The cat is black and fluffy and, it announces by rolling on its back in the parched summer grass, keen to befriend us.
I lean down to give it a pet. I’ve taught my daughter how to, and how not to, stroke a cat (stick to the head; avoid the belly, however tempting). I’ve also impressed on her the need to suss the cat out first. I tell her this one looks friendly, but she is still nervous, which is no bad thing: cats can be fickle and prone to the odd out-of-the-blue nip or scratch.
I feel guilty that I can’t give her a furry companion of her own. Circumstances prevent it. “One day,” I tell her. For now, we content ourselves with spotting the neighbourhood cats on our walks and giving them names (Spot, Torty, Rat-Cat, Brooke…). We’ve got to know their personalities. Some recognise us from afar and trot up to greet us. Some duck for cover under the nearest car. Others remain simply aloof.
Today we are on the small slope of grass beside the square parking area, where some steps lead up to the main road. It’s a threshold space, a transit point where quiet neighbourhood turns into busy thoroughfare. At this time of year, it is spattered red, pink and purple by the poppies and other flowers planted near the wall, which displays a spray of lilac graffiti. On the path lies a flattened, stripy straw.
It must be hot, I think, all that thick fur in the sun. Yet there the cat is, utterly unbothered, a winter coat on a summer day, rolling happily in the desiccated grass. It seems a shame to let the moment pass, so I decide to paint it.
And so I embark on the “difficult second painting”, hoping I am not a one-hit, or one-cat, wonder (if I ever was that).
In some ways, it is smoother sailing than my first voyage: I’ve learnt an artistic grammar, or style, that works and can be adapted. But I’m keen not to replicate. I want each new painting to be different from the last, to tell a new story and capture a unique feeling. I return to the spot, take some photos, and pick some grasses to print onto the cat, which, by happy accident, turn out looking like whiskers.
I’m happy with the finished result, which has a colourful, comic-book feel. I like that this small, mundane space in suburban West Yorkshire has distinct Tokyo vibes: the steps, the lilac graffiti, and the bold, saturated colours could almost belong to a Japanese side street.
We saw the cat maybe once or twice more, but never again at that spot. Perhaps it will return. Perhaps not. Either way, in the painting, it’s still there, rolling in the grass.
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