I miss Art. I miss giant studios full of light and noise and colour and ideas and creativity and tears and joy and discovery. I miss screen prints, dark rooms, light boxes, sewing machines, charcoals, life drawing, sculpting and sketching.

The day I got my first little set of watercolours, aged 10, I was hooked. Maybe it’s the same feeling some people get from performing, or sports or watching videos of cats, all I knew was it made me happy. I remember looking at the first blank page, a ‘proper’ watercolour sketch book all bumpy and stiff, being scared to make a mark in fear of ruining it. Not knowing where to start I decided a still life would be as good a place as any given that was what a real artist would probably draw.

I didn’t have a silver bowl laden with exotic fruits to hand so I had to make do with the nearest thing….
a potato. Yes, my first subject on the road to becoming the next Francis Bacon was indeed the humble spud. It wasn’t a bad effort if I do say so myself, I showed it off pleased as punch, or poitín if you will. It was hard to read my Mother’s reaction, I’m pretty sure she was smiling with pride rather than amusement. Either way it made her happy too. I don’t remember anything else I drew in that sketchbook but I remember every detail of that spud.

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