Like many, my childhood ambition was never realized. For as far back as I can remember I wished to be an artist, nothing else. A sickly child, I spent months at home while friends were out in the playfield, drawing and painting, and pouring over art albums stacked inside an antique teak almirah. Gauguin, Van Gogh, Cézanne, Derain, Vlaminck, Modigliani and Picasso. Waylaid into an uninspiring vocation as a grown up, the artist, nevertheless, managed to survive and peeked out occasionally from the pages of my novels. Photography was a consolation of sorts, till I returned to painting a few years back.
I have never dabbled in anything. And so, I must wait to show my art till it wears off its early romance and turns robust.
