My first piece was a mural, on the way to the upstairs, of my auntie’s house. I was four years old. The medium was crayon. The reviews were not good but not entirely discouraging. The critics provided materials and the kitchen table for further works, collages, peep shows, drawings, lots and lots of drawings. I thought my work was beautiful.
During art college days I knew that all I wanted to do was make beautiful things. I went along, instead, with the angst in vogue at the time, not very successfully. The real interest remained in the background.
Today I’m liberated. I draw and paint, explore and contemplate objects, ideas and subjects, which reside in the everyday world. During the course of study they invariably seem to transform, before my eyes, into beautiful things.