My mother was an artist and a very bright woman but, like so many of her generation, there was nowhere for clever, inspiring women like her to shine and thrive; we women are so lucky today. She was an only child and her letters home from boarding school to her parents in Argentina were peppered with drawings; it seemed as if words were not enough for her, she had to illustrate everything she wanted to say as well. Art school in London was swiftly followed by marriage in Yorkshire and then three children, so her painting took a back seat for a while, but she always drew - this was an integral part of who she was. I couldn’t believe how she seemed to know the shape of things she couldn’t see and could draw an animal or a person, or anything at all from her imagination; it seemed like magic. When she found the time she painted in oils and I remember the warm smell of the linseed as she worked the paint with her palette knife. She loved working in pastels too, blending and scraping to get the effect she wanted; her hands and clothes were often covered in a sludgy mixture of chalky colours. She was always in a hurry; thoughtful, sensitive, passionate about creativity, a great cook, a brilliant wordsmith, an avid reader, a quick decision maker, a good friend. She encouraged us to be all of these things too, but above all to be creative. She wanted us to experiment and try new things, to read books we might not have chosen for ourselves, to write stories and poems and plays, to use our hands. She sketched us often, casually capturing the movement and sense of us far better than any photograph ever could. I wish I still had those sketches but my memory of them, and her as she drew us, will have to do. She died far too young and even now, after all these years, fifty in fact, I would give anything to see her again for a moment, of course I would, but I don’t need to have her here beside me to know she would be thrilled that I am a maker now. She’d laugh her tinkling laugh and say, ‘My darling, what took you so long?’