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Banshee, whole no. 7, March 1945
Page 1
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A WINDOW ON BOK by John Michel If memory serves, Hannes Bok first appeared on the artistic scene sometime during one of the halcyonic revivals of Weird Tales. I vaguely recollect the period as being something under ten years ago. Like young Lochinvar he came out of the West. The storied rumpus that followed was brother to the tale, but it has yet to be said that Bok has trapped his Muse for a bride. For quite a periodhe was merely an embryonic storm rumbling on one of my horizons. Then, through the medium of the FSNY, I was introduced to Bok. The first impression was pleasantly turbulent. It was very difficult, of course, getting one's bearings on Hannes. He is now and was then geographically unstable and can no more remain calm, quiescent and rooted to one spot than can a cockroach. Consequently, due to the lightning blue streaks that passed my field of vision on that and succeeding occasions, it took me literally years to even assemble a fairly stable mental image of our artist. This I finally succeeded in accomplishing in 1941, during which year Hannes painted my portrait, and while I was forced to remain as stiff and immobile as a mummy for over four hours, his own lebensraum was limited to the square of the canvas. I took a look. Solidified, Bok is an ingratiating character. This I can judge of mine own knowledge and also from that of numerous acquaintances who have met him and been conquered. The general impression seems to have been a pot-pourri of slightly strained hospitality, sprite-like enthusiasm, a crushing penchant for imparting gossip of the most stale and insipid brand imaginable and a distressing narrowness of interests, these being neatly packaged in two vessels, one painting, the other music, with strings of assorted other passions flying like rags on the wind from the carefully tattered pockets of his eternal blue jeans. Possibly I am not a competent judge of these outward manifestations of the inner man, my sole glimpses of Hannes in action being widely spaced, staggered and very shadowy still-lifes flashing by once or twice a year. However, the substance of my observation is p1
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A WINDOW ON BOK by John Michel If memory serves, Hannes Bok first appeared on the artistic scene sometime during one of the halcyonic revivals of Weird Tales. I vaguely recollect the period as being something under ten years ago. Like young Lochinvar he came out of the West. The storied rumpus that followed was brother to the tale, but it has yet to be said that Bok has trapped his Muse for a bride. For quite a periodhe was merely an embryonic storm rumbling on one of my horizons. Then, through the medium of the FSNY, I was introduced to Bok. The first impression was pleasantly turbulent. It was very difficult, of course, getting one's bearings on Hannes. He is now and was then geographically unstable and can no more remain calm, quiescent and rooted to one spot than can a cockroach. Consequently, due to the lightning blue streaks that passed my field of vision on that and succeeding occasions, it took me literally years to even assemble a fairly stable mental image of our artist. This I finally succeeded in accomplishing in 1941, during which year Hannes painted my portrait, and while I was forced to remain as stiff and immobile as a mummy for over four hours, his own lebensraum was limited to the square of the canvas. I took a look. Solidified, Bok is an ingratiating character. This I can judge of mine own knowledge and also from that of numerous acquaintances who have met him and been conquered. The general impression seems to have been a pot-pourri of slightly strained hospitality, sprite-like enthusiasm, a crushing penchant for imparting gossip of the most stale and insipid brand imaginable and a distressing narrowness of interests, these being neatly packaged in two vessels, one painting, the other music, with strings of assorted other passions flying like rags on the wind from the carefully tattered pockets of his eternal blue jeans. Possibly I am not a competent judge of these outward manifestations of the inner man, my sole glimpses of Hannes in action being widely spaced, staggered and very shadowy still-lifes flashing by once or twice a year. However, the substance of my observation is p1
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