As a kid our cat Sally would mate with a feral Tomcat who lived in the wild. Two months later she’d pop out a litter of kitties, often in the washing basket in the laundry, amongst our dirty socks and pyjamas.
Sally was a good mother and a beautiful cat with an incredible light grey fur, a colour I’ve never really seen since. And couldn’t mix on a palette even if I tried.
Sometimes we’d find hessian sacks on the river’s edge under a bridge, filled with kittens and a brick. My parents were too clever for that, they’d organise a scout camp on our property and by the end of the camp, every scout would go home with a kitten.
As an artist, if you’re lucky – or good – or a bit of both, your work finds a new home. It doesn’t end up at the bottom of the river. Even when I do sell work, I wonder where it’s gone, what conversations it’s overhearing and what it can see from its position on a wall.
Recently, I’ve been sent photos of my works in their new homes and I absolutely love them. I love seeing them happy, in place and it gives me a sense of pleasure and closure. It’s stupid in a way, but I want to know where they are – and here they are – in New Zealand, Great Britain and Australia.