When my parents broke up when I was eight, it was more than my home that became fragmented. My time did too.
For a long time, my brother and I would jump on the train every Saturday to visit my dad. The trains were fast and the people always in a rush. But my dad lived on a peaceful mews street where nothing much ever happened or changed, and our visits were usually only punctuated by a slow walk around the park, examining the kid's section of the Sunday newspaper, and perhaps a walk through an exhibition at one of London's galleries until my brother's patience wore too thin.
For me, disjointed from my home and friends, I got infuriated by the lack of pace. Time moved so slowly there. My body was itching to move, to laugh, to play. The transition from one place to another changed not only the landscape but the flow of time too. I was forced to spend a long time with nothing to do but look. In my youth, it all seemed rather pointless.
But I learned to look, learned to see, and at some point, I learned how to translate this into painting, into art.
And when my dad died just two decades later, I found that my memories were filled with his images. I remember the exhibitions we saw together, the ice creams in the park, feeding squirrels, even the Sunday suppliments. My visual memories of those weekends are probably the most complete memories I have. They're visceral, tangible. And in his absence, they are also the most treasured things I have.
One of the images - which I can still see clear as day - is of the clock that sat on the top shelf of his book case in the dining room. The bookcase was lined with photo albums that documented all the people and places that were important to him. All except the top shelf, on which, alone, stood an ornamental antique clock. Ceramic with an intricate blue design that resembled the willow paintings popular in the Victorian era, this little clock always caught my attention. It never worked, in all the time that he lived in that quiet mews house. It didn't even have any hands.
But my dad - broken-clocked and absent of a watch - was never late. I would test him - spring upon him a random time check - and he'd look up at the sky and say, "oooh, about half-past three...". And I'd look at my watch and find the hands pointing to 3.34.
So now, as I create artworks of broken clocks and watches, it's not the time that's important. It's the creation of a dialogue between myself and my dad. It's the time spent being quiet and looking, with nothing much to do other than to find the exact right gear to go in the exact right spot. My need for pace has dwindled, and I can find my dad still residing in the slow.
Anna x
Comments