came from. “But we kept coming back
here to see friends,” Mel says. “It got
to the point where I said ‘this is bloody
stupid,’ and we came back.”
But when did he properly get to
exercise his artistic talent again?
“I used to flirt with it quite often,” he
says. “If I had some spare time and
nothing to do, instead of reading
a book I would do a painting – but
nothing serious until I retired.”
I question Mel about the amount of
time he must spend on his own being
an artist.
“Strange you say that,” he responds.
“Billie says I should get out more.
When I start painting I lose everything
around me. It's total concentration
on what I'm doing – it's very tiring
actually. I'll start painting and four
or five hours later Billie will say: ‘you
haven't drunk that coffee.’ And I
haven’t even realised she's brought me
a coffee.
“I can go three days without speaking
to anyone,” he says citing this as the
reason for attending an art group.
Despite hosting a lot of artists, who
are “very good” in the eyes of Mel,
Carterton doesn’t
have an art group.
So the town’s
Hockneys and
Turners head over
to Lechlade, or
– as is the case
for Mel – Witney,
even though
he confesses
to not showing
a great deal of
enthusiasm when
a friend first
suggested he go.
His group was led
by a Russian lady
by the name of
Eva, who died not
so long ago. “She
was very good,”
Mel claims while
thinking back to
how “dreadful”
he was when he
first started in the
group. “I couldn't
get it together at
all. It's difficult, like
a lot of things, if
you don't keep the
practice up you
can't do it.” Eva
guided Mel, “she
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