When I was eleven years old I moved with my parents to London,
From a refugee camp in the north of England – where we had lived
In huts made out of wood and felt covered in tar. We lived with my
Half-brother who was a photographer – when I was fourteen my
Parents separated, about the same time I painted a self-portrait and
Made a decision to become a painter.
Each piece of work;
I have made myself.
I have made darkness,
I have made pain –
I have made beehives.
I have made towers
That look over the sea.
I have made heads out
Of reverie and boats
Lined with dead fruit.
I have made a son out of
Memory and desire plus
Wood paint and wax.
A boy who makes and
I have made tables out of
Snow trees and sky.
I have made beds
With infinite precision.
I have made a dark red bird,
Dream of stories, by
Adding violet and ochre.
I have made the world small portable and embraced.
I have made a space in the dark quiet corner of my mind.
I have chewed paper and paint, making love cells and secret chambers –
I have used matter and matrix – animals and people-colour and texture –
Paint and wax – memory and desire.
I have made myself – a space to live in.