Chris was always a creature of communication. Not always kind and not always civil, but always wry and incisive and good humoured. Were Chris here, he would poke your stomachs, laugh at the growing lopsidedness of your collective faces, the errant hairs growing from nostril, earlobe and eyebrow. It would be in ridicule not of you personally, but of the absurdity of time and what it does to those who persist through it.

The bastard stroke - that speck of clotted blood that moved into his kingdom of grey matter was a treachery, a betrayal of the body against the body and it altered his life completely. In a moment, a lifetimes collection of words and thoughts and concepts was burned - Babel turned to babble. But there was a grace - Chris was left with his ego and drive and humour intact - the subterranean forces that had always charged through his literacy, his cutting wit.

Drawing and painting were already tools in Chris’ armoury of communication, and with the devastation of his library and voice - Aphasia and Apraxia left him to rely on these tools to describe the new world as he experienced it. So here are some of his many paintings, made in his workroom surrounded by records and musical kit, mountains of work and collected stuff. I don’t
need to tell you more about them, they speak for themselves. Enjoy. JWK