THE EYE of THE HARE
THE EYE of THE HARE
A memoir about family, filmmaking and dexterity. I severely burnt my hands as a child and for me meaning in life comes from a slow attention to things. My love of nature comes from my father, Oliver Heywood, who was a landscape painter.
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My dad, who could draw, made me a flick book. A little picture in the corner of every page of a notebook, of a man, just a simple stick man, but drawn so that on each page his arms and legs were in a slightly different position. Then he gave me the book and told me what to do. I flicked through the pages, and saw the man running, then leaping into the air in a great jump, and landing again. Flicking each page, one after another, like a film.
I have one flash of memory from that day, which I’m sure is my own and not pieced together from what I learned later. It’s the first lasting image of my life. I’m on my mum’s knee, on the front passenger seat of our car. I’m screaming, and my dad is driving very fast down the lane from our house.
But of the moment itself, I have nothing – no memories, no witnesses. I was alone in the room, so quite how things happened remains a mystery.