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This is me at Tate Britain in London next to a Henry Moore sculpture called Draped Seated Woman

I was chatting to my old father one day and he suddenly mentioned casually that his dad had lived next door to the famous British sculptor Henry Moore. 

Of course I didn't believe him, but after some research it turned out to be true. 


Back in the beginning of the last century in Castleford, Yorkshire, my grandad and Henry Moore went to the same school. They walked there together every morning until Henry left and ended up at art school while grandad went down the pit as a coal miner at the Castleford colliery. Sometimes art does literally elevate you. 

By then, I had been a sculptor for about ten years, so it amazes me that it had never occurred to my father to mention it. There can be some real surprises in one's family history.


This photo should really be titled  'An artist's work and a coal miner's grandson'.

I left England and moved to Sweden in 1987.

I am lucky now having two nationalities and also having two cultural home lands. Back then I wasn’t a sculptor, well I guess I was but I hadn’t quite discovered it yet,  I did however have a fledgling creativity stirring within me. 


After a few years I became an illustrator and worked professionally as such for over a decade. Then in 2009 I went to art school hoping to develop my painting skills but to my surprise I discovered sculpture. It was a bit of a Cinderella moment. I tried on the glass slipper and it fitted perfectly. So that’s when I found out I was a sculptor. 


In 2011 I moved with my family to Mexico. It was meant to be a six month experiment, but it lasted for four years and in that time I worked and created in the bronze foundry of my dear friend Mario Gomez. Thats where I made my first bronze sculpture. What a lovely  feeling holding a piece of art and knowing that it could last for 5000 years or more. The enduring magic of bronze. 


I have made many bronzes since then, and clay sculptures too. 

My hands are either dry from constantly working the clay, or tender from all the hot wax that gently burns my fingertips.


But dry or hot fingers is a small price to pay for the privilege of sculpting. 


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