I have to thank you

Not often can you pinpoint the exact moment when something changes.

In reality, you can probably never trace an event back to one moment in time; things seem to happen through a chain of little moments. Change happens gradually, for the most part.

So, maybe I'm wrong in what I'm about to say, from a mathematical, technical, measurable perspective. But, even so, I would like to thank someone for my pursuing art as more than an occasional thought.

At some point in the two years I spent at sixth-form college - possibly in the first term of the second year, to be more exact, or possibly more inaccurate - our tutors took our year group on a visit to Brighton. Very little of that trip now stands out to me; I have a few photographs in a small, slip folder somewhere, of myself and my friend Liberty, in a museum exhibit. (In fact, Liberty was one of the best things I've managed to keep since leaving college and one of two people I remember from that day. We bought chips, sat on the beach and she tried to convince me to have my nose pierced before the trip was up.) The aim of the trip was to visit as many exhibitions as we could find and be given a tour of Brighton University's art department. 

There we were, let loose. It felt wonderful, that much I do remember. I'd guess there were 30 of us, which was an uncomfortable number when the tour had begun. We all piled into the hallways outside the workshops, straining to see into print rooms and graphics suites, while being lead by someone terribly patient.

And there she was.

We'd stopped in a corridor, outside solo studio rooms. I'd wanted to be a part of some kind of art institution for as long as I could remember; I'd fantasized about a space that would be mine. Somewhere I would work to my heart's content, separate from the world. I'm sure what we were looking at were rooms that belonged to MA students, for looking back now, I can scarcely believe degree students would have had such magnificent rooms all to themselves.

Everyone was growing weary - I can recount there being so many stairs within the building that I imagined I would be terribly fit by the end of my artist career, if every institution was like this one. But, more than anything, I wanted to see the work that was being produced. My curiosity was beginning to win over a sense of politeness towards our tour guide; her voice was beginning to swirl like a fading mirage and another sound was replacing it.

From the nearest studio floated the sweet tones of Billie Holiday. Anyone who has ever been enraptured by her music knows that the feeling is all consuming. I can't recall the song that was playing but I remember the warmth that crept right up to me and whispered to pull me close.

Yet, the music had perplexed me; there hadn't been anybody in the spaces we'd already passed and I wasn't expecting that we'd see any of the students. I didn't want anyone to see the enchantment that had fallen on me. As I took a step toward the open doorway, I felt invisible. I could feel the weight of heavy eyelids around me, leaning against the mottled magnolia walls. The music pulsed softly like a summer afternoon.

From the inside of the white door frame emerged pastel orange and white. A patch of daffodil yellow flitted across the bottom of a painting, resting on the near wall. A palette of sherbet sun enveloped hanging sheets of sugar paper, the pinks and pastels built in layers. Billie Holiday kept singing and my eyes panned to the floor as a kneeling figure came into focus against the soft colours. My tendency to stare was unbroken whilst she remained unaware of the gaze resting upon her. Dark hair and an apron tied around her slight frame; she was working on a roll of paper longer than the wall with the same colours, on a wide brush.

Silently, her face tilted toward me and I was afraid. Not of her, but I feared that my presence had disturbed the scene. Something within me held its breath as I stared into my perceived future and, in that moment, I wished with everything that I was her; that I was this beautiful creature, painting on my knees with streaming light on my back. She was unperturbed; her dark, doe eyes returned to her work. I like to think that she smiled at me, but I can't be sure now. Her siren call emanated through me and, just as curiously as it had begun, the moment came to a close. The sounds around me began to filter into my senses again and, before I could look any longer, we were being ushered back out of the corridor and down the stairs.

I don't know the exact moment when something changed.
But this is my thank you, to whoever you are; you who happened to be in the same place as I was.
I haven't forgotten; you don't forget moments when a flame is ignited.