I rather enjoy looking at photos of my old paintings, or even at the paintings themselves.
I once went to a house where the owner wanted to show me one of my old paintings that she'd bought. When I saw it I couldn't remember it at all; I simply had no recollection whatsoever of having painted it. Some time later I did remember it, but how I'd originally forgotten it is still a mystery.
I've always rather liked this large painting entitled 'Small War'. When it was almost finished a painter friend of mine visited my studio and accused me of 'losing the plot'. I was quite disturbed by his comment as I'd thought the total opposite. I remember that I didn't paint for weeks after, and just sat in a Café.
Whilst going through the same pile of old snaps, I came across this one of me sitting in a Café. I think it must be the only surviving picture of me with a cigarette in my mouth.
When I think of how I spent about 40 years with packets of untipped Gauloises in my pocket, it makes me shudder (I quit about 16 years ago). It's a bloody miracle that I don't have breathing or other tobacco related problems; untipped Gauloises are some of the strongest fags around.