Tribute to McCracken

Through sheer good fortune and happenstance I met the artist, Francis McCracken, in a small family-run Italian cafe.  My name is Moyra.  My home town was Edinburgh... the Edinburgh in the 1950s where custom was to meet out for breakfast.  I was then 16. We became instant friends. Sometime later, I learned that McCracken was considered a ‘recluse’ –  at least by the Art establishment and the media.  This seemed in direct contradiction to the McCracken I knew;  and to the art students, friends and occasional new acquaintances who, intermittently, flowed in and out of his Forth Street studio dwelling at that time. A stream of diverse people were his willing sitters . He painted day and night and, when not engaged with portraiture, he produced the most exquisite flower studies. Two years later I married and left Edinburgh  - with its then so- interesting conclave of poets, writers, folklorists and painters  - and our steadfast firm friendship continued by letter.  This is a short excerpt from one of his first: ‘What are you doing in the way of painting Moyra?  I’ll come and haunt you if you don’t paint. Do you remember, when Nigel was a few months old and yelling his head off feeling you couldn’t cope, opening the door wide letting me in, having a chat and then getting on with it...   I think in spirit I’ll be on your doorstep waiting. I’ll never forget your account and how pleased I was.                                                                                                                                                  Well my dear I go on the same round from day to day  painting eating and sleeping  still I can get some excitement and a glimmer from time to time in my work,  and so to bed there to begin an adventure of the mind.                                                                                                                                                                              Goodnight and much love to you Moyra & also to Nigel and Rodger.      Always  your Bunnywugs’ Francis never explained why he occasionally signed himself to me as ‘Bunnywugs’.  I found it endearing.   Sixty years later I still treasure the letters he wrote AND THEN...   ... came 1959 and two policemen at my North Kensington door informing me that Francis had died

Tribute to McCracken

Through sheer good fortune and happenstance I met the artist, Francis McCracken, in a small family-run Italian cafe.  My name is Moyra.  My home town was Edinburgh... the Edinburgh in the 1950s where custom was to meet out for breakfast.  I was then 16. We became instant friends. Sometime later, I learned that McCracken was considered a ‘recluse’ –  at least by the Art establishment and the media.  This seemed in direct contradiction to the McCracken I knew;  and to the art students, friends and occasional new acquaintances who, intermittently, flowed in and out of his Forth Street studio dwelling at that time. A stream of diverse people were his willing sitters . He painted day and night and, when not engaged with portraiture, he produced the most exquisite flower studies. Two years later I married and left Edinburgh  - with its then so- interesting conclave of poets, writers, folklorists and painters  - and our steadfast firm friendship continued by letter.  This is a short excerpt from one of his first: ‘What are you doing in the way of painting Moyra?  I’ll come and haunt you if you don’t paint. Do you remember, when Nigel was a few months old and yelling his head off feeling you couldn’t cope, opening the door wide letting me in, having a chat and then getting on with it...   I think in spirit I’ll be on your doorstep waiting. I’ll never forget your account and how pleased I was.                                                                                                                                                  Well my dear I go on the same round from day to day  painting eating and sleeping  still I can get some excitement and a glimmer from time to time in my work,  and so to bed there to begin an adventure of the mind.                                                                                                                                                                              Goodnight and much love to you Moyra & also to Nigel and Rodger.      Always  your Bunnywugs’ Francis never explained why he occasionally signed himself to me as ‘Bunnywugs’.  I found it endearing.   Sixty years later I still treasure the letters he wrote AND THEN...   ... came 1959 and two policemen at my North Kensington door informing me that Francis had died