I’ve been looking at this face for 30 years, watching each line and furrow deepen, hair thin and recede. I hope I’ve done justice to the beauty of age and experience, and the light that comes from within.

This was painted on their 57th wedding anniversary. The title was optimistic. He died a few days before their 59th anniversary.

If it is geographically possible, an initial meeting is arranged where I get to know my sitter and many photos are taken. One is selected as a starting point for the portrait. The aim is to capture a natural pose while creating an interesting composition. The painting is inspired by this photo and interpreted in oil paint on canvas in the studio. This is a creative process, with progress monitored by email.
Commissions from abroad and far away are created by photos sent via email.

“These are lovely Ali -  you really capture the sparkle in these people!”

“... there´s a lot of character and warmth in that face, and I love the expression in his eyes, “

“Love Jim's portrait, it's brilliant.”

“His eyes are expressive and the whole combination of colours are very pleasing.”

“It's beautiful. Jim looks like a warm, friendly man.”

“I think this portrait of Jim is a wonderful piece of work. It is not only a great likeness but it also has a great depth.”

“The portrait is great, I have been showing it around the office, and it is receiving a lot of praise. It is so like Jim, quite spooky seeing his face staring out of the screen.”

“Everybody loves their portraits. Even Niccolo! He recognises everyone. Thanks so much for them”.

“… you are very good at making people feel "real" in your paintings. I could imagine what they were like even though I’ve never met them.”

“You have brought out her serenity and steadfastness.”

“a very touching and insightful portrait“

“...it's subtlety, compassion and hints at issues that exist beyond the canvas”

Now, when time is fragile
like her bird bones
thinned and hollowed.
Her body shakes helpless with laughter
eyes rheumy and narrowing
into lazy quarter moons.
She tells me stories of her old selves
stretching out over forgotten years …
The foolish silly girl
breaking in her mother’s shoes
with so much love
they become broken down …
The foolish silly bride
transplanted from exotic warmth
and left alone in leafy Surrey.
Planting tulips
pointing up, pointing down, lying down,
wanting bright colours
to delight her new baby’s eyes.

Finding we share, besides brown eyes,
dreams of suckling our young
beyond our youth,
even beyond all hope.
We thought ourselves alone.
We thought ourselves separate.
Instead, our sleeping thoughts
are moulded from the same clay.

Her youth held
evacuation, danger, fear.
Mine made love not war
swinging hip and cool
through electric dreamless nights.

I am the last.
I have none.
The thread that binds
mother to daughter
through tunnels of time,
co-conspirators in blood and tears,
stops here.

Ali McNab 2007