Henry

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This is Henry. I painted him in the garage that Victoria calls a shed. I put the acrylic paper pad upon the step ladder and set to work.

Henry is a chap I read a lot of on trains and buses when I was pretending to be a wild and roving chap like I had read about in the books and magazines when I was 24.

Some of it was about shagging and quite embarrassing to read on public transport, but the bits that were about acceptance, becoming and being an artist were right up my rhododendrons. 

I’ve tried reading him now, mainly the bits I underlined in the books that survived all the back and forths on public transport, and some of it is appealing and some not so much - similar to how it was then.

But it was the idea of him and the approach that was most appealing. The licence to just call yourself an artist or writer or whatever, and make your books and paintings and songs, and to hell with anyone else.

This was Henry Miller to me, which, as previously stated, is a little embarrassing what with all the shagging and that. But what can be done about that. It was his business and it was what I was reading on the way to wherever I was been transported.