Frank Bowling: ‘My sons and grandson inspire me just by being alive’

Portrait by Suki Dhanda/The Observer

You’ve spoken of having dreamt of São Paulo since the 1960s. What is it about this city that has captured your imagination for so long?

I see Guyana, Brazil and the other countries in that part of the world as one terrain. It’s like Great Britain: you might be Scottish or Welsh but you’re still from one island. My “map paintings”, with South America the most prominent, started when I saw a shadow and the specific light coming through a window on to the warped floor at the Hotel Chelsea in the 1960s. The shape it made was like the map of South America. São Paulo itself has always seemed like a magical place. I guess you could say it was on my bucket list.

How did you approach choosing pieces that span 70 years?

As with all these things, it’s a conversation, first with the curator, but my wife and sons have a viewpoint as well. It’s hard to be objective with one’s own work. I’ve been yearning to show my very earliest paintings for a long time, so the portrait of my father that I made in 1960 seemed like an obvious starting point.

Do you credit either of your parents for your artistic interests?

My mother was very creative: she was a dressmaker, seamstress and milliner, always working with fabrics and material. I used to help her with her sewing; she would make me chase the mosquitoes from her legs. I’m grateful for that because I learned to concentrate. She also paid for my first term of fees to Chelsea College of Arts. She was supporting my new endeavour, even though she was worried I would starve!

You lived the first 19 years of your life in Guyana. How has your relationship to the country changed over time?

I have often asked myself why I’ve taken this road; there might have been other ways of proceeding. I feel more British now than Guyanese but we are all a product of one’s own experience. I have dreamt of Guyana more lately, probably because of the Bienal, but for years I shied away from my Guyaneseness. As an artist, labels can be a double-edged sword – and I was desperate not to be labelled as exotic!

You’ve spoken about feeling like an outsider during your early years in the London art world. How did that experience shape you as a painter?

I wasn’t painting in the English way, even though I thought I was, and that sense of not quite fitting in definitely shaped my voice. It affected the marks I made, the choices I took. Looking back, I didn’t mind. That feeling of being on the edge pushed me to follow what felt true to me.

Your time at the Royal College of Art overlapped with David Hockney, RB Kitaj, Derek Boshier and Patrick Caulfield. What can you recall of your time with these artists?

Well, I worked with Derek and alongside David, and I think the confidence they exuded influenced me a lot. I saw Kitaj as a more mature figure than I was: I was often unsure of my own work, while he always seemed certain of his. He befriended me at a time that surprised me. In fact, he came for lunch. He had a crew cut from the Marines and was very American and very military.

Your painting process often embraces unpredictability, from your poured paintings of the 1970s to the use of wastewater in recent works. How do you balance chance with control?

Now isn’t that a fundamental question! I don’t know whether there is a balance. I work with the paint and see what it gives me, and then when I see things I like, I work on it. I use gallons of water to move the paint on my canvases, on both the wall and the floor. On the wall, I use this water spray to move the paint. Whatever floods off the wall forms new things on the floor. I like to refer to the work as cooking on the studio floor: it sits there in a lot of water, often boiling water, sometimes ammonia, sometimes gold and silver powder colour. Then I put a lot of heat on it and it cooks, and I see what happens.

You work closely with your sons and grandson in the studio. What’s that like?

That is the part of my life at the moment that gives me most contentment. I’m so glad that my family has rallied around me to help in all the ways that I need it. I don’t think I’ve been so gratified about anything as much in my life.

How do they help you?

They help me on a practical level: I’m not as quick as I used to be! But really they inspire me just by being there, being alive; they invigorate my imagination and their presence gives me ideas.

Do you have daily studio rituals?

When I arrive, I will often look to see what the last session produced. Often things will have changed as the works dry out. Then the work takes me wherever it takes me. Of course, after each session we have to go to the pub for a pint of bitter and a whisky. I picked that habit up early in life and have continued it.

You’ve achieved so much: a knighthood, retrospectives, global recognition. What gives you the greatest sense of pride now?

The fact that I have grown older without realising it. You see I’m still a teenager inside.

Frank Bowling’s work will be showing at the 36th Bienal de São Paulo from 6 September to 11 January