The genesis of the book was dad’s growing dementia. My attempts to elicit stories were somewhat belated, and in any event hampered by his culture of anything about himself would be boasting, limiting his recounts to the self effacing. 

Like my paintings I persevered until I liked my book – and only then wanted to bare it to others, perhaps subject it to others, at least risk it.

To me, and a little to my own pleasant surprise, the writing came out as reflective, and the verging to poetic allowed, for me, more honesty. 

Self indulgent? Well, fuck it, it’s a memoir.

By being bare (and I hope honest) I have learnt more about myself. Recklessness and immaturity.

The main thing is: the book has loads of paintings which I believe enhance.