My brother was one of life's irregulars.
Both ordinary and extraordinary.
What he did, what he created in his work, he did on his own.
Little support, little education, certainly no opportunity to go to Art School.
What he did was to plough his own furrow, to find himself as an artist, unmediated, for good or ill, by any formal training or involvement in the art establishment and its various movements and cliques over the decades he painted.
He painted from where he stood.
The jazz musician Thelonious Monk wrote 'A genius is the one most like himself'.
My brother in his life and his art was always exactly himself.
He lacked confidence, aspiration and ambition but was also mercifully free of pretence, artfulness and self aggrandisement in his work. With little thought or hope of recognition, he painted with total commitment.
He painted because he had to and in doing so conjured a world now lost - with a clarity and consistency that is both painful and joyful.
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