Why I painted the wolves

I painted the wolves on a Sunday night, which tells you most of what you need to know. Sunday nights were when the week arrived early: the marking that had not marked itself, the parents' evening on Tuesday, the observation that might or might not happen on Thursday. I had a jar of water, a sheet of the good paper I was saving, and about forty minutes before I needed to be asleep.

The figure flying over the top of the picture is not falling. People assume she is falling. She is leaving, which is different, and the wolves are not chasing her. They are howling at something else entirely. That is the bit I wanted to get right and the bit that took three attempts.

Three attempts, one Sunday

The first version was too literal. Wolves with faces, a moon, the works. The second was too polite. The third is the one in the book, and it is the one where I stopped trying to explain and let the ink do what ink does when you are tired and slightly cross.

Chapter three is the year the department lost two teachers and gained a spreadsheet. If you have taught, you will know the spreadsheet. If you have not, the wolves are the spreadsheet. That is as much as I will say here, because the chapter says it better and I would like you to read it.

The original painting is A3 and lives in a drawer. The print in the shop is the same size. I signed the first fifty by hand at the kitchen table, which took a whole evening and was, honestly, the nicest evening I have had with that picture.