‘He drank when he was happy, and his work was going well, then he drank when one single brushstroke seemed to ruin it all for him. Those were the times when his disappointment would overwhelm him. Sometimes he’d drink for several days at a time, and I learnt how to make myself invisible. My mother had enough to cope with, worrying about paying the bills, as well as making sure my dad didn’t end up setting fire to the house or falling down the stairs and breaking his neck.’

The imagery in my mind, as I stare up at the darkness, is powerful. For a young boy that must have been frightening; for a mother, a desperate situation when her options were clearly limited. They were all prisoners in a hell that Nico’s father had created.

‘There were good times, but increasingly they became few and far between. My mother wasn’t happy when I, too, first picked up a paintbrush. I’d always drawn. But when my father was in a good mood and he encouraged me into his personal space, I can remember the feeling of tremendous excitement, so vividly.

‘He used traditional oil paints, so the smell of the linseed he mixed with it to help the drying process and the turpentine, which he used to clean his brushes, was prevalent. To a young boy, it was an exciting environment; the smells alone were heady. It was a place where beautiful things were created.

‘I longed to express everything I was holding back, deep inside, and wanted to be given free rein. There was this need in me to have my passion acknowledged, but it never was by my father. Even today, walking into my own studio invokes a wide range of emotions, but I use that to fuel my creativity.’

‘How old were you when you started painting?’

‘I started with watercolours at school; I was probably around eight years old. My art teacher recognised an inherent talent within me and eventually she persuaded my mother that it was wrong to inhibit that. You can imagine that was a tough thing for her, as it was destroying my father before her very eyes. It brought him less and less satisfaction, but she could see that indulging me allowed me to escape for long periods of time. I was prolific, excited to experiment and see where it took me.’

There’s great positivity in his voice, as if he’s reliving that time and experiencing the lift it gave him.

‘Suddenly I had a sense of purpose,’ he admits.

‘What effect did that have on your father?’ I ask, hesitantly.