My dad died when I was just a lad leaving me with just a few vague memories of things we did together. The things I tend to remember more are the things he did funnily enough. He was always doing something, be that making furniture, printing his photography in the darkroom, screen printing, painting, or just sitting drinking whisky late at night playing his guitar. He never made it feel like we couldn't join in though, it was just he was busy and we were all happy to fit in around him because it made him what he was.
Memories can be triggered by many things, none more so than our sense of smell. So If you put a bottle of Rotring ink under my nose today I know I'd be straight back to dads study. His wooden swivel chair, his blood red desk, Letraset pages scattered all over and his Rotring pens all laid out, whilst he toiled over his latest poster for a local theatre or communist party poster . I always loved the coloured collars they all had and thought they must be very special. By Day his proper job was teaching kids with behavioral problems at a local school, but at night he'd let loose on his current creative outlet and we might not see him for hours. Its funny but as I write this I realise i'm becoming exactly the same. Every night I escape to my studio at home, somewhat oblivious to everything around me, and sit there and make music or work on images until the wee small hours. Got a lot of my dad in me I guess, although I never did get the taste for whisky.