On April 28 my Grand Mother died. Grand Pat as I call her. Because she WAS grand. Patricia Freemantle. Age 94. I painted this on the day she died to spend some time with her. Her indomitable spirit shone through right to the end. Smoking like a chimney, drinking like a fish, glint in her eye. She died without any of us there, bloody Covid 19. She challenged life and all who came across her without fail. The last conversation I had with her, right near the end, I asked her “how are you feeling?”. She said, typically deadpan “I think I’m dying”, and then a little Edith Piaf style chuckle. I was always proud to have such a fabulous woman as my grandmother. I’ve always shown off about her. She was a true romantic, a bohemian spirit, a restless soul with impeccable taste. A woman after my own heart. She rocked. For now I picture her sailing into that sunset, spinnaker out with all the rainbows and angels and stars singing in unison. Cigarette in hand. No looking back.