For six years, I woke up to the same row of Victorian houses in North London. One day, I began drawing them on a large piece of paper hung beside my bed. Years later, that drawing brings back memories of much more than the houses themselves.

On my first night in a small studio in Cricklewood, the fridge made so much noise that I got out of bed to move it around. Years later, I came across an unfinished drawing of it, complete with an empty wine bottle that still reminds me of someone I knew in London.

During the winter of 2023–24, my flat in Milton Keynes was sometimes so cold that even the olive oil began to solidify. Yet I remember those six months with real affection: Jurate helping me furnish the place, evenings under soft lighting and the drawings I made from bed. One particularly cold December night, unable to sleep, I began Starry Night at Lipscomb Lane.

There was nothing particularly special about my bathroom sink in Cricklewood, but one day I decided to draw it. At the time, I was struggling to find my own voice as an artist, moving from one style to another without much direction. I gradually began drawing the things around me. That small sink, with its dark-green tiles, was simply part of my everyday life.

At my Wednesday life-drawing sessions in Bethnal Green, the break sometimes included bread, cheese and a glass of red wine from a carton. The sessions cost just £6, and I loved the atmosphere. But the real challenge came when the model posed: sometimes I had only eight minutes to decide what was worth drawing. Gradually, I learnt to stop worrying about every detail and trust my instincts.

A glimpse of my mother in Sa Tuna, Costa Brava, in 1974 — surrounded by sunlight, the sea, and the freedom she loved.