Lester Lister was no fan of the alliteration despite the glaring opportunity of his nomenclature. As a young boy he regularly begged his parents to change his name to escape the barrage of mean spirited monikers dished out to him at school, at scouts and in the junior choir.
Lester became a harried boy, a worry wart who ate too much, chewed his nails to the quick and planned and plotted revenge. So much so that he fell under the spell of his family tag becoming obsessed with jotting things down, making extensive enumerations and inventories, of cataloguing, itemising and tabulating the simplest of occurrences in his search for a sign, any sign that all this would someday make sense.
And sense it did when finally Lester set sail from his school, his family and the wilds of West Wyalong. Yes it all came to fruition when Mr Lister successfully won the right to join the golden circle of bookmakers at the Royal Truscott Racing Club, that secret society of turf accountants, mathematicians, gamblers and other assorted speculators. Lester instantly became a computator of note bristling with confidence and the realisation that his OCD had finally found a home.
Somehow, his dark days were over, Lester had at last discovered his calling, that whisper in the wind, the smell of the horses, the trill of the trumpet, the roar of the crowd and without the pencil man, the bagman and the spruiker, we all know a very dull day would be had by all.
Lester is an original sculpture made from many layers of vintage and antique textiles over clay and wire. Pop over here to check him out.