Ramblings of a Painter

My memories of being taught to read are painful, letters of the alphabet had a will of their own and never came together in any predictable way. Lines were different, one could make up stories as one went along, bending each line to one's will. Growing up in a house where the word was paramount may perhaps explain the escape into a parallel realm. The tactile pleasure of moving a line across an alabaster surface - the physicality of colour.