William McLellan - How I Got Into Art School (and out of prison)

I tried to get into art school twice.

The first time was in the summer of 1968, when I was eighteen. My shadow rippled up the wide stone steps of Leeds College of Art as I weaved through the trendy students sitting in the sun. They could probably tell by my emulsion-spattered trainers that I was a painter and decorator trying to look like an artist. Id put on a striped collarless shirt with a pink chiffon scarf. It floated over the wide lapels of the pale blue granny coat that Id cut down to make into a jacket. The stitching around the hem was lumpy and the velvet turn-ups Id sewn onto my jeans were as frayed as my nerves.

My artwork was tied between two sides of a cardboard box, and the string snagged awkwardly on the handle as I heaved it through the door of the imposing Jakob Kramer building.

The principal cleared a space on a large, untidy desk. His long, pale fingers leafed through my drawings, carefully picking up each corner as though the paper might fall apart. He had dark hair that almost reached his collar and he wore a soft, black leather jacket with a paisley tie and jeans. He looked halfway between a hippy and a straight.

His hand stopped over a portrait of my brothers motorcycle mates. Id drawn them with pen and ink, then used a wet brush to bleed the outline for shading. The principal looked up at me through a straggly fringe:

I presume you have Art O-level. What other qualifications do you have?

It was the question Id been dreading.

Er none. I left school at fifteen and just started painting.

Mild interest flickered in his eyes. Oh? What did you paint?

Houses, mainly.

He smiled, and leafed through the rest of the drawings. Then he leant back in his swivel chair.

Well, he said. If it was up to me, Id accept you. Not just on the strength of your work he waved his arm at my pile of drawings but on the sheer volume of it I wanted to walk out so I didnt have to hear what was coming next. however, theres little point in me offering you a place. Without qualifications, Leeds Council wont give you a grant.

There was an embarrassing silence as I struggled to reassemble the cardboard and string. In the end I just crammed it all together so I could escape into the corridor before the rising blush hit my cheeks.

I borrowed a proper portfolio for my second attempt. This time it was 1972, at David Hockneys old college in Bradford. I found an empty table in a hall full of students and began to lay out my artwork. My figure drawing had improved and I was hoping theyd be impressed enough to overlook the business of qualifications and give me a grant.

A tall, thin tutor stopped to look at the nude drawings Id done of my girlfriend, Hanna. He seemed to find them interesting so I summoned up the courage to ask, What are my chances of getting in?

The tutors moustache bristled at my impudence. Youll have to wait until all the interviewees have been assessed then youll be notified in due course.

He stalked away and I thought, God, if theyre all like him, I dont stand a chance.

I didnt wait to find out. I split up with Hanna just after the interview. Wed been living together for two years so the fallout was heavy. She spent most nights crying outside my new flat with two family-size jars of aspirin stuffed inside her handbag. It drove me frantic, but there was nothing I could do to help her.

I couldnt even talk things over with my best mate, Daisy Dave. Hed just left for Morocco. Wed both been working for Leeds Parks Department and had formed an art movement called the Avant Gardeners. It was meant to be a joke, but it wasnt funny. After five years of painting, we hadnt sold a thing.

Leeds had nothing to hold me any more, so I packed in my job, grabbed my guitar and hitch-hiked down to The Smoke.

I t was almost dark when I arrived in Kilburn, but the pubs on the High Road were already packed. The Gaumont State Cinema towered above me against the twilight sky. It was modelled on the Empire State Building and its silhouette made this seedy part of London look like night-time New York. The streets were just as violent. A bunch of Irish navvies laid into each other as I jammed my finger on the intercom to my brothers top-floor flat.

After buzzing me in, Jeremy talked me through the details of our arrangement while I listened attentively to the Kinks playing Lola on his kitchen radio. Basically, the deal was that I could have his boxroom cheap if I babysat his girls, got a job and didnt indulge in my old habit of arguing with his wife, Kathryn.

I had a great time with the kids and found work stacking shelves in a supermarket. But I failed miserably on the rest of the deal.

A couple of weeks after Id arrived, Jeremy shoved a letter under the door of my room. I picked up the heavy, embossed envelope and peeled it open with nervous fingers. The thick, folded paper revealed the impressive crest of Bradford School of Art. I could hardly focus my eyes as I scanned the neatly typed letter. When I read that theyd offered me a place, my whole world turned around. Id been waiting all my life for this moment, but the emotional rush only lasted until the next line without qualifications Bradford Council wouldnt give me a grant. There was no way I could save enough money to get through a term, never mind a year. I turned back to the nearest thing to being an artist I could think of hanging my pictures every weekend on the railings at Hyde Park with the rest of the no-hopers.

Things could have stayed that way, but one day after work, something happened that changed my life. Id just got home and was sprinting up the wide staircase of Saint Lawrence Mansions when I hit an invisible wall on the fourth floor. It was the familiar smell of old chip fat mixed with the Arabian tang of burnt hashish. I knew immediately that Daisy Dave was back from Morocco.

Daisy was lounging on the double bed that filled my tiny room. His sun-bleached denim shirt matched his faded tan cords and his blond hair looked like it had been zapped by a Van de Graaff generator. The Moroccan suntan made his eyes appear a lot bluer. It also made him a lot better-looking, if that were possible. He tapped his joint into the desert boot he was using as an ashtray and flashed me a smile.

Have you missed me? he said.

Daisy bounced as I dropped onto the bed.

Desperately. What happened to your hair? You look like Florence of Arabia.

He nodded at my figure drawings, stuck on the wall.

I see youve joined the tits and bums brigade. Have you sold anything?

Nope, nothing. Got offered a place at Bradford, though.

Daisy stretched to pass me the joint. Even the hairs on his arm were golden. What happened with Hanna? he said.

We split up.

Is that why you arent in college?

I took a long drag and held it in.

No they wouldnt give me a grant.

Bastards. Daisy reached over the side of the bed. He pulled up a tooled Moroccan leather bag and tipped out its contents. A colourful avalanche of oil pastel drawings slid out onto the yellow counterpane.

Smoke drifted from my open mouth as I stared at the vibrant tones. The pictures were of bold, simple figures with dark purple shadows that pushed them out of the sugar paper like bas-relief sculptures.