Anthony Lysycia: The Art of Living

Anthony Lysycia, dancing with the camera in front of one of his massive canvases.

Life. It’s a funny old thing isn’t it? You wait in silent darkness for billions of years, then all of a sudden: WHOOSH, surprise surprise, you clock in.
You scream a lot at first, and you soon start bumping into stuff, and before you know it you’re weighed down by a million and one things that you should be doing, or that you did but you didn’t do right, so you apologise, you keep your head down, you pretend everything’s OK… And then you die, and you go back to standing around for another few billion years waiting for something else to happen.

Or, in the gap between not existing yet and not existing anymore, you have fun. 
It’s funny; in the same way that it’s easy to forget that you have permission, at all times, to be calm, it’s also easy to forget that you have permission, at all times, to enjoy yourself. In fact it’s so easy to forget this simple rule that it feels awkward and downright wrong writing it. Surely you’re not allowed to enjoy yourself all the time?
Well… Actually yes, yes you are allowed. And it’s not just that you have permission – it’s actually incredibly important that you take advantage of this remarkable gift. After all, when you get down to the bare bones of Life, enjoying yourself is one of the few things that truly matters.

In the summer of 2020, between lockdowns I and II, I enjoyed myself one weekend by attending a friend’s 40th Birthday Campout by a riverside in Kent, where a group of creative and artistic souls were brought together to make music and play games and to sit around in various states of undress in the sunshine. It was fucking brilliant. Among the many highlights, I met loads of fantastic people, I sat naked on a blanket, I played Pass The Parcel, and I ate a banana.

And while I ate my banana I struck up a conversation with a member of the party. A man with a sketchbook, who unlike the majority had separated himself from the crowd and had positioned himself, dressed in a boilersuit, on a bridge where he carefully sketched his view of the river, the adjacent woodland, and the togetherness of the occasion.
He told me his name. Anthony Lysycia. I told him mine. Sam. He told me he’s an artist.
I meet a lot of people who say they’re artists, but many of them are also in entirely unrelated full-time work. Their art is their hobby, or their ambition. I said, ‘Oh, nice,’ but I thought, ‘Yeah yeah, everyone’s an artist these days,’ and then I thought, ‘I wonder what he does the rest of the time.’
Despite my unimpressed attitude, we had a great chat, but I was mildly inebriated and can’t really remember what we spoke about. I remember him being conscientiously keen that I disposed of my banana skin in the most appropriate way possible.
Later he showed me his live-in van and fed me chocolate cake. The cake was exceptional, but the van… By golly, it’s a work of art. Anthony has decorated every inch of its interior with his own work, or with fascinations that he’s collected while travelling through Europe and Britain during summers past, and in doing so he’s turned what appears on the outside to be an ordinary White Van Man’s runaround into a mobile museum of sorts, decked with handmade tiles, antique portraits, bespoke furniture, and the crispest white bed linen known to mankind. 
I decided then that I really like Anthony, and we became Facebook friends a few days later.

In the 10 months since, having followed his daily online updates (which regularly include intimate video diaries where he whistles merry tunes while providing tours of works in progress, makes modifications to his home, tends to his parents’ grave (he carved the headstone himself), or hoovers the roof of his house), I’ve come to the heady realisation that Anthony is an artist through and through. And what’s more, I’ve come to the conclusion that he is perhaps one of the happiest people on Earth.
And because I’m so obsessed with happiness – what it is, how to create it, and how to maintain it – I recently shared a delightful phone call with Anthony, in the hope of getting a glimpse into his method for being a Marvellously Happy Human.
Here, for your reading pleasure, follow some excerpts from our conversation.

Anthony leaves a trail of artwork everywhere he goes. Here’s his garden path, leading the way to his studio.

***

Me: “Anthony, out of all the people I’m in touch with on the internet, you seem to act from inspiration most of the time, and I see incredible creativity in everything you do. Is your inspirational flow something that you had to learn, or is it just the way you are?”

Anthony: “Well it’s something that I’ve made a real conscious decision about. In 2015 I was the artist in residence at an amazing hotel in Estonia and I decided not to try and sell my work anymore. ‘Cos if you tell anyone you’re an artist, the first thing they say is something like, ‘Do you sell your work?’ Because if you do sell your work then you’re successful, and if you don’t sell your work, you’re a failed artist. They always assume that if you’re going to make it as an artist then you have to sell your work. But I decided in Estonia that all I wanted to do from then on was just paint the things I want to paint, and if anybody likes it and if they want it but they’ve got no money, then I just give it to them for free. So I give loads of work away, and it makes things really liberating. I don’t have to store stuff, I don’t have to try and sell it or worry about who’s going to buy it… Instead, if they want it, they can have it.
“I’ve been lucky. I’ve had this attitude all my life really, and I’ve always done exactly what I’ve wanted to do. I don’t have to go out to work, and I’ve always managed to sell my art… And every time I’ve said to myself, ‘God I’m skint now,’ something will just pop along – someone will buy a painting, or I’ll get a phone call to do a stone carving, or they’ll want me to work in a school… There have been so many times like that in the past, and then right at the last minute something’s come along, and I always think, ‘Thank you lord! Thank you lord.'”

Me: “So how has lockdown fitted into all of this?”

Anthony: Lockdown was a chance to grow, to make the most of this period. It’s been great. Every day’s the same; I wake up, I have breakfast, and then I come to my little studio at the end of the garden and basically I’m just here in my safe little space with my music, and there are foxes that I feed every day out the back… And it’s just really nice, It’s calm, I have no stress, and I don’t have to be anywhere or answer to anybody and I just think ‘Wow, I wish I’d done this years ago.’ Just to be completely self-sufficient. It’s great.
“I bought my house in 1989; it was a squat. I have tenants who pay rent and that covers all my bills, and I teach part time, so I haven’t had to worry about money at all. I live a very simple life, and all I really spend money on is paint, so that’s helped.”

Me: “And do you ever go into the studio and think, ‘Oh, I don’t feel like doing this today’?”

Anthony: “No, but if ever I don’t want to paint or make things, I’ve got this garden that I love, and over 31 years I’ve planted everything, built the walls, chosen the trees, and if I don’t feel like painting there’s always stuff to do, like pruning or tidying, moving a pot plant around, doing something with a bush, or even sweeping the floor… And before lockdown, I’d have a day a week in London. I’d go to exhibitions, I’d visit the Tate or the National Gallery or The British Museum and I’d just go as a tourist again, and sketch things and enjoy being back in London. I did that every week, for inspiration. But obviously over lockdown I haven’t been anywhere.”

…Indeed… None of us have been anywhere much. But not many of us have spent every day looking through a magnifying glass in the studio at the end of the garden, while adding miniature details to gigantic canvases, such as the marvels below: 

Detail inspired by Ukrainian iconography, painted with the smallest brush on the market.

“It’s a bleedin’ bleedin’ heart, innit?!”

The Covid-19 Bird of Hope.

***

Listening through my window into this creative world, I was beginning to get a picture of Anthony’s lifestyle. It’s jam-packed with freedom, regardless of the state of the outside world. Whether he’s painting a four-metre-square canvas or sweeping the floor, everything he does seems to be exactly what he should be doing in that moment, and the universe seems keen to reward him with opportunities as he follows the flow of each day.
In light of the spirituality that’s evident in much of his work, I became curious about the phrase ‘Thank you lord’, and asked a straight question.

Me: “So are you a religious man?”

Anthony: “Well I was brought up a Roman Catholic, and I’m very interested in all the religious iconography, because going to church as a kid it was just full of imagery, particularly the Sacred Heart of Jesus. So I was in church all the time when I was young, then when I was about 17, I suddenly realised, ‘Hang on… This is all a load of baloney.’ So I’m not really religious anymore, but I do believe there’s something out there that sort of guides us a bit, y’know?”

Me: “Yes, but the pictures that we get are more symbolic than direct interpretations.”

Anthony: “Yeah, yes.”

Me: “It’s all about hope and kindness and trust and love and positivity really isn’t it? Surely those are the values of any religion but they’re masked by this weird sense that if you don’t adhere to scripture then there’s something wrong with you.”

Anthony: “All the rules, the regulations, and the guilt trips…”

Me: “Absolutely. And who in their right mind would think that a loving God would ever punish someone?”

Anthony: “Exactly. It’s bizarre isn’t it?”

Me: “Yet, at the same time, the fundamentals of Christianity are wonderful. Try not to be a knob; that’s the message isn’t it?”

Anthony: “Yeah, just try and be nicer to people, be kinder and more empathetic to people, and don’t be a knob!”

…It all seems so simple sometimes. Simple rules make a simple life, yet a simple life clearly doesn’t have to feature boredom or stagnation.
…But if a simple life is possible, does that mean there’s such a thing as a simple death? Is all the fun and freedom really allowed, that close to the edge? And is there room for art in a crisis? And what is a crisis anyway?

…Bearing these words in mind, and in my best efforts not to be a knob, I’m adding a mild warning here. The following reading may not be easy for all, and a few of the images might feel gruesome for some. However… While reading the next section, try and remember that you have full permission to feel calm and to enjoy yourself. Please do. And I apologise if I take you anywhere that you find uncomfortable. 

***

A view of Anthony at work, while he’s most certainly not being a knob.

On the evening of April 1st, 2021, Anthony’s younger brother Mark suffered a massive heart attack and was rushed into hospital. Mark was not a smoker, never took drugs, ran regular marathons, and was a black-belt in Karate. A man as fit as a flea. In the Intensive Care ward, as shown above, he was hooked up to an array of life-support machines and he remained there peacefully for fourteen days until the decision was made for the machines to be turned off.
At his bedside, Anthony sketched his dear brother’s last days on Earth, and provided a pictorial commentary on social media, which I and many others followed with a mixture of fascination, admiration, and deep deep sadness.

Mark Lysycia, aged 60.

A process which most of us will never experience was unfolding around the Lysycia family: Anthony had placed his headphones over Mark’s ears and through them he was blasting Roy Ayers and Lonnie Liston Smith (two of Mark’s favourite Funk/Soul artists), in a desperate attempt to wake his brother. Meanwhile, the doctors and surgeons brought a shopping list; a set of requests; a handful of opportunities filled with hope. Agreements were made, and within 20 minutes of his death Mark’s organs – his liver, his kidneys, his lungs, and his heart valves – were taken from his body and were used, immediately, to save the lives of at least four other people. Four.
One life lost. Four lives gained.

Publicly, Anthony continued providing near-daily updates. Astoundingly, his grief seemed…
…Artistic… 
…Calm…
…And dare I say it?
…Happy…

During these final days of Mark’s life, Anthony wrote on Facebook:
“The NHS staff were absolutely amazing. Permitting me to stay as long as I wanted as I sharpened my coloured pencils and tried not to make a mess of the brilliantly white bed sheets, apologising to me if they felt they disturbed me as they attended to Mark with the utmost care and compassion. The staff were very interested in what I was doing and one even said, ‘Wow, I wish I had a talent,’ to which I replied, ‘You do, you save lives’.”

He adds:
“When I was drawing Mark, several nurses and two doctors were quietly watching me. The doctor said, ‘I’ve worked in Intensive Care for many years and I’ve never seen an artist draw a patient before, it’s very moving.’ He also commented on the accuracy of the numerous pipes and coloured tubes attached to Mark and surrounding his head.”

“The NHS staff are utterly brilliant. I cannot praise them highly enough.
They were genuinely interested in my drawings and took amazing care of Mark.
Bless the lot of them.”

As Anthony’s friend, I felt extraordinarily connected to the situation. I was witnessing a whole new way of dealing with death. Sure, I saw dismay, and sentimentality, and the vastness of profound loss, but I also saw an outpouring of humility, acceptance, beauty, and grace. I saw simplicity and kindness, doled out by the bagful with ease. I saw death in close-up and read it as nothing more than a part of life, where permission to depart is full and genuine.
I’ll admit, I harboured some concerns for Anthony. Was he avoiding the reality of it all? Was he holding back? Was he hiding from the facts, keeping out of harm’s way behind his sketchbook? Was his grieving process a safe one? I can be a protective friend at times.

We spoke about Mark’s passing on the phone, and at one point I referred to the idea that despair is perhaps the mother of creativity. For the record, this is an idea that I’m slightly reluctant to subscribe to, because personally I suspect that freedom might be the mother of creativity, but… I dunno. We’ll see about that. But anyway, by way of a reply, Anthony told me a story that begins while he drove home from his brother’s funeral. A story which, in a way, both changed my mind entirely and fully confirmed my suspicions.

Anthony: “I was driving back through the local forest, and at the side of the road, about a mile and a half from my front door, that had just been hit, was a deer, and I thought to myself, ‘Oh that’s interesting, that’s a dead deer…’ And I drove about 15 yards down the road and then I stopped, I reversed, and I put it in the back of the van. I thought I’d take it home for the foxes.
“So I got home and I brought it into the studio, and I saw how beautiful this deer was… And with a bottle of wine and a very sharp knife, I skinned it.
“Now I’ve never skinned an animal before, and it’s really really interesting. It’s fascinating. The way it’s put together. All the bones and all the sinews and all the tendons… I mean, I love anatomy anyway, but this was a really interesting thing to do.
“And I had all the bits off it, I took the head off it, and I took the feet off it… And my plan was to use the fur to make a hat or something, and to give all the bits of meat to the foxes the next day. My studio that night was like something from Frankenstein or the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, there was blood and guts everywhere, and saws to cut through bones, and knives to cut the flesh, and blood dripping on the floor…
“…And the next morning I woke up, and I thought to myself, ‘What the hell have I done to my painting studio?!'”

“…And I went in, and there’s this massive dead carcass, all its bits hanging out, the heart, and the liver, and the kidneys and the lungs… All these beautiful fascinating objects… And I got a hosepipe, and I shoved the end of it into the lungs, and I blew into it, and I inflated the lungs… It’s fucking fascinating shit. And it was all about death, the whole weekend was about death death death.”

“…The way it’s all put together, inside a body, is absolutely mindblowing. It’s all packed in neatly, and it all works beautifully together.
“And the fact is, when I was doing it, a friend of mine had invited me to a party. There’d be food there and drink and girls and music, it would have been a fun party. But I was like, ‘I’d rather stay in butchering an animal with a hacksaw than go to a party,’ and then I thought, ‘Hang on, what have I turned into?!'”

“…Anyway, I got really into it and I went online and found out it’s called a Muntjac deer; they were introduced (to Bedfordshire, UK) from China early in the 20th century, and they spread really rapidly – they’re really common now, but they’re really invasive, they eat all the shrubs and stuff. 
“…But it also said that they make fantastic eating – apparently it’s the best of all the venison you can have, it’s really tender… 
“…So I’m thinking, ‘Hang on, I’ve got all this meat, why don’t I butcher it for myself, and freeze it, and eat it?’ …So on the Sunday night I made myself some nice steaks from the deer and I sat in the studio and I ate it. And it was absolutely delicious.”

“…And it was really fucking weird, the fact that I was doing almost the same to this deer as Mark had had done to him, and I was going to eat the deer… It was really quite full on…
“…A lot of my friends would be really freaked out by the whole thing, but then another friend of mine, who’s an artist, said, ‘No, that’s what we do as artists. We face things that would freak other people out, and we process it in that way.’
“…So it’s almost like a gift. I really learnt from it. This whole thing, it’s been an amazing source of imagery.”

The Human Liver; detail from Mark’s Painting (work in progress)

…Gosh, it’s all about learning isn’t it? Learning, learning, learning.
…The lesson I took from here is this: at any given moment, we are millimetres from death. Nothing dies slowly; it happens in an instant. You’re either still alive or you’re dead, and any second now it could all be over.
So why not have fun? Why not let go and just enjoy Life, whatever it throws at you? Why not cut up the deer and enjoy every minute of the experience? If it helps you to face reality, and to understand the world, and to appreciate the miracle of existence itself, then why the hell not? In the end it’s only fear that would stop you.
…Fun can’t hurt you, but fear can. And fear is a sneaky bastard, because it tricks you into thinking it’s keeping you safe, but that’s all a mistake; it’s sensibility that keeps you safe. It’s sensible not to step in front of a moving car, but it doesn’t have to be frightening. Fear just stops you acting from inspiration. It’s fear that keeps you from trusting the universe. It’s fear that will stop you turning your ideas into your reality.
…And when you’ve sat by death, and drawn death, and stared it down and shared its last breath then walked away from it, what is left to be afraid of? And more to the point, what was there to be afraid of in the first place?

***

At the height of lockdown III: The Lysycia Valentine’s Day Disco, 2021

This might be a strange follow-up to the previous section, but… Sod it, let’s just jump right in.

…Maybe it’s down to Anthony’s vital awareness of Life’s fragility, or maybe it’s because he was born under the romantic sign of Pisces, or maybe it’s just a part of being alive… Whatever it is, regardless of the big-picture reasons, and in addition to the fact that Anthony says he never gets bored, he does claim to occasionally get quite lonely. “I really miss the company of a woman…” he told me. 

Anthony: “…And that’s not just for sex. That’s to talk to, to spoon, to hold, to make food for, to make a cup of tea for, to be there with someone…
“Two years ago I decided just to be on my own for as long as I could. I’ve done that for a couple of years now, and it’s OK… but it does get quite lonesome. In the 72 hours over Christmas, I spent 69-and-a-half of that entire period by myself in my studio, and I was thinking, ‘This isn’t normal. This is not healthy, this is not very good for me.'”

Me: “Woah. That’s a lot. And you have every right to miss having a kiss or a cuddle or whatever. But on one hand it sort of sounds like you’re measuring what you’re doing by some standard that comes with Christmas for some reason, y’know? Judging your experience through the eyes of someone else…”

Anthony: “Yep! Yeah, exactly yeah. And that was the way it turned out, and I just thought, ‘Well, this is the way it is at the moment,’ but I spend a lot of time on my own, obviously, and my head’s really opened up recently to the whole idea of having a partner. So now I’m thinking, ‘If it happens, great. And if not, I’ll just wait.’ But I am spending an absolutely ridiculous amount of time by myself, which I don’t really mind, but I don’t want to turn into too much of a loner. 
“But the unfortunate thing about love is that I’m a massive romantic, I love being in love, I’m incredibly faithful, and… I usually end up getting really hurt. But in a way that’s quite good, because a lot of my best work comes after a breakup. When I’ve been really bashed about, and my heart’s been trodden on, I always do my best paintings. Y’know. When there’s been a lot of pain. I mean, I’ve done a lot of stuff when I’ve been in that state and I can’t really show anyone, because it’s too painful, it’s too personal, it’s too near the knuckle. All my heartache has all been poured out onto the canvas…”

…I’ll be honest, I’ve had some shitty breakups too; I’ve lost ownership of my heart before, and I’ve had to fight to get it back, and I’ve tormented myself terribly for much longer than was necessary after the storm had subsided. And sometimes I’ve convinced myself that everything I touch turns to shit. It’s all shit. I’m the common denominator in all these shitty relationships, so I must be the one who is cursed.
But I’ve also made my best music after breakups, and painted my best paintings. And written two-thirds of a novel. So maybe despair is the mother of creativity after all. But even so, maybe freedom is the mother of despair…

Everything Anthony touches turns to art. 

***

Anthony feeding the foxes.

The image of the Mad Artist is a common one. We all know Van Gogh was mad. Dali too. Picasso, Degas, Michelangelo, Munch… The list goes on. And we also know now that Anthony Lysycia hoovers his roof and dissects roadkill in his spare time, which… Well, to put it bluntly, from the outside, might make it seem like he’s mad too. 
But here’s the thing. After talking to him, and after avidly following his social media, I can only surmise that he’s among the sanest people out there. He’s not mad, he’s just figured out how to cope with life, that’s all. And he copes by having fun. By being interested. By taking each moment as it comes. By following his gut. By saying, out loud, ‘I could be dead tomorrow,’ and expressing whatever it is that he’s feeling in whichever way feels most appropriate, free from fear or judgement.
He copes and he flourishes by creating extraordinary artworks, with no desire to sell or even to exhibit them – for Anthony, it’s all about the creative process, whatever he’s doing. That’s not insanity. In Psychology terms, it’s a very healthy thing indeed, which is commonly referred to as ‘Self-Actualisation‘. In magazines, it’s called Living Your Best Life. Well done Anthony, I say. What a guy.

I asked Anthony if he has any advice for other people who want to self-actualise too.

“We’re all artists,” he said. “We’re all artists and we’re all trying to make things and create things and express ourselves, either through song or words or painting or whatever, and it’s like what Andy Warhol said: ‘Don’t think about making art, just get it done. Let everyone else decide if it’s good or bad, whether they love it or hate it. And while they’re deciding, make more art.’ ‘Cos people are avoiding doing things because they’re worried they’ll get it wrong. And I say to people, just paint it. Just make it, just write it, sing it, whatever it is. Just do it, and if it’s good then it’s good, and if it’s not, then fine. Just do it. I’m just doing it because I really enjoy the journey.”

***

Christ, this has become a long long blog post. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading it as much as I’ve enjoyed creating it. And I hope you don’t feel like you have to go and make some art now. I mean, great, do it if you want to, but it’s not all about art. Really it’s all about learning. And if you take anything away from the little journey I’ve taken you on here, I hope it’s this: 
Try not to be a knob. Be kind. Be sensible. But also don’t be afraid. If you’re sensible and unafraid, and if you take a leap and trust that everything will be alright, I’m sure you can easily achieve some outstanding things. We’re all human. You and I are no different to Anthony. We all get lonely. We all feel despair and rage and sadness and regret. And we’ll all have our moment, when the lights will flicker out and the fun will come to a sudden end. That last breath, it could happen any minute. So go and enjoy yourself. You have full permission, at all times.

Kidneys Bursting With Joy. Detail from giant canvas. 

The Runner’s Lungs: egg tempera on linen – 2.3X3.4 metres (work in progress).

Anthony Lysycia, dancing with the camera in front of one of his massive canvases.

 

If you’re reading this bit, thank you for making it all the way to the end. I make this blog for free, and I’ll never charge an entry fee. However, if you want to make a donation, please use the buttons below – it’s for a good cause; every penny goes towards my counselling qualification.
You’re also invited to share my posts on social media and among your friends – every share is massively appreciated.
Meanwhile, if you’re interested in Anthony’s work, you can find him on Instagram here, and you can contact him directly via email at: info@anthonylysycia.co.uk.
xXx