The Pencil Sharpener
Returning to school after my mums death I probably looked a bit lost. But my teacher, aware of my love for drawing, offered me her special pencils and access to the coveted pencil sharpener attached to her desk. For anyone who went to school in the 70s or 80s, you'll know how cool that was.
At the same time she whispered to me that I was the best artist in the class. Whether it was true or not, I began to believe it. Her words and those moments with the pencils and sharpener remain a pivotal moment for me. I also found solace in helping her with the classroom displays, giving me a sense of purpose and pride.
WINNIEMAY
Winnifred May was my dad's mum, A mother to six children and grandmother to a whole army of cousins was born in 1913 and was a five-foot force to be reckoned with..Living just a few streets away from us, I spent a lot of time at her house as a child. She was the ultimate matriarch—tough as old boots, ruling her domain with purpose. However, her trust didn’t stretch far beyond her own front door.
She was a creator in her own right, and her chosen art was cooking. A true feeder, Nan wouldn’t let anyone else near the kitchen—her domain. I learned the ropes of cooking by stealth, watching her like a hawk as she worked her magic. Winnifred’s toughness wasn’t just limited to the kitchen. Growing up in Portsea, Portsmouth, she had to dive into the docks at the age of seven to save her five-year-old brother—a heroic feat for a child herself.
Oddly, despite this act of bravery, she remained wary of water throughout her life. Curiously, for someone who grew up in Portsmouth, an island city surrounded by water, she couldn’t swim and went so far as to actively discourage her children and grandchildren from learning. That early experience of jumping into the docks clearly left its mark, transforming her heroism into a deep-seated caution that shaped her outlook on the world.
Her childhood was a web of family secrets. She believed she'd been left with a couple she called Aunt and Uncle while her parents took her younger brother away. The truth? She was raised by her birth father and his then-mistress, as divorce simply wasn’t on the menu back then. In a twist straight out of a family saga, I received a call from a man claiming to be her brother, who had been searching for her for over 20 years. The kicker? He found us just 12 days after she’d passed away.
Nan had a unique knack for instilling caution—so much so, she almost had me scared of inanimate objects and my own ability to navigate the world. “Watch out, you don’t trip on that step,” or “Careful, you don’t bang your head on that shelf,” were her constant refrains. The irony? My street art name is hers: Winniemay. A fitting tribute, though I often imagine her at the bottom of my ladder or scaffolding, shouting and swearing at me to get down before I break my neck!
1970s Pencil Sharpener
PHOTOGRAPHS AND BROKEN RECORDS
My mum and me in photobooth 1971
Family stories and everyday objects carry layers of memory—they tell us about our personal ,cultural and social history. This is what is at the heart of my art. It all started with an old, damaged vinyl record and a couple of old black and white photographs—scratched and punctured—the only couple items that have a physical link I have to my mother. These items have such a weight to them both as a personal keepsake and as part of a family story.
I’ve always been fascinated by old photographs. There’s something about them that pulls me in. I’ve picked up many from charity shops or antique stores. One of my most precious photos is an old photo booth picture of me and my mother. It’s one of only two pictures I have of her, and it’s sparked many stories in my mind about who she might have been having never really had the chance to know.
Over time, these collected and found images have become a focus for my story telling with painting. They’ve been the foundation for so many imagined lives. Strangers’ faces, caught in moments long before my time, often feeling familiar. It’s like they hold pieces of stories I’ve always been searching for. They might not truly belong to me, but I can’t help but feel connected to them.