My father was always pestering me to draw more. He didn't think much of my photography - no, that's not fair, he came to appreciate some of my photos, but he didn't find it interesting, because, to his mind, it was the work of a machine, not of hand/eye co-ordination (very Ruskinian, there). What he completely failed to take on board was how intimidating his own skills were - as a draftsman (he did, after all, design the house that I'm sitting in); calligrapher; water colorist; painter in oils; and, as here, wood engraver. This was my parents' Christmas card in - maybe 1956? Maybe a little earlier? There is something of a Festival of Britain flourish to it. But honestly - it's impressive, and, well, something that's hard to live up to. I'm thinking this may find its way as a decoration into the funeral Order of Service: I certainly want to include some example of his art.
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