One of my earliest memories is of peeling wallpaper from the wall next to my bed. The paper consisted of random patterns of tan squiggles on a pale cream background. A small part had become detached from the underlying surface and it was that which stimulated my enthralled activity. Many years before, someone had painted the wall a deep blue. A blue with the same intensity as the sky or the areas of ocean on a map. And that was what I was doing. By removing sections of wallpaper I was creating a world of islands and seas, a world of my imagination.

I remember the feel of the paper under my finger nails as I fretted at the edges to free them. I recall the joy when a section peeled away easily, the excitement of seeing how far it would go, what new shape would appear as the tide of blue raced into the parched ‘land’.

I remember the hurt, not the pain of the slap you understand, no, the bitter hurt at my mother’s inability to enter the world of my imagination. I could not see the hurt she must have felt at the destruction of her real world surroundings that my endeavours represented to her.

Perhaps that is the origin of what would become, over the years, a difficult relationship between us: a relationship that probably underlies much of my present day creative activities in which I often feature women, women I hope are portrayed as strong and independent.

The above post suggested by a prompt posted at Endever Publishing