The Art Guy (18+) COMPLETE, FREE to READ

You Always Remember Your First

Glasgow. January 1993

Kippy had enjoyed New Year. Compared to the one last year, it had felt infinitely better. Last year, he had been ploughing his way through an access course that would eventually get him into Glasgow School of Art.

At that point, he hadn't been confident at all they would actually pass the course. He was smart enough, but this class asked more of him. It was not sufficient to answer—you had to think about your replies, and often, his head ached with the intensity of it. Not passing the course wasn't an option. Tony's money sat gathering (albeit small) interest in a bank account, ready to finance his art school career. If it sat there too long, he worried that the police would eventually find a way of claiming it back.

It was money that had been stolen from them after all.

And he was still in Kirkcudbright, a gay in the closet who didn't dare tell his nearest and dearest that no, he wasnae interesting in snogging the face off a girl when the bells sounded out.

This time, a year later, he and the stairs man had managed a super-quick mutual wank in the upstairs bathroom. As it was a luxurious house, the upmarket décor of the room banished any unglamorous association with gay toilet sex (though there was something was thrilling about that too). Neither of them had bothered exchanging names, so of course, no swapping of numbers afterwards took place either.

The guy wished him a Happy New Year in mocking tones. It wasn't meant to sound in the least bit sentimental.

"Ta," Kippy said, not bothering to look back over his shoulder as he made his way downstairs. He didn't say Happy New Year in response. He couldn't care less what happened to the guy after this.

Back in Glasgow in January, he slipped into a routine. The art school kept him busy. Class time wasn't demanding, but he found himself spending a long time in studios. The tutors and professors liked him. Lillian teased it because they were all latent homosexuals anyway, but he knew it wasn't that. They loved him because he was good. That wasn't big-headed. He compared himself to others, and he was aware that his talent was outstanding. The practice he'd put in over the years had paid off.

The first year of art school offered you a few weeks in each department. Fine art, illustration, environmental art, textiles, sculpture and photography. If you showed promise, you could then narrow your choices for later years, concentrating on the thing you loved.

The fine art guys were the real snobs of the art school, regarding anything else as heretical horror. Professor Gallen was the head of the department. He didn't much like first years, classifying them as too far beneath his notice to pay attention to, but he was a genius at finding a favourite, and Kippy was one of them.

"Don't bother with anything else," he said, shuddering as he walked past the illustration rooms, their hum of electricity ever-present. "Be a real artist. Join the A-list."

As it happened, Kippy loved fine art, but he was also intrigued by graphic design. Gallen, he suspected, was a total dinosaur. If Kippy were to find work in the future, the ability to use computers to create papers, pages, album covers, posters, magazine and comic pages would be crucial.

He wrote to Old Carlton and told him how he was getting on. He owed the old man a lot—probably as much as he owed Tony Walker. Old Carlton had been his one-time art teacher, an old poof, but he'd practically cried when Kippy left school at fifteen and took up employment with the local painting and decorating firm. That hadn't been what Old Carlton meant when he'd dreamt up a future for his prodigy.

Nevertheless, he'd given Kippy the use of his studio—the top floor of his High Street home in Kirkcudbright, pressing the key into Kippy's hand so he could come and go as he wanted. He'd offered help, advice and encouragement on everything he did, and when Kippy told him about the place at art school, he cried again—tears that ran down into his face into his beard and sniffs that made his voice sound hoarse.