I never met my mother until I sold enough paintings to go to Europe. When she met me, she said, you’re just like your father, which had so many edges on it I didn’t know where to look. I felt like saying, How would you know? How could she know anything about the man who raised me? She hadn’t seen him for more than twenty years. But I also wondered whether she might know him better than me, because she knew him when he was free.
When my dad was young he was a hippy dope smoker and an acidhead. It coloured his whole life a kind of purplegreen, but he didn’t go on about it.