We moved a great deal when we were growing up because of my father’s work, Libya, Colombia, Norway, Kuwait, Buckinghamshire.

There were two constants; coming back to family in Cornwall, and my mother’s ability to make anywhere into a home.

This often centred round the kitchen table, which was made into a daily still life. There were deep red and yellow rectangular Provençale place mats, with black napkins and pink plates, or a few quinces on an oval plate and the table with a pale blue damask cloth. In fact, still lives were made on any table – kitchen, coffee or side table, with flowers, Arabic coffee pots and glasses and coloured candles and cloths, in other words, a visual feast.

Whilst studying at Camberwell Art School, we were instructed to explore form in light in space, but I did not particularly choose still life. It was only after I had left home and had married that I was drawn to this motif. Maybe I was drawn back to it because it had been a joyful, still centre at the heart of a changing world.

The other role of the table was as a surface for my mother to do her watercolours. Painting was as usual an activity as any to her, and I remember watching her tip the paper up to make the paint move in the chosen direction.

There was a synergy between making a home, making something paintable and working at the table that seemed so natural it was infectious.