“Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time” – Thomas Merton.

I grew up quite unaware of art; there was a picture on the wall of course, just one over the fireplace, a cheap, hideous thing from the market just to break up the 1970’s bold orange pattern in the wallpaper. I didn’t even know such a thing as art galleries and museums existed, not until a school visit to one in the local town centre, which as a child is not where you want be taken on a school trip, not when you live so close to Blackpool and all the fun that has to offer. For some unknown reason I decided that museums and galleries weren’t for my kind, working class council estate dwellers with no money and even less inclination to seek out and partake in anything that was for ‘posh people’, even Blue Peter was deemed to be for posh people in my house).

Skip forward to secondary school. Still working class, still no spare money and still never taken anywhere by parents; hanging about in the streets was as far as recreation got (until I looked old enough to get in the pubs anyway!). I was quite academic, I did well at school but tired of it towards the end, life outside of it with my older friends was much more fun. I loathed history but had only two choices for one of my optional lessons, art or history, so art it was. Art wasn’t a real subject I told myself, I could have an easy lesson a few times a week. However, after six months of not being able to draw, the teacher, Mr Carmichael, gave me a camera and a roll of film and told me to go out and try something else instead, so that was the start of my love affair with photography, but photography isn’t art though, it’s what you do when you can’t draw.

I left school on the Friday and started work in the factory on the Monday. I believed I was lucky to have a YTS (Youth Training Scheme, £26 a week for 40 hours graft) to go to, so many school leavers without jobs. Staying on for sixth form wasn’t an option, university wasn’t even a word ever used in my house, you had to get a job, any job, as long as it got you some money to pay your way. I didn’t know anyone going to university at all.

I lived artless and remained with the thinking that art is for ‘posh’ people for years (oh so many years!). I did all the usual things, got married, had a baby, went to the pub for nights out. We went on package holidays and schlepped round a few old ruins because that’s what you do on holiday, but once you’ve seen one ruin you’ve seen them all, but galleries, no, not for me thank you; besides, it’s either a load of old paintings of people you don’t know, scribbles a child could make or a load of old junk put in a square white room and christened a ‘Masterpiece of Art’ by the posh people with too much money and not enough to spend it on. I had a picture over the fireplace of course, one from the local shopping centre to fill the blank space on the chimney breast.

Life changed drastically when I got divorced after 16 years of marriage. My baby grew up and went off to university, the first in the family, we were so proud. While he was there I met a man who would change my life immeasurably. Music has always been my biggest passion, and he introduced me to jazz. I’d been put off jazz by Cleo Lane on the tv as a child, but this jazz wasn’t the same, I liked it! A visit to a jazz festival in France meant a stop in Paris for a few days too, my first time there. This new man was a bit posh though and he wanted to visit the galleries whilst we were there. It was his holiday too, so off we went to the Musée national Gustave Moreau, the museum for the Symbolist painter Gustave Moreau. My first real art gallery, and it was full of the blackest, darkest paintings I had ever seen. I didn’t understand any of it, I took pictures of the building and the curly staircase before heading off to the Henri Cartier-Bresson Foundation, familiar territory, photography, but that’s not art though, it’s photography.

A different day and a discussion about the working class chips stacked up on my shoulders later, we visited the Centre Pompidou. Modern art, the sort of art kids can paint, or so I thought. I can’t remember what it was I saw that I actually liked first, but there was plenty I liked after a bit of guidance about what I was looking at. Maybe I just hadn’t given anything a chance, but most of it was still rubbish and it was still for posh people. That was the start though, over the course of the year we saw more art, I learned a bit about it, and then I saw pictures of works by Malevich and Rothko. Malevich’s Black Square, just a black square on a white background, that’s it, nothing else, no people, no pattern, no other colour, just a black square, but I was transfixed. It was meditative, it was calm, it was suddenly more than just a black square, it was mesmerizing, that’s when I was hooked. I wanted to know more. I bought books, I went to my first gallery alone, I started to learn about different painters and sculptors. I still didn’t like the old paintings of people I didn’t know though.

I watched my son graduate from university and wondered if it was possible for me to do the same, people learnt about art at university didn’t they? I could do that and learn more about painters and sculptors. I knew someone whose husband was doing a maths degree with the Open University, so I glanced at the website, decided against it and closed the tab. But it niggled, in the back of my mind, was I smart enough, could I afford it, was I still young enough, by the time I’d graduate in six years time, the average length of most part time, distance learning degrees, I would be 51! But then if I didn’t try I’d still be 51 and not know whether I could do it or not. A quick bit of research showed I could have a student loan to pay for it, all I had to do was fill in the form online and click apply. I filled in the form, countless times over a three week period, each time telling myself I wasn’t good enough. One day, though, I did it, I pushed the button, I then pushed the button on the student finance site to accept the terms of a student loan. I was going to do it, I was going to be a mature student, I was going to learn about art, all of it, the good, the bad, the ugly and the old people I didn’t know.

That is now four years ago, I start my fifth module, Renaissance Art, this week. I even like some of the Old Masters now, Rubens, Bosch, David, Carravaggio, the list is quite long actually. I now know a bit about some of those people in old paintings, I even like some of them too. I now realise that art is different to different people, it can have many functions, many meanings, many styles and it’s ok to like some and not others, and it’s not just for ‘posh’ people. I am on board with art now, hooked even, and I still have a working class chip on my shoulder, but in two years I’ll have an Art History degree to balance that out a little. I will go back to the Musée national Gustave Moreau at some point, just to see if I still prefer the staircase.