There was something in the common identity he felt with his musical heroes that, for whatever reason, I think he felt he shared with Tony Fomison, too.

I’m not sure why. They were of similar-ish generations. Both had formative years in Canterbury and both had connections to the UK, but I think Dad felt something deeper than their marginally-comparable experience. Something a bit dark, maybe.

No! was the first modern art we ever had in our home.

Dad just put it up one day, a huge print in our living room that immediately drew the eye away from the protective bed sheets pulled over our family’s ‘good’ couches. He didn’t buy the print. I’m not sure you even could. Somehow he made it himself, a homemade bootleg print, and put it on the wall without checking with anyone else, first.

I recall being shocked by No! The composition made for such an arresting and intense image. But it wasn’t intimidating, as such. It wasn’t rebellious. It was resistant. And it was very different to the kind of pictures that my friends’ parents all had on their walls. When we asked Dad who painted it he’d answer with a feigned incredulity, shocked his 11-year-old didn’t know anything about Tony Fomison.

I had mixed feelings when No! first appeared as a mural on High Street. It felt like a validation of our family’s collective taste but I wondered if visitors would think Dad had simply copied the mural instead of choosing No! for himself, many years before.

Walking through the city when a friend asked how I knew who painted it, I responded with feigned incredulity. No! was Tony Fomison. In a way it was also very Dad.