When I was a child, we lived in Denmark for a couple of years. For my first birthday over there, my parents gave me a Dutch translation of a volume of stories by Ole Lund Kirkegaard.
This Danish writer was astoundingly good at portraying wisecracking boys surrounded by capricious adults. And his drawings are superb.
Researching the writer just now, I discovered he froze to death at the age of 38 in that very same year, just a couple of weeks after my birthday, 70 kilometres from where we were living at the time.
I remember that winter. It was harsh. We were even snowed in for a couple of days.
Only when I finished this painting (another co-creation with Top4), I realised his story about Lille Virgil had been in the back of my mind all the time. This was my favourite.
Somehow, knowing the writer died not far from where I had just landed as a six year old starting first grade, at the same age as I am now, adds a touch of tenderness to the painting as it gets archived in the bright green cabinet in the left-hand corner of my heart (that's where I keep the co-creations).
Funny how those things work out in my art.
PS Been toying around with a new photo editor - not up to par yet.





















