Inheritance

Norwich castle open art show

This was my grandfather’s chair, though I never knew him. When I was young, my father would sit in it with his legs outstretched, hidden behind The Times. My mother re-covered it in yellow; she was Australian and missed the sun. Later the webbing began to sag and I would fight with my sister to see who could claim the seat to watch telly. The chair survived, a bit battered, but after my sons started to jump about on it, that’s when the arm broke. Recently I rescued it for my studio, cannibalising another seat cushion and tying it together with a luggage strap. For a long time it linked me with my past and I’d sit in it and read about painting. I shared it with a mouse.

Now all that is left of the chair is this painting.