I was taken aback. I hadn’t seen or expected this in my brother at all. But obviously it was better this way. The paintings would have been dull if they had been merely an extension of that part of him that was important to me when we were both trying to free ourselves from a suffocatingly religious family. Years later, after I’d gotten used to his being a professional painter and having shows at Allan Stone’s gallery in New York, the old disrespect and provocation did surface in his work, but in a way I could never have imagined. He called these his “havoc paintings.” Perhaps impatient that not everybody had appreciated the quiet irony of all his townscapes and gardens, he now broke up those tranquil settings in grotesque earthquakes of upheaval. They weren’t quite the same settings; it was still London, but rather than the humbly inhabited suburbs, the focus was now on the preposterous monuments of the Victorian era. It was as though everything that expressed British pride, presumption, and pomposity had fallen victim to some painterly poltergeist.