It has adorned the prominent wall of every place I have inhabited since. Morrisseau's mystical creatures have watched me progress through my polyester John Revolta period in the 70's, then my insatiable Reacher period, Porsche and all, in the greedy 80s, my mellowing and uncoupling from materialism in the 90's and my scary move into self employment as the new century found me well into middle age.
I never had my Morrisseau appraised. It is only a print after all,and I don't care what it would fetch anyway. Those silent creatures have witnessed much of my adult life, watched me celebrate my petty triumphs with mute patience, seen me through divorce, disease and despair.
That is the value of the print.
Morrisseau suffered from many demons. Addiction of course. A debilitating disease. But in my view, the worst demons were the dealers who sold bogus representations of his work and the managers who paid him daily wine money to turn out paintings with his shaking hands. Hell has a special room for them.
He is free of all of those demons now. He is in the spirit world he so often brushed with his majestic paintings, trying to let us glimpse what he knew..