Posted on 7th Sept 2018   I have been wondering what it was originally that made me want to draw and make art. There are two specific times that I remember as vividly now as did when I experienced them and in some way they seem connected,

I was about two or three and on my own and I wandered into an uncut hay field. The grasses were tall. taller than I was and they smelt of warmth and sun. I made myself a nest and I laid down and looked up towards the sun and there was a huge buttercup. Young as I was I was bowled over by it’s beauty, it’s pure yellowness, it’s shiny petals, the powderiness of the pollen. It is difficult to know how to describe it but I suddenly felt at one with everything around me. It was a transcendental moment and I have never forgotten it. I think it is to do with the birth of wonder that is so clear in childhood. I believe it was Picasso that said ‘When I am no longer a child I am already dead’ I think a sense of wonder needs to remain with you as an adult if you are going to make art.

The second moment in time that was insignificant in a way and yet it seems to assume a prime place in my memory. I was in our house. We lived in a council house that had beautiful sash windows. My father could turn his hand to anything, he had made all our furniture. It was Friday night on a dark winters evening, the curtains hadn’t been drawn. I was about eight sitting at his table drawing a story. I could sense the cold outside through the dark of the glass windows but I was inside in the warm completely absorbed and my father had bought me a doughnut! Once again… young as I was I suddenly had the feeling that the world and I were one and that time should stop. I think it is true that when you are deeply into creating something you can go into a different world, almost a timeless one.

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