I found two small sketch books amongst my late mother's possessions. After suffering a stroke aged 70, she became increasingly disabled, and over the next 14 years of her life, living in progressively small spaces as her world shrank along with her physical abilities. We painted together when she was more able, but she stopped wanting to: I would leave her pencils and watercolours with her in her room when I popped round: they were always put away out of reach on my return. But she must have drawn, I have these records.
Most sketches are of chairs. I have followed her marks, trying to trace her thoughts as she drew, and intermingling these with my memories and letters from her life. This has resulted in a series of etchings, collographs, monoprints and paintings. The work is as yet incomplete, a small selection is shown. The aquatint used is rough, homemade, developed during the first lockdown when I couldn't get to the studio. But the graininess feels right with the haziness of time and memory.
