So how precisely does one end up loving russian constructivist and stencil posters as well as ornate italian brocades? Trained in interior design but happier making stuff from found objects and furniture in my backyard workshop?
It’s a case of nature and nurture. My brother, sister and I grew up in a ceramics studio, followed by a college art studio where mum (that rare being, a trained teacher but practicing artist) taught everything from ceramics to printing and more, followed by dad’s workshop. An architect by trade and furniture maker by nature… There’s a textile education in there somewhere as well.
In short, one cannot grow up in a house of studios where shoe lathes and turkish threshing boards constitute art, and paint tubes and books and ephemera line the walls, and not do what I do.
I have always said if I write a book I will dedicate it
‘to my parents, who made me who they are’.
Our tastes may differ, our chosen media may differ, but the infectious enthusiasm for all things hand made, not to mention all things found, remains the same.
Lengthy odes to their individual pursuits to follow.