As the doctor was cutting the umbilical cord, he found my tiny fingers drawing patterns with birthing fluid on the receiving blanket. Unfortunately, the work was considered far too self-referential to be worth preserving. During my terrible twos, I painted an entire wall with oatmeal in an accurate reproduction of Edvard Munch’s The Scream of Nature. Unfortunately it was cleaned off by the babysitter before it could be preserved. Throughout my life I have often woken up from deepest sleep to find the lines of drool on my pillow have aligned themselves in pleasing patterns to match the arrangement of my limbs.
For the next several years, various educational institutions attempted by a range of methods, to beat, bore or frighten the compulsion to create out me but I resisted, drawing my protests in the margins of authoritarian mathematics and deontological literature texts with whatever materials came to hand. When I was released from the treadmill of education I fled to China where a lovely middle-aged Chinese man with a flawed lung in a string vest taught me the ancient secrets of Chinese watercolour and fed me watermelon and other nourishing fruits.
After a few years of living and various further attempts at education in an English port city guarded by giant mythical birds which filled my dreams with equal measures of anticipation and terror, I finally settled in Hong Kong. My days are filled with adventures, creations and hacking up lungfuls of smog. I currently beaver away in my Kowloon studio on a mostly daily basis.
When I am not at the studio, I am podcasting, storytelling and organising Hong Kong Stories, or taking miniaturised versions of real people on adventures with Tiny Trekkers Travel Agency.