He was just twenty-one when he entered the landscape competition that would change his life. With nothing to lose, he used his entry to explore the sort of mosaic-meshed-with-nature design he aspired to, in lieu of the commissions that were yet to come his way. And to his amazement he won; even the organisers were surprised that a complete unknown had walked off with the prize. He used the money to travel. He went to Spain to see traditional Moorish mosaics, before crossing into France to study some stunning modern pieces. And then he went to Ravenna. He visited church after church filled with mosaics. He examined dozens of glorious images, and discovered an astonishing array of materials. In the vestibule of the Archiepiscopal Chapel at Ravenna, he stood before a wall on which had been transcribed the words of an unknown poet. Aut lux hic nata est, aut capta hic libera regnat: ‘Either light was born here or, imprisoned here, it reigns supreme.’ This would be his future.

Ravenna remained his mosaic apotheosis until his trip to Leningrad and the mosaics of the Church of the Saviour on the Spilled Blood. During that exhilarating winter, he worked alongside the men and women who were restoring those marvellous artworks. And when he came back to his room at night, tired and euphoric, the girl he had knocked down in the street filled his thoughts, and she continued to do so even when he returned to Australia. She had become so much a part of his life that he had told his parents about her, implying she had been his girlfriend and the two of them still corresponded.

On this warm November night in Melbourne, as he worked on his indoor pool, she entered his mind with the ease of a regular visitor. He imagined talking with her about this mosaic he was making for himself, discussing why it was that artists keep unfinished pieces, keep pieces that fail to sell, but rarely, if ever, create a work specifically for themselves.

It was an issue that had been puzzling him for some time. It was not just the money, but something more personal. He was his own harshest critic — most artists are. He knew all too well that last year’s successful work can reveal shocking flaws twelve months on. Only a committed masochist could live surrounded by old and accusing mistakes. And besides, it’d feel like bragging to display your own work at home, as if you were saying you admire your art more than anyone else’s. But despite these problems he had gone ahead with his pool.