I rather enjoy looking back at photos of my old paintings, or even at the paintings themselves.
I once went to a house where the owner was desperate 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 complete mystery.
I've always rather liked this large painting (above) 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 afterwards, and just sat in a Café, trying to reconcile myself.
Whilst going through a pile of old snaps, I came across this one of me sitting in a Café; possibly trying to reconcile myself about criticism. 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 20 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.
N.B. The above is re-posted from 2014.