My mother died this year. Another book from the library of life has been closed forever. She is buried in an old graveyard in Africa next to her mother. Their lives cover more than a hundred years in Africa but their voices are silent.

As I struggle to come to terms with this fatal rupture in my life, I find myself wondering what tale I might tell and where my story belongs in the library of life.

I am working on a series of drawings collaged with photos from my past that take an ironic and sentimental look at ‘my story’.
The drawings are representations of school lessons, actual experiences, dreams and fears and memories. Combined with the photos they question whether I am perpetrator, protagonist, victim or just a person.

My perceptions are inevitably compromised, restricted, and overwritten by recent experience. So the drawings are deliberately crude and immediate because that is how life is delivered. How true can my story be?

Does any history, any story remain ‘true’ always? What would you put into a drawing of your ‘true’ history of yourself?