Michael Price’s workspace and a piece of his artwork in progress
Memories
When my mother died, she was very old. Born in 1888, she was in her 97th year. She had been in the geriatric ward of her local hospital. Her final possessions were almost embarrassingly few: an empty, rather tatty handbag, a brown leather attaché case, and a plastic supermarket bag in which were her paintbrushes – some 18 of them, ranging in size from a No. 1 Rigger to a couple of No. 8s, and almost all of them sables – and her two paint boxes. The brushes were nearly as old as the boxes; one of the boxes had her monogram scratched into the hinged palette and the year, 1905.