Drawing, for me, is personal. As a girl … I drew, I drew through things I might never name, or say aloud.
My Mother was strong. Busy. The anchor of our family. Somehow amidst the chaos – she’d find time to read books. There were so many I would pretend to be a librarian (when I wasn’t drawing, that is). Other times I’d make toys from things I found laying round the house. Things people would have thrown away, if it weren’t for me finding something wonderful to do with.
Finally, I got to study art. And when I did I fell in love with sculpture and found objects, pieces of the past, pieces of the Earth. Trash to some – but never to me. Whilst this love never died, somehow I find myself drawing again. For me it’s catharsis. It’s a way to work stories up and out of my bones.
My art is reflective of my inner world and the interplay between that and everything external to me. People, places, politics. It has strong roots in Family. To be a girl then. To be a woman now, with an emphasis on ‘Mother’, and what that has come to mean me.
I don’t plan my work. If I am painting I will start with a vague intention. I love the freeness afforded to me through the process. Mistakes can be re-worked until I am satisfied and by the time I’m done, it’s all part of the finished piece.
My Mother found her escape in reading stories. And I have found mine in telling them, not with words … but through shapes, and colour and textures, and of course – not forgetting the tea!