I was in my teens, hostile and critical. Nothing impressed me. Life was a passing pageant for others, not me. Seen through a haze of resentment. My internal world was filled with anxiety and a miserable unknowingness. The journey through school years had been bumpy, boring and mostly downhill, being downgraded and repeating years. I enjoyed gym, music and art. English was fun but Maths had been torture.
I dreamed through the rest.
My old science teacher met my mother years later. She wanted to know which of her daughters I was. “Oh, the one that wasn't there?” she asked.
Two brothers and a sister lived up to expectations, willingly or grudgingly, and achieved university degrees. My future felt bleak and hopeless.
My mother thought I'd probably get married, I wasn't bad looking.
One day she took me to visit a friend in her home on a hill above the town. Florrie was a retired lady, neat and small with glasses. She could have been any elderly white haired lady you'd pass in the street.
But Florrie was an artist. That was different, not like the other people in my life. Not an anxious pushing parent, a disappointed guidance teacher, my academic siblings. She just was.
More than that, up close, you'd see a direct gaze, an openness, an interest that made your senses come alive. Made you switch on, take note.
She'd made a living from her art and surrounded herself with her artwork. Her house was a rich nest of artefacts, curios and flowers, floral paintings on the living room walls in fresh colours. A spray of delphiniums set against a window with views over the town, the sea in the background.
She'd made carvings too. There was a wooden relief plaque of saintly figures, perhaps apostles, holding books or fingers up in blessing. The wood was so smooth and the figures so touchable.
The thing that really intrigued me was a paper mache buddha, painted a burned toffee brown. He sat cross-legged on the floor, his belly resting on his feet. Long skinny hairy brown arms held high above his head supported a parchment lampshade. He fascinated me and I wondered that she had thought to invent this charming ugly creature with his bronzed body and painted hairiness.
Florrie had knuckly hands with long fingernails which I knew she used as a kind of palette knife when painting. And like a buddha, she radiated contentment and calmness. She’d been happy to be different and known a different way of being than I knew of. And, suddenly, I wanted that.
She looked at me with interest. She wanted to talk with me, ask me questions, find out who I was, what I thought. I felt if I opened my mouth and said something, anything, she would listen. It made me want to give her something good to think about, not my usual mumbled whinge of shame.
With her clever hands and mind, she opened a door of opportunity for me. It opened a chink. I went to the high school and asked if they would take me back to do an ‘O’ level in art. They took me in.
I passed.
And I haven’t stopped.
Now her age, I still feel a thrill of gratitude just knowing she existed. Knowing that difference could bring nourishment, reward, expression and excitement. There to own and enjoy.
And I do.