Today is the first day I’ve been able to walk into my studio and think about work. Hard to believe that things take so long, but I’m in at last, and have my paintings around me, reminding me of where I’d got to…
The past two weeks have been strange: a visit from my oldest sister in America prompted me to want to talk about our father, who died before I was born.
What gaping holes are left in lives where things are covered up, ignored or put away. As a small child growing up I knew that the life I was living was not quite the one I might have had, but no-one talked about our loss.
Our recent conversations, myself and my two sisters (there are two brothers as well) did little to fill in the holes, but it was a glimpse into the life that included my Dad.
He was a POW in North Africa and came home in 1945 tired, thin and almost unrecognisable. He died from an accident at work in March 1949. I was born in June 1949.
