Blank canvas

I never have the right words at these times, but I guess that at times like these, words don't matter that much. My father had a good life in many ways and passed away as a good man - someone other men would be lucky to be. A good life doesn't mean an easy life and it could be that an easy life is rarely good. I believe we need the pain to understand and be grateful for the things we get to enjoy and I think that without pain, we might never struggle to improve, to strive for some kind of better experience - for ourselves or for others.

My dad did strive for better and a lot of his life was spent improving the experience of those he came in contact with, while he himself went without - and I don't think those he helped realised the burdens he shouldered in silence. He did express himself through his art however and I think that those around the world who have a piece of his work, also have a piece of him, the man, not the artist. They might have more than they will ever know; we probably all hold more than we know.

From this point on, my dad is a memory to those who he has affected in life, but for his family, his children and grandchildren, he is also a part of us that can never be forgotten and is impossible to extract - he is core to who we are physically and our individual personalities. In many ways we his children represent his art, an eclectic range of styles and skills that cross over mediums and paint outside the edges.

My father didn't frame his work, he painted the entire canvas to the wall, as it gave the sense of continuance and the work was a perspective he provided, but there is always more to the story, more off frame. He invited the audience to build and complete their story from where he left them space to grow.

This is where we are now, at the end of the edge of the story we walked with him and the future space to grow is ours to paint.