One of my fondest childhood memories is that of me and my father sitting around a table where he has spread out many sheets of paper, each one with a slightly different texture.
There are charcoals and pencils with different markings on them.
The care and delight with which he handles these things makes me feel that I'm about to witness something very special.
Then, he makes the first mark on the sheet and right before my eyes I see him transform - he is smiling like a child. He is my age!!
He sees only his work and is oblivious to all else.
On the paper, I see random dancing lines. They run towards each other, pause and dart into different directions, loop back, intersect, get tangled, only to bring out the story of a donkey carrying laden baskets on either side of it's back.
Next to it is his master, a man with a very proud yet gentle face. He is carrying a big staff in one hand and from the place they appear on the paper, I can sense that they have walked a very long distance.
I watch with rapt attention as little details appear.
My dad looks up, we smile together.
This is such a lovely way to spend our afternoons together!
Afternoons - when we looked at how other people drew and painted, when I learnt how to take care of the tools or how to appreciate good craftsmanship. Most importantly, to relish the joy of diving headlong into the wonderful world of imagery.
Then we moved house - many times. My father was in the army.
Each new city brought new things to adjust to and each move added a slightly different rhythm to our routine.
Me and my Dad were like travellers who, when they met nodded at each other, comfortable in the knowledge that they were old buddies and were only waiting to get to a place where they would finally settle down for a good long chat .
It got busier and busier, I cant remember when we made the switch.
Now I drew, and he watched.
Time for me seems to flow in many different directions all at once.
There, I find myself living in Oman listening to my Mom over the phone, telling me very excitedly that she and my Dad were coming to visit us. I remember I was more nervous than excited.
It was the peak of the Middle Eastern summer and I was concerned that after the first few days my Dad would find himself miserably confined to the indoors - all the outdoorsy things he loved were quite difficult to pursue.
Then a flash of inspiration!
When they arrived, my Dad found on his side of the bed a stash of painting supplies and a book about the birds of Oman. It had beautiful photographs by a brilliant wildlife photographer. On top of it I had left him a note, which retold the story both of us knew very well, and a request to 'come meet me halfway'.
He ended up painting a series of four beautiful, vibrant surfaces!
Getting him to peel away from his painting to join us for lunch was always a challenge.
Next, it's Canada. I catch a glimpse from a year ago. I was working on a painting of ducks in a pond. I had spotted them on my walk and told him I was fascinated by how they stood in the near freezing water of a shallow stream.
Each time we skyped, he wanted to see the progress.
He was very keen to see how it would go and actually persuaded me to skip the finishing up of another painting because he was impatient to see how certain birds in the composition would turn out to be.
We didn't know that this time around I needed to work faster than usual.
Today, 'we' start again...
Me by dipping my brush in the same oil well I got for him on his visit to Oman.
I had found it amongst his things when I was tying up as neatly as I could his personal belongings - each one a souvenir of a whispered story.
For now this is a new painting, the 'ducks' lie in waiting.
I've found the oil well and the sticks of charcoal. In time, I'll find
my way to the ducks as well.
Ps. I wrote this a couple of years ago to 'introduce' my Dad to a very dear friend. As I'm almost ready to 'publish' my website, I felt it only appropriate to have this as the first post on my blog.