The Artist

The Artist

He does not remember me. That is probably a good thing. As he sits in judgement of me, I know he is the sort of person that would not admit to being wrong about me. Judging me the way he had done when I was a kid would not be good for me right now. I cannot believe he became a Magistrate.

Drawing was the first thing I remember enjoying. I am sure I laughed plenty of times before then, and must have enjoyed playing with toys when I was a baby and a toddler, but I have no memory of enjoying any of those moments or activities. One of my first full days in primary school I was given a blank piece of paper and some brightly coloured crayons. I loved how the paper was blank and that there was nothing there until I created it. The drawing was almost certainly rubbish, but I did not care. It would not have existed if it was not for me and from that moment, I was enthralled by the idea of creating something on a piece of paper.

I got plenty of opportunity to draw in primary school, there were many times when I was not supposed to be drawing but I did anyway.

‘Jimi, it is times table time, put your drawing away,’ I remember my teacher in year two saying to me.

‘I’ll draw them.’

‘You can’t draw times tables.’

‘I can,’ I said and proceeded to draw three sheep, then a multiplied sign and three more sheep then and equals sign and then nine sheep.

‘Very good Jimi, but that is going to take too long for each sum,’ she said and took my paper off me.

The older I got in primary school, the less adults praised my pictures, even though the pictures were obviously getting better. At first any picture would get a big smile and lavish praise from teachers, parents and other adult family members. After the first year or two though nobody was praising them, at least not with any enthusiasm. I wanted the praise, but the lack of it did not put me off drawing.

When I got to high school I was excited that there was one class a week dedicated completely to art. Most of the other kids either hated Art or looked at as a chance to chill out and have a break. I looked forward to it every week and did my best to learn about the techniques and theories that could make me a better artist. Like in Primary school I would get in trouble for drawing when I was not supposed to be. Most teachers of other subjects did not take kindly to me bringing a sketch pad into their classes, or me drawing on or in my exercise books.

‘Do you do History in Art class?’ My History teacher asked me once whilst giving me one of her death stares.

‘We do learn about the history of some famous artists,’ I said and I promise I was not trying to be funny, I genuinely thought it was a good link between the subjects but I could tell right away that she did not think so.

In year nine we all had a meeting with a careers guidance person, who was also a physics teacher as well.

‘So what is it you want to be?’ He asked.

‘An artist.’

‘As a career?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s a lofty goal, there are not many famous artists in each generation.’

‘Didn’t say I would be famous.’

‘It is one of those careers where only the tiny percentage at the top make any money.’

‘I don’t think it is,’ I said slowly, looking at him questionably.

He looked at the bit of paper he had in his hand. ‘Anyway looking at your grades you are only getting Bs and Cs for Art, you are not even the best in your class, probably not even in the top five.’

‘I know, but I am allowed to get better.’

‘You are, but Art is one of those things that you tend to know really early on whether you are going to be good at it. And to be making money from it you need to be exceptional, not just good.’

‘I think I can get better. I have already got a lot better.’

‘Of course you have got better since you were five, that’s just natural.’

‘It’s not all natural, I have practiced a lot.’

‘You are still a long way from where you need to be.’

‘And I am still only thirteen, a lot of time left to improve.’

‘If you could not be an artist, what would you want to be?’

‘Why can’t I be an artist?’

‘Let’s just say you never get to be good enough.’

‘That’s a depressing, negative thought.’

‘It is a dose of realism, that can be really useful sometimes.’

‘Okay then, I guess I would quite like being a salesman.’

‘Excellent, what would you like to sell?’

‘Maybe cars, although the thing that I was selling would not really matter to me. I like talking to people I think I am good at finding out what they want and that could help me sell something to them.’

‘Absolutely, sales is all about people, if you are good with them you can learn to sell them anything. There are not too many particular subjects that you need to study to become a salesman. Although I would strongly suggest that you take psychology at GCSE and A-level. You could go on to University and study maybe marketing or psychology, or you could go straight into some sort of sales position after doing you’re A-levels.’

‘It’s funny.’

‘What is?’

‘That you seem more confident in my ability to do something that I have never done before, than something I have done pretty much every day for nine years.’

‘It’s not that, it is just that there will always be many sales jobs.’

‘So it’s easier?’

‘Yes exactly.’

‘Is that what school is about? Finding the easiest thing to do?’

‘Well no, but you have to give yourself the best chance to succeed.’

‘I think doing something you enjoy is winning.’

‘But you enjoy talking to people, you will get that all the time from sales.’

‘I hate talking to people, I just made that up.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘I think this whole thing is ridiculous.’

‘You need to think about what you are going to do after school.’

‘I might need to do some other things to make some money sometimes, but I am going to be an artist.’

I did not just draw for the sake of it, I studied it and look at how I could get better. Fortunately, my GCSE art teacher had a much better attitude than that careers guidance person. She went above and beyond to help me get better, giving me hints and tips and telling be about books to read, videos to watch and courses to do to help me improve. The better I got at art, the weirder people thought I was. I got so many comments about it not being something boys are supposed to be that into and that I should have grown out of it years ago. It did not matter how many famous male artists I could name, people thought I was weird. Art was the reason I got bullied in high school, but it was also how I coped with it. I discovered what Art therapy was by accident, I could never explain why it had such a positive impact on my mental health, but it did.

My GCSEs were not great, but some of the doodles I did on the exam papers were some of my best work. I did well enough to be able to go to a sixth form college and get away from that high school and all the negative I had attached to it. Art was one of the specialisms of that college, so that was perfect. It was also good to be around other people who were arty. What did surprise me was that none of them seemed to think they could get any better, thinking instead that their skills were as good as they were going to get, so they could only see if their current skill level was good enough to become an artist. Fairly early on most of them already seemed to be thinking of other things to do, and that art was just something for them to do at college to help them pass a couple of years of their life.

It was at this time that the depression hit me. I still cannot tell you why and it is difficult for me to explain it, other than to say it was horrific and left me feeling hopeless so often. One thing I always could do was draw or paint depression. That was the best way for me to demonstrate it. Not surprisingly it was the thing that helped lift the darkness. Sometimes it did not seem to be having a positive impact on my mood, but I kept going because it was the only thing I felt like doing.

I went to University, mainly to give me another three years where I could focus on my art without too many questions from anyone else. I was at university, so that was something that I was ‘supposed’ to be doing at my age. Most of the university projects and assessments were a bit of a stretch for me, but throughout those three years I kept improving my art. In particular my pencil drawings and fine paint brush work were becoming my most outstanding skills. I was also becoming more and more adept at graphic art on a computer. For the full three years I worked in one of the food shops on campus. It was totally mind numbing and there were plenty of times when only the banter with my colleagues stopped me from quitting.

Those three years went by way too quickly. At the end of it I was not ready to not be a student, but equally there were no post graduate courses that either appealed to me or were something I felt capable of doing. None of them seemed to have a focus completely on developing my own art. After three years of relative independence from living at University, I did not want to go back to living full time with my parents. I got myself a job in a local Supermarket, that was relatively easy to get given my three years of work experience. Part of me hated myself for taking the job and not being an artist. Another part consoled myself with the fact that the job allowed me to afford a small flat to myself, where I could work on my art anytime I wanted, when I was not at work.

It got to the stage where I did not want to see people that I knew, I became adept at seeing them before they saw me when I was at work and re-routing down a different aisle to avoid them. There was no mystery as to why I did not want to see them, I knew their first question would always be about what I am doing these days. I could not bare to say what my full time job was and that I was not earning any money from my art. Sometimes though I saw them too late and they were right there in front of me before I could avoid them.

‘Hey, how you doing?’ Marcus from high school said when he saw me in the tinned foods aisle.

‘Okay, not bad. You?’

‘Yeah good thanks, working at a bank now, loads of opportunities for progression.’

‘Cool.’

‘So you working here full time?’

‘For now yeah.’

‘That Art degree came in useful then,’ he said with an irritating smirk.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ I said. ‘Anyway I need to get going,’ I headed back to the store room even though I was not supposed to be there.

There was only one person that I felt ever truly got my love of art and that was Lauren who I met in college. She was a writer and loved that in the way I loved art. It was just about the only thing we had in common and she was not someone I found easy to get on with, but that shared passion was so strong that we always had something to talk to and I kept in touch with her after college. Virtually all of our conversations were about people not getting or creative passions and how annoying it was that we could not find a way to build our lives around it. Whenever one of us were getting despondent and feeling like giving up, they knew the other one would pick them up.

One day as I walked into work I saw a busker just outside the entrance. I guessed she was somewhere around my age, maybe a little younger if anything. For the first couple of hours of my shift I kept coming back near to the entrance so I could hear and watch her. No doubt she was a good singer, but that was not what kept me coming back to her. It was so good to watch her doing what she was obviously meant to be doing. I am sure she would rather be singing at Glastonbury, Wembley or the MEN arena, but that did not matter to me, all hat mattered was that she was singing. After those two hours I headed into my manager’s office, took my t-shirt off and said:

‘I’m done.’

‘What?’ My manager said, barely looking up from their laptop.

‘Can’t do this anymore, need to do what I am supposed to do.’

‘Don’t know what you are talking about, but you can’t just walk out.’

‘Yes I can. I am sure I am not the first and I won’t be the last,’ I said and headed out of the office. I collected my bag from the staff room and headed out of the shop, taking some deep breathes and allowing a smile to break out across my face. When I got outside I made sure I went past the busker, I waited for her to finish a song.

‘You are awesome, keep singing.’

‘Thanks, I will,’ she looked a little confused by me, but then nodded and smiled as if she sensed we were kindred spirits.

I did not go straight home, I walked into town centre and to the Starbucks, looking for Lauren. When I got there, I could see that she was working behind the counter. After waiting in line like a regular customer I got to speak to her.

‘What can I get…….oh hi. You okay? You hate coffee.’

‘Yeah I know. I have just quit my job and I think you should too.’

‘What now?’

‘Come on you hate it, you should be writing and I should be creating art work.’

‘Yeah, but we need money remember.’

‘I know, I know, but I believe if we properly commit to it, we can make money. Come on we talk the talk everyday. Let’s walk the walk.’

‘How?’

‘For a start I am thinking you can come and live with me, then we can split the rent, saving a big chunk of money there. I will sleep on the sofa, you can have the bedroom.’

‘Yeah, you have remembered I am still a lesbian right?’

‘Totally yeah that is not what this is about. You can write all day, I can draw and paint. I reckon we both have enough to be able to do that for three months at least without any income. What do you think?’

‘I think it is insane.’

‘So not even you agree with me anymore. I guess I will have to make it on my own.’

‘I said it was insane, I did not say no.’

‘What? So?’ I said with a smile and raised eyebrows.

Lauren took her Apron off and put it next to the till and took a deep breath in and out.

‘Let’s do this,’ she said and then walked out from behind the counter.

We high fived and headed out of the coffee shop. Before we had got twenty yards from Starbucks Lauren stopped.

‘Are we crazy?’ She asked.

‘Totally,’ I replied. ‘But in the greatest possible way.’

‘Right, just wanted to clarify.’

Lauren’s rent on her flat was just about to run out, so it was the perfect time for her to move out and into my place. Neither of us had much stuff so we could fit into my tiny flat just about comfortably. The living area became my bedroom and art space, whilst Lauren used her bedroom as her writing space too. That first night we had a long session talking to generate ideas about ways we could make money. Lauren had an idea for a series of children’s books that I could do the illustrations for. That was exciting but we needed something more shorter term too. It was easier to come up with ideas of things I could try for short term income than Lauren. There was doing caricatures for people in the streets, maybe going to a bigger city or somewhere like Blackpool to do that. I could do pictures of people’s pets or family. Working as a sketch artist for the police would definitely count as making money from my art. Lauren came up with the idea of me creating prints on my laptop of images of famous people and fictional characters. We had a chat for about half an hour about which people and characters I could create pictures of.

‘Oh my God,’ I said over loaded with excitement. ‘How about you write a poem about that person or character and I can do a picture of them and put the picture behind your poem, or to the side.’

‘Oh my god yes! That could make amazing t-shirts!’ Lauren enthused.

‘Yes! And I think people would buy them for a picture frame or canvas too.’

‘And maybe cushions, tea towels and oh my god they would make great greeting cards.’

‘This is the one. This is it, this is what we have been waiting for.’

‘Chill out, no need to be so dramatic,’ Lauren said then we both burst out laughing.

The day after that conversation we got our heads together and thought of many things that Lauren could write a poem about and I could do Artwork for. It was largely based on characters from Marvel and Harry Potter, but even with just those two it still gave us plenty to work on. On that same day I walked to the police station and asked if they needed a sketch artist. The policeman on the desk did not seem interested and told me that they already had one. I went back to the station four times over the next week and got the same response. The fifth time I went though I spoke to a different policeman, and he said that they often needed a sketch artist quickly and had to wait an annoying amount of time to get one. So whilst I would not be their first choice, or the first call they made, he said it might be useful to have me on standby. He took my phone number and called me back later that day and said he had spoken to who he needed to and they had said if they could see some samples of my work then they would consider using me when they needed a quick sketch and their contracted artists were not available. That night I stayed up late doing pencil sketches of several famous people, so they would hopefully see the likeness. First thing the next morning I made the walk to the police station, bleary eyed and yawning. I dropped off fifteen different sketches. It took them a couple of days to get back to me but eventually I got an email saying they would be happy to call me in when they needed me.

Lauren put virtually all her creative energy during those first few weeks into creating those poems. She called them Odes, which apparently meant each two lines had to rhyme with each other. What was brilliant was that allowed her to put plenty of humour into them, but at times she got incredibly frustrated when she could not think of a rhyme or a way to mention something that she felt had to be in there. Every time she started writing one, I got to work on a picture or pictures that could go with it.

Within the first month we have fifteen Odes complete with picture. As we put them up for sale on the website redbubble our excitement was off the charts, by far the giddiest we had ever been. We were metaphorically sticking two fingers up to all the people who had ever doubted or mocked us. To toast our victory we even allowed ourselves a first takeaway since Lauren had moved in. We were both convinced that we had made it. Then nobody bought one. We checked the site every day for a month. No sales.

It was like getting punched in the gut for what you knew must be the final time. Lauren did not wait for the three months to be up, she starting working a couple of days a week in another coffee shop to at least prolong the amount of time the experiment could last. That was the sensible thing to do. I was not so sensible, I figured that there were other ways to make money. Ultimately that decision led to be being sat in front of that Magistrate a couple of years later.

He glared at me over his glasses. Then looked through them to check out the evidence in his hand. He seemed to be looking at it forever.

‘Excellent!’ He beamed.

‘You’re happy with it?’ I checked.

‘Of course I am, it is a brilliant likeness and you have even managed to capture his character.’

‘And you’re happy with the price?’

‘A hundred pound? Worth every penny.’

At that point a dog trotted into the room. ‘Whose this? Whose this?’ The Magistrate said to his dog as if it was a small child as he showed it the picture of itself.

Drawing pictures of people’s dogs had become one of my most consistent sources of income. People also like drawings of their kids, although not as much as of their dogs. The police work had become frequent enough to be a decent part time income all by itself. For a couple of weeks at either end of the summer I would head to Blackpool and make some useful pocket money drawing caricatures of people by the Pier, that also became a good way to advertise the pet and kids drawings. It also allowed me to spend four weeks of the year on the beach. As for the Odes of Joy, they were a little slow, but once we realised there was marketing involved and that people had to know about them before they could buy them they took off. Sales on rebubble continue to grow each month and we signed a deal with Hallmark for them to use them on greeting cards. Currently we have sixty seven different Odes available for purchase. Lauren and I do not live together anymore, but only because we both have a lovely house each.

‘Brilliant, glad you are happy with it,’ I said.

‘Certainly am, I will do the bank transfer. You should have the money before you get home.’

‘Thank you very much,’ I said and got up off the sofa and he got up out of his armchair and showed me out to the front door.

Just before he closed the front door I said: ‘You don’t remember me do you?’

‘I was thinking you looked familiar, but I am really sorry I just can’t place you.’

‘You used to be a teacher at my school. You never taught me, but I did see you for careers advice, I told you I wanted to be an artist and you said I could not be one.’

‘Jimi, of course it is you!’ He said with the joy of someone who had remembered a quiz answer just in time. What was confusing was that he seemed genuinely happy to see me.

‘Yeah that’s right,’ I said nodding.

‘I am so glad to see you again. I do remember that chat we had. I was awful, I have been regretting that just about ever since.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, it was tough time for me. I was going through a few things. My marriage had ended recently, my Dad had died a couple of weeks or so before our chat and I was having a cancer scare at the time. It is no excuse at all for the way I handled our meeting, I was supposed to be building young people up not tearing them down.’

‘No, but as excuses go, that is pretty good,’ I said.

‘I promise I was normally a lot better at that job, you were unfortunate to get me at the worst time.’

‘Don’t beat yourself up about it too much, you did not put me off.’

‘My hope has always been that even though what I said was totally wrong, that it might have spurred you on.’

‘I do like proving people wrong.’

‘Jimi I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you again and doing so well. I think I know the answer to this question, but it would give me great pleasure to hear it from you. Jimi what do you do for a living?’

I smiled. ‘I am an artist.’

THE END.

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