‘Brush strokes: catching the big fish’
As a child, way before self-consciousness, adult neuroses and complications kicked in, it was all about art class. From sketching to doodling, copying my comic book heroes — the ones that didn’t wear capes but could be found in Roy of The Rovers and The Beano — and then beginning to swim in the deep swirls and layering of oil paints. I loved everything about it: the smells, the freedom and immersion in creativity, the headspace I could enter with ease and flow. Encouraged by my Dad — himself a very accomplished and knowledgeable artist, designer and creator of murals, and frequenter of galleries and exhibitions — I never felt so alive as when I had that brush in my hand.
Somehow along the way I stopped. After studying and painting through to leaving school, it sat dormant, occasionally wakened with pencil, crayon, watercolour and acrylic, but to this day I still haven’t dived back into oils. The same has been true of writing, until recently, where I’ve rediscovered the joy of taking my pen for a walk, and begun diligently, with discipline and curiosity, to write as close to every day as I can. Now that painting itch is emerging again, and I’m ready to dive in once more.
