Feeling destructive
Developed from a sketch of the Hole of Horcum, North York Moors National Park In the early 1980's I was living in an attic bedsit in Streatham Hill in south London. I loved this tiny flat, I imagined that I was a starving artist in a garret in Paris in the 19th Century but in fact I was neither starving nor a real artist. I was working at a magazine publishers in a job that was unfulfilling and deadly boring that I felt had no prospects (other than a pension if I stayed there for my entire working life). I had graduated from art college a couple of years before and had duly lugged my portfolio of work around from my parents home in Wellingborough to my first flat in Tooting and then carted it over to Streatham and up the stairs to the attic. I began to wonder why I'd bothered to keep all this stuff and I decided I'd feel better about life if I chucked it all out. So I did just that. I carefully reviewed every piece of work and concluded that the only place for it was in l
