Christmas 1971. One of my favourite memories. I was six, my sister, Shelley was four. The kitchen floor had been laid a few days before with brand new lino. It was pale blue, smooth as the surface of a winter pond just frozen over. Shelley and I had ballet slippers. Knitted. Mine were purple, Shelley's... Continue Reading →
Little Robin Redbreast.
Pale memories abound at this time of year. One continues to surface, triggered by a red velvet bow on a Christmas present. The same colour as my winter mittens from long ago. My mother knitted them when I was six, the wool soft as the moss at the base of the oaks at the end... Continue Reading →
The Ghost Of Christmas Past.
(Painting of The Nativity by Fra Angelico.) I come from a family of artists - painters, photographers, potters. Real artists who make a living from it, who talk about scale, perspective, balance, and the semantic potential of their work as they are eating their cornflakes in the morning. My cousin often calls me from Ireland... Continue Reading →