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Joolz Denby - a Cultural Revolutionary

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Joolz Denby


Last Updated: 12/30/2009

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Monday, October 26, 2009 


Tattoo Designs By Joolz denby

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Monday, October 26, 2009 


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Wednesday, October 21, 2009 

Current mood:  amused
Category: Art and Photography
After following the gypsy tattooer lifestyle to the point of exhaustion, I  am now tattooing regularly out of the following excellent and extremely nice studios:

Mondays at Thou Art, Sheffield.

http://www.myspace.com/thouartsheffield

Thou Art
47 Chapel Walk
Sheffield
S2 1PD
TEL: 0114 2700985

I will be at Thou Art most Mondays from around 12 noon, please feel free to drop in for a cup of tea & a consultation. Ring ahead to check if I'm in. The studio is lovely, very friendly, and I will be having an art exhibition there at some point early in 2010.

Tuesdays & Thursdays:

Lifetime Tattoo, Derby

www.lifetimetattoo.co.uk

Lifetime Tattoo
97c Monk St
Derby, DE22 3QE
TEL:01332 200088

Again, if you are in the area & would like a consultation, just ring the studio to see if I'm in - I would be there from around 12.30pm onwards - & drop by for a consultation. This is a wonderful, artistic studio hosting some of the finest tattoo artists in the UK, and you will be made very welcome.

I will still take appointments in the North East at the extremely delightful Painted Soul Tattoo, Willington, Nr. Durham, Co.Durham - a studio I can highly recommend for all you NE folks - if required, Wednesdays only.

To book appointments & for email consultations, please contact me directly at joolzdenby00@googlemail.com

I charge 60 pounds sterling per hour, minimum 1 hour, rising to 70 pounds sterling per hour minimum 1 hour from March 1st 2010. Cash only. Design work included.
 



Currently listening:
Dream Sequence: The Best of Tangerine Dream
By Tangerine Dream
Release date: 2000-05-15
12:22 
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Sunday, August 30, 2009 

Category: Romance and Relationships
Not Perfect                                                                         © Joolz 2009

The days are getting shorter - the nipping cold winds around
Her ankles like a cat asking to be fed and the sky is a dome
Of hard blue crystal wiped over with ragged scrims of high clouds;
She sniffs, and stuffs her balled fists into the pockets of her
Boyfriend’s hoodie, the one with a wiry scribble pattern of guns
All over it, the cheap grey fabric bobbled, snagged and bagged;
She puts the hood up, blinker-style, and turns on her knock-off MP3;
The dirty pods in her ears banging out top-end frequencies that
are destroying her hearing like mice nibbling at a lump of cheese.

In her belly, beating in the hot bloody chamber of her womb
The cells pulse, divide and bloom weed-wild in thick adulterated fluid
Shot through with cocaine, lager, nicotine, vodka, satvia and skunk,
Injections of curdled fat from her three times daily Maccy Dees,
Washes of caffeine and adrenaline, and the gonging thud of electro-pop;
The baby thrashes in her flesh, slung in her soft belly like a promise
Of entanglement and complication, of endless talking and the shouts
Of other generations she can barely comprehend and doesn’t like,
But needs, in her time of panic, of travail and juggernaut metamorphosis.

The baby comes in Spring, he comes like a kiss with the cherry blossom
And the tender warmth of hazy sunshine - the boyfriend is long gone,
She barely remembers him if she’s honest, but she still has his hoodie
And she has his son, who she names for a young TV star she likes,
Bringing him head-first slippery-screaming into a world of grannies
who coo and cluck at his big grey eyes, his dimples and his rosy mouth,
And his mother, chewing gum, adores him with a passion that detonates
In her heart with a vivid nuclear ferocity every time she sees, or smells
Or touches him and you know what? It’s not wise and it’s not perfect, no,

but it’s love;

It’s love;

It’s love.



14:48 
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Sunday, August 30, 2009 

Category: Dreams and the Supernatural
Lazarus                                                                        © Joolz 2009


Dear Sammy,

I saw you the other day, though you did not see me;
You were in town by the Arndale Centre,
Near Costas and not far from that piercing place.
You were on your own - I thought maybe I would run over
And say hello, but your famous beautiful brown eyes were
Looking at things I could not see and the vapour of your night
Out wreathed you like a clinging chain and I could
Feel your irritation with the sunlight from a mile away…
Well, I exaggerate, but you know what I mean.

Ten years ago - not so long to me now, but forever
To you as you stride ragged and off course towards
Your coming life like a storm-cracked ship rudderless
And keening against the inevitability of wreck on rocks
That loom, black and biting, under the shuddering sea -
Ten years ago, you were nowt but a little haunt shadowing the
Front yard eating bread and jam and hoping for something
You could hang your love on, some simulacrum of a family
Or even just a moment or two of sanctuary from the
Confusion and the black hours; just a little lad, a very little lad.

My how you’ve grown - ‘grow-en’, like they say round here -
You moved through the Saturday crowd without touching anyone,
If they saw you, they didn’t want to - they smelt your anger and
Moved out of your way; here’s Shock-head, Long-legs, the mustang
Feral child hard-wired for rage and retribution - me, I often
Wondered if  your idiot mother know what a weapon she was
Forging, what a destruction and a jerk-puppet scrapper;
Oh, maybe not - no, definitely not, she walked her own
Dizzy maze of hopeless inbred instinct like a hobbled mare.

See now, If I had a magic spell, if I had an amulet, an
Abracadabra rolled in a medicine bag woven from cuckoo down
And fox- fur, bright with gaze-deflecting sky beads and red coral
I’d tie it round your pulsing throat with seven knots and a twisting
glyph that raised sandalwood and sugar-dust in the tired air;
I’d harvest saltsea silver from the night ocean and I’d
Milk blood in the waxing moon with a leather sickle and a
Heart full of good intent to save you from Evil and the
fulfilment of savage prophecies written in double helixes;
Lazarus cannot rise and be illuminated if he’s not dead, fella,
And so waiting for death he fills his trot of time with devilry;
They say all will be forgiven in the end of days, and you,
My lost one, will find your tattered destiny, whatever
It might be, by yourself - but, hey, I’m rambling on and I really
Must be going, I hope this finds you well, darlin‘,
I hope this finds you happy,

I hope this finds you.

Yours,

Joolz.






14:45 
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Monday, August 03, 2009 

Current mood:  melancholy
Category: Writing and Poetry
Smokin’ Joe                                                                      © Joolz 2009

Smoking’ Joe dances in the car-park feeling the rhythms of the
music in his head and the sound of  the juke box thudding from
the pub and the boys in the band who are packing away think;
Look at that old geezer gonged off his head and they laugh.

And Smokin’ Joe smiles at them, missing a tooth, meant to have
It fixed but seemed to forget and he says good gig lads and he
Sounds like he means it so the boys drop their cool and say yeah it was
And Joe says I am a drummer and the boys think right, as if.

From the pub come Joe’s cronies, drink weathered leathered lads,
Hair going or just going grey ,still wearing the waistcoats and the
Washed out jeans and they cackle like biddies and take Joe’s arm;
Famous drummer this boys they say with a wink, and Joe smiles

And remembers music, music, soft in his hand, cupped and precious
Like a little bird, like a thistledown caught in the breath of the wind;
He remembers it pouring song after song from the drums he played
From the beautiful guitars and the singing that filled his throat:

And the gigs with the lights hotter than stars and the drink and the
Girls with their warm winning ways and the other men all smoking
And saying Smokin’ Joe, Smokin’ Joe never smokes and him laughing
And opening another bottle of wine while music wrapped him in joy:

And the road unfurling like a tarmac banner rolling away through the world,
And the tour bus comrades, shield brothers, soldiers, all for one and
All smashed out of their brains and the music, the music, soft in his hand,
Singing in his blood like a wild old hymn and him caught pure and fine.

And he smiles remembering and standing unsteady while his mates say
The name of the big old band that Smokin’ Joe rode like a mustang,
And the young lads say why did you stop playing music then fella
And it gets cold suddenly and Joe shakes his head still shaggy and fair:

Got sick, got married, had some bairns, it’s a hard life on the road, boys;
But they don’t understand and he doesn’t either, because the music
Is still in him passionate and wild, but his hand isn’t apt to the sticks
Or the fretboard and it doesn’t beat in his heart quite true, quite true.

And he smiles and waves as he gets put in the car by his mates
Who drink and tell stories of his days of glory feeding from the
Scraps of Smokin’ Joe’s legend in an arse-end town far from the
Bright lights, far from the music that he held so soft in his hand.

And the lads in the young band load their equipment forgetting
The drunk guy swaying in the car park, only remembering the rush
Of the gig and they drive away just as Joe gets driven and they pass
But they do not wave, they do not wave, and glory beckons them.

And soon after that, in the pub where he drinks, Smokin’ Joe dies.

But the music was in him, wild and savage to the end, boys, to the end.


Currently listening:
Born To Be Wild (Best Of....)
By Steppenwolf
Release date: 1999-03-23
17:35 
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Monday, August 03, 2009 

Current mood:  good
Category: Writing and Poetry
Wild Town                                                    © Joolz 2009

Dogs walk with their flap-slappy ears smacking in the wind
And the smells from the moor-lands jostling in their heads;
Babies shoved along the Leeds Road wriggle in pushchairs
Howling for more more sugar and to get at the dogs and bite them;
Girls stilt along on catalogue stilettos getting cross when
Boys hang out of yellow cars and notice their breasts,
Boys get giddy on traffic bang-ups and lean on the horn
For half a mile of ratcheted cacophony while they roll a blunt
To take the edge off the coke and keep the day at bay.

More shops have shut over night and stolen away with nothing,
Gypsy Poundshops spring up with shelves full of tattered remains
And toothpaste from the Ukraine or baby oil from Saudi Arabia;
The Arndale Café serves the same clientele and the same cakes
That taste of nothing and chew like melting rubber laced with raisins;
The air outside the treadmill mall is dusty with Autumn coming
In sheets of savage gold that wrap the city trees in perfect splendour
And the skies burgeon with a blue more tender than the Virgin’s cloak.

The Council is still corrupt and without redemption hiding
In the dense gothic eyrie of the city hall guarded unwittingly by apathy
And the stoic grind of the peasant mind unable to believe in hope;
The apparatchiks fence their jobs in with barricades of paperwork
And try never to look out of the arrow-slits at the town uncoiling
Into desperation below them in case the virus of despair is catching;
The Great Pit dug for the phantom shopping centre fills with water
And grows its own Dawinless eco-system of aquatic creatures
That roil and bubble in the dim, blind underwater car park caverns.

And roses bloom in cheek-red clusters by the garage while daisies
Jaunt on the verges alongside memorial poppies and butterfly studded
Buddleia with purple cones seedily aromatic and sneezily pollenous;
A columbine coils sexily through the blistered turquoise of the ruined iron
Railings by the sore-shaped demo site and foxes trot russet and oblivious
Through the cool misty morning’s breakfast tumble and yawn;
Ducks pedalo on the lake in the big park where the bandstand
Serves as a nest for spiders webbed in diamonds and leaf-litter;
The city is reverting to the wild; the town is going feral;
And the heather and the bracken will one day soon, cover it all again.

Currently listening:
Summer Breeze - The Greatest Hits
By The Isley Brothers
Release date: 2005-07-18
12:09 
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Tuesday, June 30, 2009 

Current mood:  artistic
Category: Art and Photography
Reviews of 'A Tattoo Sketchbook' by Joolz Denby.

Total Tattoo Magazine July 2009

‘Newz From Joolz

Poet, novelist & tattoo artist Joolz Denby has just published a sketchbook which is sure to go down well with her legions of fans. Joolz is known the world over for her own extensive body art collection and, for the last 30 years or so, she has been championing the cause of those who choose to decorate themselves permanently. A few years ago she took up a machine has been learning the art of tattoo ever since. She says ‘I do not claim to be a tattoo artist in the usual sense, but rather, an artist who tattoos.’

The book, which is being produced in very limited quantities, is a spiral-bound A4 softback, which contains numerous sketches, some of Joolz’ celebrated poems and an intriguing essay with a tattoo theme.

The imagery covers a broad spectrum of themes, including flowers, fairies and mermaids, skulls, Tarot cards, trees, suns, moons, and many others. Joolz works in a style that fits no existing tattoo pigeon hole. As with her writing and performing work she is a one-off, dancing to her own drum. The tattoo world is littered with copyists and could do with more artists who create truly original pieces and it will be exciting to see where Joolz’ tattoo journey takes her in the future.'


Tattoo Master Magazine  Spring 2009

'Unorthodox. Now there is a word that, when attached to a tattooist’s work can lead them to be somewhat ostracised by their peers, and to some extent collector’s too.  When Joolz Denby took to tattooing it was apparent before she she had laid down her first line that she would take the road less travelled. It must be odd in some sense to observe an artist come in to the tattoo world who works away from the usual preoccupations of composition and form that pervade most styles of modern tattooing, but Joolz has proven that there is a niche for her work. Hers is a more expressive and instinctual strain of art that enjoys its cross-pollination and results in a book of sketches that can best be described as tattoo reference for people who aren’t really sure about tattoos, interspersed with snatches of poetry.

As tattooing looks more and more assured of breaking into the world of Fine Art with conviction, Joolz Denby can be considered one of the artists who will be at the forefront of the leftfield contingent, expanding the realms of tattooing in the same way that the art world is expanding its horizons to encompass us. '

Alex Guest - Assistant Editor Of Skin Deep & Editor Of Tattoo Master Magazines

'... a truly unique book in a market saturated with formulaic designs (it) is a pleasure to behold!'

Internet Review

'Joolz has been around in the creative industries for over 28 years, a woman of many talents she is not just an artist, but a tattooist, photographer, manager, poet, writer…forgive me if I missed something. It’s hard if not impossible to say which of these is her “main job” as her contributions to all have been immense.

In this article however we are looking purely at tattoo designs/drawings, from the new book “Tattoo Design Sketchbook”. This is a collection of tattoo designs, drawings and sketches, accompanied by poetry on the subject. Joolz declares herself not to be a tattooist - but an artist…who tattoos. I like the sound of this, and to be fair, shouldn’t all tattooists be artists that tattoo? Unfortunately not, as far too many talentless morons have access to needles, and Joolz is very much definitely, not one of these.

The main thing which immediately draws me, even from the initial flick through - is Joolz representation of women. Women have been painted as beautiful pure beings for a very long time, not really doing much but looking pretty, and usually just reclining, nude. These drawings by Joolz ARE beautiful and nude, but also angry, or filled with sorrow, or even full-on perplexed. The body language is strong and powerful and full of soul. They aren’t hollow shells of physical desire, but the feminine spirit being very much alive, and somewhat pissed off.

Sometimes this is shown in the body language, sometimes the face, and at other times it’s really hard to tell exactly what it is. Much of it seems to be in subtle detail on the eyes. There is such a large amount of emotion and energy in what is sometimes a few lines of a sketch, this is a hard feat to achieve. The images feel like thought has been put into every mark, yet at the same time like it’s been created effortlessly and spontaneously, due to the loose, non-sterile style of her work.

Here is an example, 'Firegirl' - this image is a few carefully placed areas of ink tone, refined with unsteady lines, yet manages to convey, what seems to me as a woman, metaphorically arising from the flames, raging and perhaps her body is covered in burns but she is alive, and back to fight, more powerful than ever before. I’m not condoning all females to be nasty bitches, but it is refreshing to see us portrayed more aggressive, instead of submissive. Empowering.

Beauty seems to be a recurring theme with this body of work, and indeed much else from Joolz hand which I have encountered. But as I have said above, it’s not plain, boring, generic beauty, it’s beauty…with a bite! Another “set” I am particularly fond of is the mixture of death, with flowers. The works of this theme I have admired the most are the ones I have seen on the skin of others, but there are some good examples in this book to help explain what I mean.

Although probably hugely misinterpreted as usual, I find the flowers to be a symbol of growth, recovery, adversity against odds. The coupling with skulls and death accentuate this, although also being a contradiction as the former is associated with happiness and the later: sorrow. Plain flowers, much like the generic reclining nude can be boring and repetitive yet again Joolz has managed to add an extra layer of depth and meaning. Something I am particularly fond of in art is finding beauty in the unexpected, be it the mundane, the disgusting or the distressing. Here it beauty in something which has died and rotted to the bone.

Aside from the images, there is a small collection of poems on the subject of tattoos. I know at least something about art so feel slightly validated to comment on it, but words aren’t really my forte, so I don’t really feel I am qualified to say much. I will however, say I have an appalling attention span, and VERY select taste in poetry, but this is witty, engaging and easy to read, without being simple.

To sum up this collection of drawings/designs…It is packed with symbolism, technical skills yet passion, the unusual, the unexpected, the unconventional, the powerful, the simple, the complex and depth. There is something very comforting, refreshing and empowering within these pages.'

Annie Norman - Livejournal. March 25th 2009.

If you want to buy a copy of the Sketchbook, please send a cheque for £20 made out to J.Denby + your address to P.O Box 162, Bradford BD3 8YH, West Yorkshire, UK. Or you can pay via PayPal (Julianne Denby joolz@joolz.net). No extra charge is made for orders outside the UK.
Currently listening:
Gris-Gris
By Dr. John
Release date: 1993-10-06
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Saturday, June 06, 2009 
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Friday, May 01, 2009 

Current mood:  artistic
This is my contribution to - 'P u n k   F i c t i o n :   An Anthology Of S h o r t   S t o r i e s   I n s p i r e d   B y   P u n k '
 Edited by Janine Bullman
 P o r t i c o   B o o k s  £9.99
 
'G r i t t y   t a l e s   f r o m   L y d i a  L u n c h ,   B i l l y   B r a g g ,   B i l l y   C h i l d i s h ;   f o r e w o r d   b y   J o h n n y   M a r r ,   p r o f i t s   t o  T e e n a g e   C a n c e r   T r u s t .'

As the publishers have put a really gross, cheesy Union Jack 'Oi!' style cover on the book (apparently, they say, at the request of Waterstones) a lot of people are not buying the book because it looks awful. But it's full of interesting stories by very famous artistes & for a very good cause - so pick up a copy if you can, then put a brown paper cover on it ;)


The Ruts - West One (Shine On Me)                (c) Joolz Denby

It was 1979, not that I remembered because to be honest? I am totally shit at dates. Anyway it was cold as witch-breath, I can tell you that and the pub looked like one of those cheap faux-Dickensian Christmas cards, egg-nog yellow light streaming out onto Manningham Lane's unreeling strip of car-pocked grey.

What night of the week was it? Don't know. Don't remember much about the details really, I never was one of those obsessive fans who know every note played, every set-list, every t-shirt bought and the names of the bass-players' cats (the third bass player, that is, the one after Nobby and before Charlie, the one who - oh, you know the type of true believer, the one who writes you letters in biro on paper torn out of a cheap notebook asking for the tab for the second song on your first demo that you thought no-one but you had a copy of).

I only know it was 1979 because I looked it up on the Internet. The Ruts, Bradford, The Royal Standard. 1979.  That was weird in itself, looking up a gig you went to thirty-one years ago, thinking about it, remembering what you were wearing, what colour your hair was dyed, who was with you. Who's still alive. Who's head is fucked from drugs and alcohol. Who's still OK, still hanging in there, still making stuff. Remembering being young. Looking in the mirror and thinking - who's that old woman? And behind the reflection, the ghost of a big, furious scarlet-haired girl with a thousand yard stare, dancing, dancing.

So I trawled the internet looking for the lost past. Not that there was much information out there, oddly. But then, why would I think it odd? An obscure gig by an obscure band in an obscure city? I feel that way because it was without doubt, one of the greatest rock concerts ever played - and remember, I'm not that obsessive fan. I'm someone who's toiled in the dark, grubby bowels of the music industry for yeah, thirty years. I've seen more bands than most people have had hot dinners or rolled a half-decent blunt. I've seen bands big, small and hyped-to-fuck. In bars, clubs, pubs, concert halls and festivals. Every type of rock band possible, every permutation of sweaty-boy-yodelling-into-mic possible. Some yodelling girls, but trust me, not many. I have seen and compared them to that gig. Ninety-nine percent of them didn't even get near to measuring up to that show, and wouldn't even know how to try.

I did find out The Ruts are now claimed by the gormless, beer-bellied banga-banga fuckwits who claim to be Punk these days. The sad fifty-year olds with the thinning blue Mohican instead of a comb-over, the painted leather jacked emblazoned with Anarchy signs sagging with nickel studs and the pint clutched like a child's comforter. The impervious young glue-heads desperate to find a moral oblivion whose rigid sartorial and musical dictates protect them from the cruelty of growing up. The lowest common denominator, the ones we dandy Punk gentry with our self-righteous pretensions to world revolution and the esoteric fibrillations of Justice, Fairness and A Better Society called Oi Punks - Gary Bushell's Frankenstein's monster. If The Sun invents a youth movement, surely it would be better to hurl yourself ablaze from the White Cliffs Of Dover than, like, join it?

But in 1979, The Ruts were a coming outfit, up from London, daring to break through the wall of mist that descends after Watford Gap, the tarmac turns to cobbles, the sound of wild ferrets howling fills queasy Southern ears and the motorways signs just say, The North. The Ruts were playing The Royal Standard, a dog-rough boozer on the Lane with a mighty concert room attached to it that regularly saw the finest Punk bands the world had to offer struggling to understand the landlord's strange obsession with bands nicking cheese from his fridge and his impenetrable Clayton accent. The Ruts were, we thought, just another gig.

I don't know. Was it the room, the sound (couldn't have been, it was always arse), the fact the place was packed out, the contrast between the iron-cold Bradford winter outside and the heat of a hundred Punks inside, the light - it seemed golden, effervescent - but that couldn't be true - or were the planets in the right alignment, Mars bang overhead and the North Star shining on us all, blessing us, cursing us.

Whatever - it's all a blaze of fire in my head, in my memory; untarnished, unalloyed, pure. Malcolm Owen sings, possessed, entranced, without reservation, not worrying if he's cool, or on message, or if the marketing department approve, none of that old tosh, he just sings with an awful clarity that burns us all up, that re-arranges the molecular structure of our hearts forever, that binds us to a purpose we have never abandoned. It was like being in the eye of a hurricane, in a cauldron boiling with energy and a kind of infectious epiphany. Outside the world could have vanished into Hell and nothingness, but in that shitty, murder-haunted, perfect box we were all warriors, shield-maidens, purified. None of us left unmarked by that experience and some of us were changed forever; some of us saw what we could aim for, what we could be, what we could break our hearts trying for. What we still try for.

Less than a year later, Malcolm Owen was dead from a heroin overdose; his struggle with himself over. He was 26. Just 26.

Before he died he and The Ruts had recorded 'West One (Shine On Me). It was released in 1980. In it there's a line, 'Bradford shine on me.'

He knew what that gig was, too.

Currently listening:
Something That I Said: The Best of the Ruts
By The Ruts
Release date: 1995-02-20
20:10 
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