Something provocative and challenging for Christmas, I thought, instead of the usual snowmen, Santas, cribs and candles. At some point or other, in just about every household, someone has to negotiate one of these things, put one hand on that cold, clammy breast while the other, charged with herby breadcrumbs, ventures up its vent. What could be more redolent of Christmases past, present and to come? In my mind, it was to be plump, appetising, innocuous; humorous even. The reality was a bleak and cheerless memento mori; a Goya under a fluorescent light; a Freud of the kitchen counter top. Not really Christmas card material at all.
And so, I retreated to the safety of something more traditionally iconic. Mistletoe is culturally replete; pagan, Christian and parasitic, all at the same time, but it only looks right when its hanging upside down.
I've also become overfond of phthalo green mixed with white and a little red. The result is antiseptic rather than festive.
Out came the watercolours, a soft, fat nylon brush and a determination to finish the whole thing in as few strokes as possible.
At last, something neither coldly clever nor vapidly original. I find its green grin uplifting. Or are those arms outstretched? A child could have done it in a few minutes but it took me the entire day.
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