I am still hungry for the presence of my father .

I suffered greatly from his long absence in Italy. I have this wonderful memory of our family gatherings…he taught us to listen carefully to other people, not to interrupt the speaker even if you disagreed with him, not to say things that wounded, at meals only to say what helped to encourage the general conviviality and to behave virtuously. My father radiated love. He was a very tender man, he held the family together. When he was a boy he had been deprived of maternal affection, and so he was tender, extremely tender, to all of us.

Both proud and modest, satisfied but not vain, careful of himself but attentive to other people’s problems, he lived in harmony with all the elements of his nature. I am sure that it was the exceptional devotion of my mother that enabled him to live for his painting. Without her he would never have found time to paint. My mother painted with him, without brushes, by creating an atmosphere of peace and serenity at home. He was entirely taken up with his art and left her the authority; it was she who looked after our education, our schooling, our trips, and everything we needed - our mother, father, sister and friend. The family was like an enterprise directed in the most remarkable way by my mother. She spiritually complemented my father. My father used to say, ‘When I’m painting, I don’t want anyone to disturb me.’