I sat down to write a short post asking a question and this poured out onto the page. There is a lot and I'm still writing so will be splitting this into several posts.
Like a lot of people my first exposure to art was through my parents, they never insisted we should stay between the lines or that a carrot be orange, our colouring books and drawings were full of purple swans, swirls scribbles, glitters and glue. But when my world grew a little larger and school came along I discovered fairly quickly that isn't how other people thought art should be.
By the age of 6 my favourite thing to do led to ridicule and contempt from my classmates and teacher, who would make an example of me by bringing me to the front of the class, pointing out every flaw in my work before ripping it up. Needless to say, I soon learned to draw in the lines and paint a white snowman like every other child in the class.
I hated it!
At home I threw away all my art supplies and just stopped. My dad noticed and tried to encourage me but I was pretty stubborn back then, However he did become my hero when he angrily stormed into the classroom to defend me, telling the teacher "You wouldn't know art if it kicked you in the face".
Thanks Dad!
What I didn't know then was my Dad had been through similar experiences, growing up he wanted to go to university to study design and architecture but his family had the opinion that only faggots went to university and did everything they could to stop him, something my grandfather later told my dad was his biggest regret.
Art was suddenly everywhere, he'd watch documentaries hoping i'd join, point out the artistic merit of everything when i was about. Then several years later he took us all to the Tate Modern in Liverpool. I sulked from one exhibition hall to another, dragging my feet and proclaiming boredom until in a room full of exceptionally large colourful canvases and sculptures, a much smaller framed painting caught my eye.