Barry van Gogh.


I visited my dad today – and while I was there, he showed me some of his recent sketches.

He used to paint when I was younger. He took it up as a hobby, going to the local art club once a week. 

Sometimes they’d be on the lookout for models, so I’d volunteer my services. I found it hard to stay still for an extended period, so I’d take a book to keep me occupied. This resulted in a shedload of pictures of me looking at my lap; probably not the sort of thing you’d want to grace your walls.

(It’s worth clarifying that I did it fully-clothed.)

My dad specialised in watercolours, though he’d also do the occasional in oils. He’d sell the odd one here and there; there were a few on permanent display at the carvery at the Gordon Craig Theatre, which I’d often go and look at when I went to their weekly drama club.

(The theatre ran the drama club. Not the carvery; that would just be weird.)

He shared a studio on Stevenage High Street with another artist, splitting the rent at the ridiculously low price of 50p a week. He only gave the space up relatively recently, which was a shame; it must have been nice to have a place to concentrate on his artwork.

I only went there a few times. It was packed with canvasses, some framed and some not – plus a couple of attempts at sculpture; it looked like the last refuge of a tortured artist.

Eventually work got in the way, giving him less time to paint. Then, a couple of months back he retired – and slowly he’s started to regain his interest. He meets up with a few friends once a week, driving to a different location to do a spot of sketching.

Today was the first time I’d seen what he'd been up to. They're great, with lovely composition; I wish I could draw like that.

It’s nice to see him at it once again. I hope he keeps it up.

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