remembering Mr Davies

It was 1977. I was 13. Mr. Davies was on his way out—retirement looming like an empty cityscape after a rainstorm. He was short, stout, flame-red crew cut, and a neat beard that said he cared about precision, even when no one else did. Always dressed smart casual, polyester slacks, casual tan shoes. He hardly ever spoke. In two years as my art teacher, the only thing he really told me was to get my hands out of my pockets.

On his last day, I threw together some half-hearted sketch of a horse and rider in minutes. He took one look at it, went beet-red, and made me stay behind to fix it. While my friends filed out for lunch, I sat there, fuming. Thirty minutes later, I took my new drawing up to him. Asked if I could go.

He looked at it, really looked at it. His nod was slow, like he was seeing something for the first time. "This is good," he said, voice low, like he'd been holding back all along. "Really good. You've got talent, son. Don’t stop making art. Your future starts when you wake up each morning. Seize it. Make the regular irregular. Make nonsense of sense. Honour your mistakes as hidden intentions. Don’t stand still. Don’t play it safe. The universe—it speaks through the artist."

Funny how the details of those moments blur over time. I’m sure he said a lot less, but he was damn impressed with that drawing. At a time when no one was impressed with anything I did.

Ten years later, I was through art school, expressing the will of the universe. Maybe not in a way that filled my wallet, but in a way that filled something deeper.

Since then, I’ve fed that compulsion to create. Sometimes, it’s fed me in return. I still think of Mr. Davies, and I hope his retirement was long and peaceful.

In a world that barely notices you, all it takes is one person to believe. One moment, one conversation—it can change everything in ways we never see coming

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