I was in class nine when I started to pay close attention to my father – an artist who’s been painting for more than 24 years. I’d watch him paint our culture on a piece of canvas for hours at a time.
He would paint such perfect strokes. I remember asking him, “How do you paint the fruits and the vegetables to look so real?” And he said, “You just see them, then feel intensely about painting them as they are. When you pick up that brush and make sharp strokes, you know what your mind wants. You can do this.”
My mother was never involved in my painting. She would say I painted all the time and never did any housework. But she was mostly jovial and very supportive.