Walking in search of the golden dancing iris at the airfield. There were ponies and foals and butterflies and orchids, skylark and linnets and the constant song of a calling cuckoo.
Back home. I have been illustrating now for almost 30 years and still I find the tyranny of the white page a strange torture. I have stalked toward this tiger for about three weeks, creeping up, hiding behind paintings of foxes, wolves, trying to catch the tiger while it was unaware . Now the piece is started, so the page is no longer blank, white, waiting. And now I just think, ah well, there's still time to spoil it.
So what is it about this process that I enjoy?
And what is behind the tiger that I am still stalking?