Struggling, I went to the subterranean bookshop at the Louvre, looking for some artistic nourishment.
Hidden away on the shelves in the back corner, was one particular book. A hard covered catalogue of recent works by a French painter, Gerard Garouste. A million books and I stumbled across this one, or it found me.
His paintings resonated and shared a sensibility akin to my work. Stories about his life, constructed with pathos and humour, and a keen eye for subtle and intriguing distortions. Work that endeavoured to make sense of all that had gone before.
It was to be profound.