There are things that this experience  - this “colourful language” -  has taught me, and helped me understand, that I’m not quite sure how to put into words. I’ve had many “Ah-ha!” moments of insight and clarity  -  like mountains appearing from behind clouds then disappearing again. But it’s not as simple as getting out your camera and taking a picture. You have to stop and write or draw it, on whatever’s available  -  which for me right means scribbling on an A1 sheet of tracing paper I’ve had folded up in my pocket and a big red sketchbook.

You have to catch these thoughts when they come. And that’s what I’ve been doing  -  or trying to do  -  over the past year or so with the thoughts that have come from painting maths. Thoughts and ideas of a new kind for me. I don’t really have a framework or reference for what kind of thoughts they are, or what area of study they belong to. But I’d like to know. And I’m hoping that by writing this, others might be able to guide me towards areas of study that could help me continue this journey  -  and understand these thoughts more deeply.

I’ve been making notes in my sketchbooks, on scraps of paper and on the backs of paintings made by children I’ve shared the method with. I’ve tried to collect them all and keep them arranged. But even when I’ve managed to write my thoughts down, I’ve found it difficult to express myself. I don’t quite know how to communicate what I’m thinking or realising. It’s sometimes been frustrating, as though I don’t have the words I need  -  as if I’ve come up against a barrier of language. Much like I felt with maths, I suppose.

But I want to write these things down, and to communicate whatever I can, in some way. Maybe some of that communication is best done through the maths itself - through the images and paintings I’ve created. Many times, I’ve felt deeply emotional while painting the maths: wordless feelings that rise up from I don’t know where. No story. No identifiable root. Hopefully, those images can say what I want to express. Because they themselves are expressions. Of something.

Before I get into it properly, I want to acknowledge that I’m not a trained specialist in educational studies, nor have I undertaken any formal study of teaching methods or pedagogy - a word I’d heard before but only recently learned the meaning of while reading The Glass Bead Game, a novel by the German author Hermann Hesse. It’s a story about knowledge, art, maths, music, and meditation, which ultimately emphasises how important education is: that no matter how impressive knowledge may be, its true value lies in how it’s passed on and shared.

As I say, I haven’t studied pedagogy, and I’m not writing this to come across as an “academic.” I am, however, a keen painter - and I love writing, whether that’s stories, poems, songs, music, or just thoughts in my journal. I thought it might be useful - if not for anyone else, then at least for myself - to write down the thoughts that have arisen from this experience, and from watching my art change so drastically before my eyes. Another reason I want to write this all down is because people have contacted me saying they want to reference my method in their master’s degrees and other studies. A few times, it’s even been mentioned that someone might one day carry out PhD research on it. That has inspired me to share my own feelings and findings too.

At the moment, I don’t have much data in the numerical, structured, graphable sense. But I do have feelings, examples, anecdotal and experiential data - and ideas. At times, these thoughts and ideas might be poetic or whimsical, but poetry and whimsical mystery have been key ingredients in what led me to create what I’ve created.

That’s what I do have. And as a “maker-of-things” I’ve always tried to make do with whatever I have to hand. I once made a giraffe from an old curtain and a tree branch, and a whale from a garden parasol. When I was about ten or eleven, I made a flying machine out of lollypop sticks, bottle tops, a plastic bag - and lots of glue. With the help of an elastic band it flapped its wings and very slowly moved across the dinner table... but it didn’t fly. Unfortunately, that was before camera phones, so the last I saw of it was as I crushed it into the bin under the kitchen sink. It didn’t work (i.e. fly), and it was just gathering dust. (It very much flew in my imagination.)

Basically, I love making things. And it’s surprising what you can make with bits and bobs lying around. That’s what this ‘essay’ is going to be made from: bits and bobs from my brain - the whimsical, poetic, light-hearted, and at times deeply sincere thoughts, ideas, hopes, and feelings from experiencing a year of maths in multicolour.

To give a bit of context, I am writing this as I am trekking up through the Solukhumbu region in Nepal, most famous for being home to Sagarmatha, or Mount Everest as it’s known in the West. I am not a trekker, I’m not even a hiker. A few months ago this was not at all something even remotely on my mind, but a series of conversations, chance meetings and enthusiastic maths lessons has led me here. I’ve been a little nervous about doing this, but as soon as I started a few days ago I feel a great buzz of energy. The purpose behind this trek is to teach multicolour maths in the schools I pass along the way to Everest Base Camp, where I will wave a flag covered with colourful maths painted by the children I teach. After having taught in the schools already, in Jubing and Kharikhola, it is turning into one of the most beautiful and unexpected adventures – to be teaching maths up the mountain. So that is where I find myself at this moment, making a journey, step by step up a very long hill, through clouds, past rivers, alongside incredibly strong Sherpas carrying loads of unbelievable weight, and at times behind donkeys. Which brings me to the point where this whole journey began… following a zebra called Debra…

PART TWO
A Zebra Called Debra

‘Both bold and bright,
Like black and white,
They named the zebra
DEBRA!’

As I said, the whimsical and poetic is where this all began - and where Multicolour Maths came from. In 2019, I wrote a story about a giraffe named Martha. Martha the Giraffe-a needed a friend. That friend came in the form of a zebra called Debra.

A few years later, in 2021, I started transforming into Debra on stage in a show I wrote called Birthmarked - an autobiographical musical in which I shared my experience of growing up in, and being excommunicated from, my family’s religion: the Jehovah’s Witnesses. As a theatrical choice, and to set the scene, I paralleled my story with that of the prophet Jonah in the Bible. My band and I were seen being thrown into the ocean and swallowed by a whale called Gayle (notice the rhyming theme developing here...).

Inside Gayle the Whale’s belly, I drew further parallels between my sexuality and a prominent birthmark I have on my forehead - both things that could be perceived as “imperfections.” I then used an illustration of a zebra, saying:

“If a zebra had no stripes, you wouldn’t see it and say, ‘Oh look! A zebra!’
You would see it and say, ‘Oh look! A white horse!’
Our markings make us who we are; they are part of our identity.”

I then painted my face and body and became a creature covered with bold markings - markings that are a beautiful signature of identification. That is why, in short, I became a zebra called Debra.

This adoption of a persona - one that completely transformed my physical appearance and stature - threw me into the world of queer performance and drag. I quickly realised that Debra unlocked a new, unrestrained freedom in my creativity. I designed costumes for her, wrote music in a new style, and imagined her thoughts and feelings. I even began writing in my journal to her, and from her to me. It was a creatively liberating and exciting time for me as an artist.

After a year or so of embodying Debra the Zebra, I started noticing drastic changes in my sleep. For about a year and a half I spent nights laying awake - sometimes not sleeping at all. I regularly woke at two or three in the morning and struggled to fall back asleep. When I did manage to sleep, it was very lightly - and this is when my dreams became extremely vivid.

As a child, I suffered from regular night terrors. On one occasion, I had to be pulled back inside by my dad and older brother after climbing up to the window needing air. I’ve always had vivid dreams, but they really intensified during the period of performing as Debra. I began making note of my dreams- writing and drawing scenes and strange patterns. Sometimes I’d wake up crying or laughing, and feel a strange sense of emotional relief.

On one occasion, before a gig I had planned with my band (unintentional rhyme there), I woke up feeling startled. My heart was racing, beating heavily in my chest. I thought I was having a panic attack. As I came to, I said to myself something along the lines of, “You’re not anxious - you’re excited.” I felt as if I knew the backstory of Debra the Zebra - her journey from her world to ours, and how she would eventually collide with me inside the belly of Gayle the Whale. I picked up my notebook and turned on the light, but there was no electricity. (I was living in a house share with three friends at the time, and none of us had remembered to top up the electric… again.) So, in true Jane Austen style, I lit a candle and started writing:

‘Somewhere not too far from here,
On a level plane of land
Where the sky is wide and clear,
Where the earth is dirt and sand
There live a thousand creatures -
Some humble, others grand,
And if you look just over there
A herd of zebra stand.’

The rhythm and rhyme flowed with little effort, and the whole world and story began falling into place. The laws and social structure of Debra’s community started making sense on the page. I kept writing until morning, then headed off to meet my band at the rehearsal studio. To their surprise, I told them we’d be improvising a whole new show (rather than rehearsing the old one). They laughed - and I’ll forever be grateful to them for their support in moments like that. The following night, in the back garden of a pub, we performed the tale of Debra the Zebra. 

Improvising in front of an audience has always been incredibly fruitful for me. I’ve had many ideas, lyrics, melodies, stories, and characters come into my mind - and out of my mouth - in the joy of the moment, especially when in front of people who are holding on to what I’m about to do or say next. It’s as though the ideas are pulled out of me by some kind of magnetism of an audience’s attention. That same feeling began when my nieces were born. Suddenly, I had an audience to write little stories for - and the stories just kept, and keep, coming. Telling Debra’s story that evening stands out as a truly poignant moment for me. I felt I’d glimpsed another world. And from then on, I just told myself to keep following the zebra. 

I continued performing as Debra, but in 2023, I felt a real dip in enthusiasm for the arts - something I hadn’t experienced before. I felt hopeless and a little exhausted. A part of me was unfulfilled. When I was younger, I’d wanted to be a nurse - to work with children in some kind of healthcare role, specifically in mental health. I studied an access-to-nursing course but failed to secure a university place because, ironically, I failed the maths test.

The feeling of hopelessness and pessimism (I even started jokingly telling my friends, “I’m a nihilist now”) came from a sense that I wasn’t doing “important work” - important things for society. That I was “just an artist.” And although I knew there was power in telling my story on stage - turning into a tap-dancing zebra - I couldn’t shake the spiralling thoughts.

At the same time, Debra’s story was still unfolding. I followed her up a mountain where she launched herself into the air and plummeted to the ground. Then two great wings spread out from her back and then

‘Debra the Zebra,
with her heart fully loaded,
flew straight through the stratosphere...
and then she exploded.’

I had reached the point in Debra’s story that brought her from her universe into mine - splitting the sky in two in the process. (I promise this “essay” will get more focused soon - but the story of Debra the Zebra is relevant to the maths!)

So…I was spiralling into nihilism, and my zebra was exploding through space. That unexpected and very cinematic event became a catalyst for other thoughts and ideas to come.

While researching the work of the philosopher Nietzsche (not a lot, to be honest, but enough to feel at a loss for purpose), I began to feel a growing awareness that at the heart of the universe - at the heart of everything - was a language I didn’t understand, and felt I never could. That language was also the only plausible explanation for Debra’s journey from one universe to another.

That language was, unfortunately, maths.

For a while, I found it quite comical that my alter ego’s story was entwined with my worst enemy. But it highlighted something I hadn’t given enough attention to: a deep urge, a drive, to understand things in ways I didn’t feel I was able to.

I bought a copy of Stephen Hawking’s book A Brief History of Time, and despite my best efforts, I just couldn’t process what on earth he was on about. I felt, as I had felt in school,  unintelligent in the way scientists and mathematicians are. I was, after all, “just an artist.”

But that urge to understand didn’t go away. Eventually, I gave in and bought myself a maths textbook and booked a flight to India with the intention of taking myself on an adventure and learning maths whenever I had a moment to sit in the shade.

That trip to India turned out to be quite a significant one - with my watercolour set and an injured foot, I stumbled into the world of Multicolour Maths. (You can find a small documentary about that trip on YouTube called Multicolour Maths on Munroe Island. I’ll also be writing an explanation and analysis of how I constructed the method soon.)

Within two months, I’d gone from fearing maths to absolutely loving it - all through the process of painting patterns. From that time on, I’ve felt like I’ve been on a non-stop rollercoaster: writing two books, presenting at the British Society for Research into Learning Mathematics, creating an online course, designing toys, being featured on BBC News, and now - with Multicolour Maths a part of the National Numeracy campaign - seeing it help people of all ages engage with maths in a more accessible way.

Although all of this is extremely exciting - and a little surreal - it also makes me nervous. At times, I panic that I’ve stepped into a field I have no experience in (i.e. maths education), and I worry that I might be making things worse.

But I keep reminding myself: if it helped me, it must, surely, be able to help others.

Something else that’s spurred me on was a comment from a UK teacher, the head of maths at a primary school. In response to the survey statement “Alternative methods for learning maths are beneficial,” he marked: “disagree.” Just one comment. One teacher. But I felt so driven to prove otherwise - and to continue developing something that I truly believe could unlock doors for many students.

On a more encouraging note, a few days ago - on the first day of this trek - I was contacted by an organisation called Classroom in the Clouds, which supports schools and teachers in rural Nepal. They told me how exciting it was to discover a method that makes maths engaging and accessible without the need for any fancy equipment. That made me realise something wonderful: I can travel with just a backpack carrying paper and paints - or even just a pencil case filled with ten crayons - and still teach this method. So now, as I trek through this mountain range, my bonkers idea is out there in the world... and I’m just trying to keep up.

The response from teachers, students, and parents has been so beautiful and encouraging. It’s made me pause and reflect on this thing I’ve created. And one of the main things I’ve realised - profoundly - is the importance, and educational power, of art.

I no longer feel that this “thing I do” is just a “thing” I “do.”

This “thing” is something we all do, until we’re made to feel we “can’t” or we “shouldn’t.”

PART THREE
PAINTING

“And so she learnt to whisper it and squashed it like a berry,
Until one day she stepped upon a bright and bursting cherry.
She dipped her tail in the juice and whipped and whipped her skin
And soon she felt as beautiful As she had felt within…”

Although performing has been a huge part of my expression, especially in the last few years, it was painting that really reached in and grabbed my heart when I was a teenager. I found an old set of oil paints in my dad’s garage when I was seventeen, and I quickly became obsessed, addicted almost, to the process of painting. Painting portraits especially.

Seeing a person emerge from a blank canvas, sometimes managing to capture an emotion, had a profound impact on me. I noticed I was becoming more observant of people around me, and I realised that learning to paint was also learning to see, to really look at what I was looking at. To notice light, and colour, and texture and form, it is all part of learning how to apply the paint to the canvas and create an image. 

The process of colour mixing was (and still is) mesmerising for me, almost more interesting than the “finished” painting. Sometimes I would notice that I had been painting for hours and not once really concentrating or consciously aware of how I was mixing the colours, yet finding subtle shades and tones, all subconsciously. Colour mixing became a language I was fluent in, and I didn’t have to think when I spoke it, much like a mother tongue.

Painting is a meditative process, and I know that I spent many hours from my teens through to my twenties in a floaty, subconscious meditative state when painting all the pictures I created. I “learnt” and realised a lot of things, many of which I probably didn’t even realise at a conscious level. In recent years I have dipped in and out of a meditation practice, something similar to kriya and Vipassana meditations, but I haven’t really followed a specific style or technique. I can see strong similarities between the mental state I experience when meditating and when I am truly, deeply in a flow state when painting. 

It is no surprise that I had many shifts in my belief, arising doubts and questions about teachings of the Jehovah’s Witnesses and my own faith whilst painting. It is a powerful process. Mark making in all its forms is an ancient human trait. Carving, writing, drawing, making patterns in the sand, all have a purpose. I’m going to use painting, specifically, to explain why I think it might be helpful when learning maths  -  because for me it has formed positive, deep emotional connections to the expression of it. Painting has served as a path to loving it. 

Imagine picking up a paintbrush. A slender piece of wood, smooth between the pads of your fingers and thumb. At one end are the bristles - the brush itself. Before the use of plastic, these bristles were made with animal hair: horse, hog, squirrel, and many more.

At the moment, here in Nepal, I’ve started using brushes made for a specific type of traditional painting called Thangka painting - a highly detailed style that focuses on balance in composition. It is as much a meditative process as it is an art form. Its repetitive structure and intricacy bring about a deep, focused state of mind.

The brushes used for this style of painting are made with squirrel hair. The hairs are both soft and firm at once, and they come together to create an incredibly fine point. Of course, different art forms require different brushes, and different artists have different styles - but for the sake of this explanation, imagine a squirrel hair brush. (I’m aware there are animal rights issues involved here… but hopefully you can still imagine how soft squirrel hair is!) The hairs are tightly bound at the end of the brush. Making a brush like this is an art form in itself!

When I teach people to paint maths, I start by asking them to hold the brush and say: “I love you, paintbrush!” For young children, this communicates that these tools are special, precious - and that we need to look after them. I do the same with crayons and paints. I still have brushes from when I first started painting fifteen years ago. They’ve become a little family to me - just as a cook might feel a connection to their favourite wooden spoon, or a carpenter to their favourite chisel.

So, we’re holding the squirrel hair brush. We’ve established awareness and care for it. Good. Great.

Now we dip it into some clean water. The hairs are wet and smooth. Now imagine brushing the bristles across the back of your hand to paint an invisible line. The very tip of the brush bends slightly as it slides smoothly over your skin. You can feel a gentle pressure, like a spring being pressed and released, as the hairs lift away from your hand. It should feel quite nice. Like stroking an animal.

When I ask people to do this, I encourage them to focus on the sensation: the brush on the hand, and the pressure they feel in the pads of their thumb and fingers. The slight bounce. It’s so subtle and almost minute, but it’s very much there, and very much feelable.

This physical sensation, often overlooked, is so beautiful, and it changes depending on the tool: the brush, the pen, the crayon, the way you're painting. I’m beginning to think it plays an important role in the process of connecting to learning, of taking in information, and emotionally connecting to that information. To the experience of taking in that information. To the speed and intention behind the expression of that information.

When I’ve taught teenagers it’s amazing to notice how they slow down when painting the patterns. Using the same brush for the whole image means they must clean the bristles between each new colour. Then there's the awareness of how much water to add to the paint, depending on how dark or thick they want it to be. There’s no rushing through the mark-making. It’s all considered, felt, and experienced.

The author Hermann Hesse once said that he “wrote” the majority of The Glass Bead Game while gardening - while his ‘hands were busy’. I find that very interesting. It is an example of how when we use our bodies - especially our hands - to physically do something, our brain enters a slightly different state (or at least engages more areas). Maybe this brings about a kind of flow state that allows us to take in, process, and express information in ways we might not have done had we rushed through it with a slick fast-writing frictionless pen. 

I’m not saying that form of writing is not useful - in fact that's exactly how I’m writing this right now! But when it comes to learning, especially the kind of learning involved with the language of maths, maybe there is value in using media that requires not just mental focus, but physical attention as well. I think this relates to kinaesthetic learning - the physical touch, pressure and movement connected to learning.

I don’t know much about the ancient art of Japanese or Chinese calligraphy, but I imagine there’s an emotional connection involved in that too. The process, the symbols, in the movement of the brush and the flow of the ink. Whatever the medium - paint on paintbrush, crayons, chalk - I believe there’s a direct physical feeling involved, something different from using a tool a child might perceive as just a tool for writing. The importance is the awareness of the intention, the care that is taken when creating something, not simply writing down numbers.

Before Multicolour Maths, my preferred medium was oil paint. When I first started painting, it was with old oil paints I’d found in my dad’s garage. I loved their buttery texture - and because I was determined to create pictures like the old Renaissance masters like Leonardo da Vinci or Lawrence Alma Tadema, oil paint was their medium, so I chose it as mine.

Oil paints mix beautifully and dry very slowly, allowing them to blend in subtle and versatile ways depending on how much oil or turpentine is used. They are much easier to control than watercolours - they stay where you put them (to an extent). For photorealistic painting, that control is very very handy indeed.

The process of painting portraits in oil has been very special to me. I once painted a portrait of an Indian man named Pratap Mina - a process that involved countless steps, decisions, alterations and considerations. Combined with the physical movement of my hands, it became an emotional experience. I felt deeply connected to both the image and the materials. (I would eventually use that portrait as an illustration of the difference between faith in the prophet Jesus and faith in Jehovah God while I was being judged by the church elders - but that’s a whole other story for another time.)

I love oil paints. I understand them. I’m comfortable with them. I never thought I’d use another medium with the same ‘affection’. But maths, for me, is in watercolour. For now at least.

Maybe that’s because I discovered this method while travelling, and my little watercolour set was what I had at hand. So from the very beginning that’s what I’ve used to paint maths. To learn maths. To re-meet maths. 

With watercolours, I am fascinated with seeing the pigment touch and seep into the paper. This is another reason I think painting maths is powerful. It’s beautiful to witness it happening, knowing it means something, holds information, and can be read. It reminds me of Egyptian hieroglyphs - incredibly detailed and specific images carved and painted on the walls of temples, not just for decoration, but for holding very important information. 

Although I am using painting as my primary example of how mark-making impacts learning, other materials such as crayons, coloured pencils, chalks, etc. are just as powerful in their own way. It’s the pattern-making that carries the mathematical meaning. As long as the pattern is made, the medium doesn’t matter - though I think manual application of colour is more effective than using digital means where a stylus is touching a screen. I’ve spent a considerable amount of time using digital tools to design my books, but it’s been the physical, hands-on painting with real-world materials that has been the most effective, and enjoyable for me. 

I’m also aware that some individuals may face physical or psychological challenges when using drawing and painting materials - such as individuals with dyspraxia. For this reason, I’ve begun developing physical representations of the coloured shapes to explore sculpture-building.

One striking example of physical interaction with Multicolour Maths came when I was exploring the use of small sculptures with a four-year-old girl. She didn’t yet have a strong grasp of numbers or their value, but she was able to build a 3D sculpture that mirrored the pattern in one of my illustrations: 

A man in a boat, wearing a blue shirt and a green pointy hat. Above him hangs an orange and yellow sun. 

In Multiclour Maths, read from bottom to top, this translates to:

8 × 7 = 56

It was brilliant to see her translate the image from 2D to a 3D sculpture. I then asked if she could turn the man upside down. Amazingly, she placed another green triangle on top of the “sun,” with the tip pointing in the opposite direction - and then placed a blue circle above that.

Even though she didn’t know that the colours represented numbers, she had, in effect, inverted a calculation. If she were to learn the numerical meaning of those colours and shapes, she might one day realise she already knew facts like:

8 × 7 = 56
56 ÷ 7 = 8

This sculptural approach gave me a whole new perspective and understanding. To build a calculation and see it grow in multiple directions - outside and beyond a flat 2D surface - is incredibly exciting. I believe it could help students understand maths with an expanded sense of dimensionality.

PART FOUR
COLOURS

When painting maths, I consciously avoid mixing colours. I’ve already selected the hues and shades I love. I’ve wandered through London to find the perfect pink (opera pink), split open watercolour pencils to extract a beautiful blue and a vibrant green, and squeezed the perfect purple into trays to dry on the radiator. I do everything I can to stop them from mixing with one another.

Yes, I’m slightly obsessed. But it’s all part of the art. And the reason? Because these colours are my numbers.

My sky blue is eight. Not eight point four. Not seven point six. Just eight. I want it to stay that way. Okay, maybe I’m being a bit dramatic - but the point is, the colours are important. The distinctions between them matter. They need to be instantly recognisable and consistent.

There are ten distinct colours, as far as I can tell, and I want to use them clearly.

White. Black. Brown. Pink. Red. Orange. Yellow. Green. Blue. Purple.

These ten distinct colours are a key aspect of why the method seems to work quite easily. Most people I’ve spoken to seem to agree that these are the “main” colours. They’re distinct, familiar, and accessible. No ‘teal’, no ‘magenta’ - just solid, bold, recognisable colours. Realising this was incredibly exciting, and I’ve stuck to those ten ever since I counted them.

Quite a few people have asked how I chose the colour-number arrangement. There isn’t a complicated system behind it to be honest. Black felt solid - like a single black dot. Two emerged from that dot and became brown, and pink felt like a soft beginning to the colour spectrum that would travel up through to purple. Zero, for me, felt like white, like an empty space or a void. That choice, I later realised, made the method easy to use on white paper, which is a common surface for drawing. (It wouldn’t have worked as easily if the number one were white - as an electrician pointed out to me in a very directly worded email.)

I did experiment briefly with using coloured bars to represent the size of numbers - before I’d even heard of Cuisenaire rods (another maths education method that uses coloured objects to help students understand fractions). I quickly realised that representing numbers as bars - though useful for showing quantity, fractions or ratios - placed big constraints on creativity and limited the possibilities to spot the patterns that arise in numbers and multiplications.

I’m aware that not everyone sees colour in the same way. I want to explore how the Multicolour Maths code could be adapted for people with colour vision deficiency. For example, by adjusting the red and green hues to improve accessibility for those with deuteranopia (an inability to see green and red). And for those with synaesthesia - or just a personal colour-number association that differs from mine - I encourage them to rearrange the code to fit their preference. I don’t want to say, “You must stick to these colours.” I don’t want to restrict anyone from seeing the patterns that the method can open up for them.

There’s also a strong emotional element to using colour as a language that I think may help create more of an impact when learning. Most people have a favourite colour. Our emotions are connected to colours. There are probably whole areas of psychology devoted to this type of thing. I don’t know much about it, but I know that I feel different things when I see different colours. My favourite colour is blue. Light sky blue. I feel good when I see it. A  dusty paple purple is beautiful too. Yellow is very uplifting. Blue and yellow together is very fun. Yellow and pink is brilliant, which means I now love the numbers 36 and 63, and I get excited and happy whenever they appear.

36 is a popular one because she (in a way the numbers now feel like they have genders  -  not that I am imposing gender onto them, I’m just stating thoughts I have noticed) is a multiple of 3, 12, 4, 9, 6, 2 and 18. 36 is also 6 squared. I love 36. It’s a bright, popping, fun and sweet number. I feel emotionally connected to it. I know its relationships, its family tree, something I didn’t have any connection to before this.

18, black around blue, is cool. Very cool.

I like 18.

72, green around brown, is sophisticated.

56, orange around yellow is bright and hopeful.

All of these numbers, these colour combinations, bring about emotions, stories and energies, along with the information and relationships they have with other numbers. It is making me smile as I write this, just going through in my mind’s eye all the numbers and their presences, their personalities, and my different feelings toward each one. I suppose this highlights to me how this experience, this artform, has established in me not only a love of maths, but a connection and friendship with numbers themselves.

I recently read about the Indian mathematician Srinivasa Ramanujan who said he was friends with numbers. I am in no way likening myself to Ramanujan, just to make that very clear, but I think I may understand an element of his affection for numbers. It is also very interesting to think about how Ramanujan came across his theories - many of which are still being studied and applied today. His mathematics described the physics of black holes almost 100 years before black holes were even discovered. Ramanujan claimed that he received his mathematical knowledge from a goddess, that she would write them on his tongue. Professors at Cambridge had a hard time accepting this claim, and he sadly died at the age of 32 before he could provide any other explanation - maybe because there was no other explanation. Ramanujan no doubt disrupted the way in which the other professors perceived maths, and beautifully; at the heart of it was his love and friendship with numbers.

So, if colours can help instil a love of numbers, I think that may be helpful, at least while introducing maths to young minds. Or even mature minds. 

A note on that point - I believe, because I have experienced it as an adult - that this pattern-based way of perceiving maths could help adults too. It may appear very innocent and childlike, but these patterns can range from looking like flowers in a child’s colouring book, to intricate tapestries, sophisticated tile designs, and decorations from an ancient time. I hope to find more ways to make it attractive and useful for people of all ages. I no longer see maths as something we only learn at school. It is a timeless poetry that is waiting to be appreciated at any stage of life.

PART FIVE
CIRCLES

A few days ago, just after I had arrived in Khumjung village, a small girl about two or three years old sat watching me write. She then pointed to a cow and made some expressive noises and  started drawing a circle in the air with her finger. I don’t know what she meant by "cow" and "circle," but it made me smile.

It can be a mesmerising thing to watch someone draw or paint a circle. I’ve loved watching people of all ages really take their time to produce a beautiful circle - slowly moving the brush to complete the loop, filling it in, and gently adjusting and balancing the edges until they’re satisfied. It is beautiful to watch, and beautiful to do.

While teaching a class of teenagers in Namche Bazaar, the whole class applauded as one of their classmates painted a beautiful circle on a large piece of paper. It was a really lovely moment - a fascinating example of our appreciation for witnessing something come into form - in this case a neat and balanced circle.

I’ve been painting circles in my art for a long time, often using them as halos behind someone’s portrait. Circles can give us a focal point - maybe they attract our attention in a subtle but profound way. Maybe this is because we connect with each other through circles, by looking into each other’s eyes. Looking into the eyes of a loved one is a significant thing in life. Sometimes, we purposely avoid looking at eyes. We either trust or distrust them. A lot of information is contained within the circles in our faces.