally, one goes to a Wynton Marsalis performance for the encores! And boy, he did not disappoint. As always, I unashamedly howled like mad at the end of all that. This musical genius’s fabulousness is out of this world. This truly was a marvellous way to celebrate a homecoming of sorts; London truly does feel like another West Indian isle. As Merlin and I shared a rather accomplished life as court musicians in late 18th century London, it is always great to be in London.

Though I had downloaded the app and had planned on biking whilst in London, the snow everywhere precluded any such adventure. So there was I next morning — the night of which I attended Giselle, leaving my hotel in Bloomsbury and making it from Russell Square to Piccadilly Circus to, of course, look at art.

Naturally, I had arrived at the Royal Academy at Burlington House to see what for me was the most eagerly anticipated art exhibition in years: Charles I, King and Collector. I was the first to have arrived for the show, slipped inside from the snow before being asked to wait outside by security. Whilst waiting at the head of the queue, there were three gentlemen who arrived, all on the other side of 70 years of age and they were the most urbane aristocrats whom I had ever encountered. The way they spoke; there was no denying that they were posh. Moreover, it was more than their accents; their use of language made it sound as though they were speaking a form of English which was mannered, musical and as though another language entirely.

Finally, once inside the exhibition, I was truly enthralled, moving from salon to salon as though in the most lucidly captivating dream. Here were all my favourite Sir Anthony van Dyck paintings in one place — plus, there were some which previously I had not seen… at least, in this lifetime. Naturally, there were also some rather intimate Sir Peter Paul Rubens in the exhibition, which featured the art from the impressive collection of HM King Charles I… that ode to swaggerliciousness and a young sage to boot.

I had managed to snap four paintings whilst moving through the first of ten salons when a kindly security agent asked that I obey the rules and refrain from taking photographs. This truly was as though caught in a flying dream as I moved intoxicated of spirit from salon to salon, I managed whilst looking at murals in one of the larger salons, to make my way to the inner sanctum where the most glorious Sir Anthony van Dycks were hung — the two equestrian portraits one from the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square the other, which previously was hung at Buckingham Palace; there was also that most striking portrait Charles at the hunt which normally is hung at Musée du Louvre. A lovely henna-braided African security agent informed me that I had progressed improperly and ought to retrace my steps and view the art in the salons on the periphery of the three large internal salons where murals, tapestries and the prized, aforementioned van Dycks of the Royal Collection collected by HM King Charles I were hung.

At the point at which I was about to leave one salon for the next, I suddenly and distinctly thought of Kritika Bhatt the Michael channeller who had been trained by Sarah J. Chambers one of the original channellers in the Michael group. I thought it odd at the time as I only ever would think of her when a request for overleaves are outstanding and my impatience is having her surface to mind as I wonder if I would be receiving the requested overleaves that day. Since this was not the case, I thought per chance, that I was thinking of her as she is known to have King Charles spaniels. Yes, that must be the out-of-nowhere association, I concluded.

On entering the next salon, I immediately moved towards the largest masterpiece and was struck by its depth and impressive use of strong bold colours. What’s more, I had never seen the painting before. Fascinating, I whispered before heading to the title to see the title and artist. I was struck dead in my tracks when reading, Esther before Ahaseuras by Jacopo Tintoretto. Wow! I exclaimed. Years earlier, in an email regarding the overleaves for other artists, Kritika had made mention that her current son had previously been the 16th century Italian artist, Jacopo Tintoretto! I was floored and for me that out-of-nowhere associative thought of Kritika was validation of the overleaves and information shared years earlier.

Earlier, whilst moving through the first salon, I had never come so close to Sir Anthony van Dyck’s Self-Portrait with Sunflower before. Taking the time to really study the painting, I was struck by my response; suddenly, at my solar plexus, I began experiencing a — not though rare — thumping which was independent of my cardio rhythm. Never before had I been able to so closely inspect the eyes in the self-portrait. What was really interesting was the look of the artist’s left eye in the painting; it really was a darker version of my Dutch born and oldest friend, Joop who previously had been Sir Anthony van Dyck. Though Joop’s eyes are a strong, soulful blue in this lifetime, they truly are the same eyes as Sir Anthony van Dyck’s in the self portrait. Different colour, same vibration… same intensity. I had not been expecting that and just as later whilst moving from one salon to the next, I was not expecting to have the Michael Teachings and overleaves validated. Nonetheless, there is was, two instances of overleaves validated and that was the kind of bonus that one could not have anticipated whilst planning this trip.

After purchasing my lovely catalogue of the exhibition, I moved across the street and did some shopping at the grand old dame, Fortnum & Mason. Let’s face it, I was there to slip into the eatery and score myself the best free lunch in London… and as ever, the bites on offer did not disappoint. I bought marvellous teas as only can be found at Fortnum & Mason then hopped onto a double decker, driving westerly along Piccadilly. Making my way up the stairs, I soon had to double back on myself when realising that the upper deck was packed with a sprinkling of London’s homeless, who obviously had been afforded refuge out of the cold and what for London was unheard of snows. God it smelt atrocious. As the bus made a right onto Buckingham Palace Road, I hopped off and made my way past the Royal Mews which were closed owing to snow and made it for the Queen’s Gallery at Buckingham Palace.

I was there to be wowed, though, sadly was not by the Restoration exhibition. Naturally, how could it have been a show to rival that at the Royal Academy when most of that art had been sold off by the time of HM King Charles II’s coronation. I would have been rather underwhelmed, had I gone to London just to take in this show. As it was, it served as ample reason to have appreciated the Royal Academy show even more.

Really got off on the vibration exuded by HM King James II as he held court in all his glory in the portrait in the same show at the Queen’s Gallery Buckingham Palace (following painting).

Well having had my fill of the Restoration art or the paucity thereof, I enjoyed trekking in the snows along Buckingham Palace Road to Victoria Station and descended into the depths of London’s Underground for yet another adventure.

Emerging from the bowels of London, I made it to the soul of the nation to pay homage, yet again, at St. Paul’s Cathedral.

I wanted to go and light a candle, I lit two actually, in homage to the ennobled lives that both Merlin and I enjoyed in this glorious city three centuries earlier — the memories of which readily surface in the dreamtime.

Before one gets too old to be able to make the trek, I managed my way to the whispering gallery, sat down and caught my wind back whilst reflecting on my life.

This place so rich in history, is also the sacred shrine where entity mates have left their mark. Henry Moore is an old artisan in my entity.

Of course, no visit to St. Paul’s Cathedral would be complete without paying a visit to the soul of the nation at its crypt and paying homage to ennobled souls who’ve made an indelible mark on London… on history. There is great and fittingly so, grandeur in the tomb of Arthur, Duke of Wellington’s resting place.

Of course, the other tomb which dominates the crypt at St. Paul’s Cathedral is that of Admiral Nelson, whom both Merlin and I knew during that incarnation. Doubtless, it was his passion and tales for and about Nevis, which planted that seed that sparked three lifetimes later with my soul’s choice to reincarnate into Nevis; indeed, it has proven an isle no less magical than his captivating anecdotes then must have been. Days later, of course, I would see the bullet which felled this great man whilst visiting Windsor Castle; that is for another post. For now, I rushed home, took a dream-filled nap before heading to Covent Garden and being wowed by two not one Albrechts and the most exciting prima ballerina on the planet… at least, as far as I am concerned.

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As ever, thanks for your ongoing support and look forward in coming months to book three of my dream-filled memoirs, mandated by Merlin and which prove human civilisation’s first dream memoirs.

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The Teacher.

09.06.201607.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

The Teacher.

Oil on Canvas

Provenance: Private Collection New York City.

http://www.wimheldens.com/

This was Wim’s first painting of Ariq Robinson his lover… truly glorious.

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Ball Game.

05.09.201404.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Oil on Canvas

36 x 36 Inches

Provenance: Private collection

http://www.wimheldens.com/

Love Wim’s masterful sensual use of light and colour.

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Twenty years ago, when flying in to Manhattan from Vancouver to be with then lover, Manhattan cabaret singer, Frans Bloem, I would meet Wim. As all I ever do is sense energy and think of anyone encountered as a Michael Overleaves puzzle – is this a warrior or just a cynic? – I knew without a doubt that he was an old soul. Like every other old soul encountered whose overleaves I have done, I felt a sense of home, acceptance and harmony for being in his presence.

At the time, Wim was sick in bed with the flu and so I went out shopping and got him some Campbell’s soup – what do I know about making homemade soup? – and spent part of an evening hanging with him. The interlude was truly memorable; it was like being in a dream which, incidentally, is also another hallmark for me of being in the presence of an old soul.

Wim truly is a great human.

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Ariq Robinson.

Image05.06.201404.12.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Oil on canvas 26.5 x 20.0 cm © 2014 Wim Heldens Provenance: Private collection. http://www.wimheldens.com/ _______________________________________________________________________________ © 2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

Daniël.

Image29.03.201430.11.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Oil on Canvas 40 x 30 Inches © 2014 Wim Heldens Provenance: Private collection, Netherlands. Happy 60th Birthday Wim! http://www.wimheldens.com/ __________________________________________________________________________ © 2013-2025 Arvin da Brgha. All Rights Reserved.

The Mirror.

Image20.11.201313.11.2024 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Oil on Canvas 200 x 210 cm © 2000-2001 Wim Heldens. http://www.wimheldens.com/ Here’s a brief clip of Wim on being awarded the 2011 BP Portrait Award. Bravo: Wim is a really great artist and a sublime human being; met him briefly back in 1994 in New York City at home of then lover of mine, […]

Dreams are the poetic expression of the soul.

Category: Dutch Art

Hello, My Darling!

I Love You. Good Night & Sweet Dreams…

Catherine: A Deeper Shade of Vermeer.

Two Albrechts But What A Giselle!

The Teacher.

Ball Game.

Ariq Robinson.

Daniël.

The Mirror.