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    Zigzag: Flashbacks of a Painter
    Zigzag: Flashbacks of a Painter
    Zigzag: Flashbacks of a Painter
    Ebook195 pages2 hours

    Zigzag: Flashbacks of a Painter

    By Gym Halama

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    About this ebook

    An erratic journey through fifty short stories and illustrations by artist Gym Halama.
    Pulp, fiction, autobiographical sketches and oil on canvas brought together in a fascinating book.

    ‘It's a great read, atmospheric and witty.’
    Peter Capaldi

    ‘Her book is a little gem...’
    Sam Cutler

    ‘A fascinating memoir of a fascinating life.’
    Paolo Hewitt

    ‘Terrific.’
    Chris Stewart

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherGym Halama
    Release dateNov 28, 2010
    ISBN9780956727619
    Zigzag: Flashbacks of a Painter

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      Book preview

      Zigzag - Gym Halama

      The Original Skinhead

      As long as I can remember, I wanted to be a boy. Refusing to play with dolls, I longed for my father to buy me a train set, a cowboy outfit and a gun. Unfortunately I was denied all these masculine toys and left to my own devices.

      I grew up in Chelsea, near Sloane Square, and with our flat was included a key to the 'gardens' nearby, where I was locked in to play all day long in the summer holidays, riding my bike, playing cowboys and Indians or war games. I climbed trees, crawled around the bushes, and accepted my freedom with abandon. Donald, my Irish playmate, was also relinquished to this enclosure, watching over a string of siblings. With so many of us, we were able to create teams and gangs for our unruly and rampageous games.

      One day, when I was about twelve, a flasher was patrolling the perimeter of this private Square and we were called to the fence where he had lured one of our group. Once he had gained all our attention, he opened his mac and with a repugnant smirk, exposed himself. Horrified and bewildered, we all ran to the middle of the lawn, I standing with my back to him, feeling his stare and praying he would be gone by the time I turned around. The long blond hair that hung loosely down to my waist was within days, chopped off.

      One Saturday morning, I took a tube ride to the West End of London, ferreting out every hairdresser I could find, using my powers of persuasion to sell my hair for wig making. I returned home with enough money to buy a tartan deerstalker, which I had coveted for weeks in a shop window near my school in South Kensington. The French Lycée required no uniform, and we were permitted to dress more or less as we pleased. I played with the boys in the schoolyard, ate with them at lunchtime and sat beside them in class. The girls giggled about boys, put on make up and talked of clothes.

      In the Fifties, jeans were a rarity, and once I had convinced my father to buy me a pair, as hard as cardboard and a very bad fit, at the far end of King's Road in a workman's clothing store, I was able to start the disguise that took over my life for many years to come. People stared a lot, unsure of my sex, my aim in life to convince the masses that I was a male. I slouched, wore tweed jackets, hobnailed boots, and visited the barber each fortnight to trim my crew cut.

      By the time I was sixteen, I had practically convinced myself that I was a boy, to my father's chagrin, as he walked on the opposite pavement, embarrassed by his wayward and willful daughter. Each week he threatened to burn my clothes and refused to pass me the phone when friends asked to speak to Gym. The last straw came one day when I joined him in one of his local pubs, as the barman said:

      Hello John, what's your son having?

      Castles in the Sand

      I had been sunbathing naked in the patio for about fifteen minutes, when I realised that standing over me were three handsome bikers all dressed in leather. I raised myself from my reverie and explained that Ronald, my host, had gone out shopping. They introduced themselves as Heinz, Rene and Fritz and had driven from Zurich to Marbella, stopping off only to visit Fritz' old friend on their way to Morocco.

      By the time Ronald had returned, the four of us had disappeared to the beach for a swim. I had just turned twenty-one; my heart was an empty vessel, rapidly filling up with the vision before me.

      During the following week, I sped up and down on the back of Fritz' 750 cc BMW, wafting through the warm sea air, stopping off here and there for a swim and a laze in the sand. When finally his two friends persuaded him it was time to leave, I said my goodbyes and watched Fritz dissolve in a cloud of smoke.

      I returned to London after eight months in southern Spain with my basket of clothes and a head full of dreams.

      I worked in the Speakeasy for a while, waitressing. The tips I received ranged from hash to uppers, downers, mandies and acid. One night someone announced that Jimi Hendrix had died, and I got fired for smoking a joint on duty.

      As a treat for my twenty-second birthday, I bought a train ticket to Zurich, loaded down with presents, and started walking the streets in search of motorbikes. The February air was sharp as a knife as I edged my way along the lake. A young guy with a Canadian accent approached me:

      Are you Jemma? he inquired, and I was ready to walk away.

      Are you a Pisces?

      Now inquisitive, I stared at this short, stocky youth with a bad haircut.

      Last night I dreamed that I was going to meet you, he went on to explain. Having no idea where I was or where I was going, I let him walk beside me. A dream had led him to Zurich to study at the Jung Institute, sometimes spending all morning writing down his dreams with three psychoanalysts to interpret them. I was fascinated by this little guy in glasses, with a strange way of dressing.

      He helped me in my mission to find Fritz, and by late afternoon, we had rooted him out at the Odeon, a huge café on two levels, heaving with life, lights and music. Before heading off, he wrote down his address and I thanked him for his company.

      Fritz took me to his dark apartment up several flights of stairs in a rather grim part of town. I emptied my bag of gifts and we rekindled the flame.

      I grew weary waiting for his return each night and so began to visit my Canadian friend each afternoon for a glass of lemon tea and an account of each other's dreams. I gradually met Fritz' biker buddies in the German quarter. We drank schnaps with Hell's Angels and the prostitutes who were protected by them. I made friends with transvestites, transsexuals and my entry into this underworld distracted and entertained my flailed senses.

      Despite his knowledge of my involvement with Fritz, one night a Hell's Angel invited me to meet him the following evening. A terrifying dream caused me to abandon our date, although I was more apprehensive of the consequences were he to find me later.

      I realised that the feelings I held for Fritz were not reciprocated, and moved out and into the arms of one of his more cultivated friends, one of seven university students sharing a big run down house with enormous windows and open doors.

      After a further three weeks in Zurich, I woke up one morning decided that my time in Switzerland was up. I caught a bus across town to say goodbye to my Canadian friend, and when I arrived at the usual time, he was not surprised to hear that I was leaving: I had appeared suddenly in one of his dreams handing over a large ornate key.

      He presented me with a tiny, beautifully wrapped box, which he asked me to open later. I held his cold hands for a moment, embraced him fondly and made off down the road.

      When I looked inside the box, a moonstone, set into a golden ring.

      The Dirty Underwear Salesman

      In the spring of 1966, unable to pay my rent, and sick of London's grime, I started working as a chambermaid at The White Horse Hotel in Bridgewater, Somerset. The wages were disastrously low at five pounds two shillings and sixpence, while I worked a seven-day week, from 7 am to 11 pm. The hotel was used mainly by travelling salesmen just passing through, one or two couples on a dirty weekend, and the die-hards, returning each year for the same holiday all over again. I did wake up calls and carried round the teas from seven o'clock until eight, then in my black and white uniform, began serving Full English Breakfasts in the dining room. Kippers and porridge, sausages and bacon, with such an enormous menu, it was a hectic and strenuous session getting these businessmen on the road in time for their appointments. Also in charge of making the toast, I cut off the crusts, sliced them in two and presented them neatly slotted into their little racks, warm and running alongside a plate of scrambled, boiled, poached or fried eggs.

      Before clearing away the detritus, I slumped down to the sad, cold leftovers of unwanted food; chewy triangular wedges and the tepid dregs of coffee from stained, dribbling ceramic pots.

      Changed this time into a pale blue nylon housecoat, I climbed the stairs to corridors of bedrooms, now in my role as chambermaid, to straighten or change the soiled sheets, polish up the bathrooms and remove all sorts of clothing and towels from the floors. With time, my amazement lessened at the jumbled, disorderly mess I encountered each morning and the way guests treated their space. I became an expert bed maker and all that shined was left spotless.

      By midday, I was back in uniform, the restaurant heaving with hungry souls, and began serving lunches to the lonely ladies underwear salesman, tables of businessmen having their weekly meeting and a few elderly couples fitting neatly into the corners.

      Silver Service was compulsory and I had been obliged to engage in this fearful balancing act, dishing out frozen peas, sautéed potatoes and cauliflower cheese from a kidney shaped bowl in one hand, with two large serving spoons held clumsily in the other. I never did master this manoeuvre, on one occasion dropping a whole white sticky flower into the lap of a pinstripe suit. Gratefully the victim noticed my blushing face and passed the whole affair off with

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