Dylan began his work in his bedroom as a teenager, a wildness gripped him as he sat mixing different colours on paper, running his fingers along both the paint and the paper, searching for the perfect texture, the exact consistency. His work had a ferocious energy that receded as he learned and was replaced by a liminal quality. He developed a certain bloom, like a spring flower. His work had to be more than visual, it had to feel like the real thing and not a copy of what already existed.
These days his reputation preceded him, this was not always a good thing, strangers asking him personal questions. Kandinsky he replied when the detectives asked him his name. It starts becoming art when it stops being about money, he thought, stacking his latest batch of counterfeit notes into a suitcase as if they were miniature Van Goghs.
Author: Writer, reader, walker.