Anyone who’s familiar with Stevenson’s work will know that his warped depictions of things are half of what makes it so charming. And I absolutely love his slightly terrifying take on my face. It hangs, pride of place, in my hallway, where visitors struggle to know what to make of it. More than one person has felt compelled to reassure me that I don’t look like that.
Two years ago, my friend commissioned the artist Ian Stevenson to do a portrait of me. He’d been accepting drawing requests via Instagram and, knowing I love his work, she sent over a photo of me and my dog and dutifully awaited the portrait’s arrival. When my friend eventually handed it over to me, wrapped in brown paper, she felt compelled to beg me not to be offended.