It's twelve years since my father died. There was some unpleasantness, not of his doing, that kept me away from his former home; some business related to another more recent death meant that I picked up a few of his things a couple of weeks ago. Maybe I'll write more about that in time.
This is his watercolour tin. Everyone's palette gives you some idea of their painting style, I think. Here's mine, though with a freshly-wshed palette, for added mystery. Here's a poem I wrote about it, and addressed to dad.
...it was odd picking up dad's art stuff after it had lain unused for so long (though it doesn't seem that long really). Some of the fine liner pens wrote as freely as though they had only just been put down. The tubes of watercolour, though, were all dried solid, except for one single tube that's still usable.
I've been looking at the tin, wondering what to do, and finally bit the bullet and washed the palette. And I've ordered replacement tubes of paint. So the tin's going to be back in use again.
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