The Designer’s Tale

“Hey, this kid can’t half draw!” 

That was Alan. One of the older patients in the children’s hospital. ‘Older’ is a relative term. He was probably twelve, clad in pyjama trousers and a fairisle pullover. He was leaning over the shoulder of ‘the kid’. That was me. I was six years old and it was my first experience of hospital, waiting to have my tonsils removed. I didn’t wwhat that meant, but in those days, tonsils and appendices were unnecessary items that were best removed.

My parents had thoughtfully provided me with a large drawing pad, coloured pencils and crayons. As an only child, it was an innate activity to fully immerse myself in the worlds I created on cheap paper. They were safe, comforting places.

I’d been wary and a little afraid of Alan. He was the self-appointed cock-of-the-ward. But now I was basking in the spotlight of attention, as a crowd of pyjama-clad kids crowded around my bed, shouting their approbation. In hindsight, this may have been more out of the collective wariness of Alan, than the quality of my artwork, and they were soon dispersed by the ultimate power of the ward-sister. 

But a seed had been sown. It may have been my first taste of vanity, and the warm glow of praise. But for a working-class boy from Salford, it was a possible glimpse of the future. 

I returned to school. From infants into junior school, it seemed that visual arts were teachers’ fall-back positions. When literary skills were limited, ‘Draw a picture of…’, seemed part of most lessons. It played to my questionable talents and fed my juvenile ego. 

There was a dark episode where a school bully (and he was a serious bruiser), ordered me to create ‘erotic’ pictures for him. What could I draw? I had few references. Suffice it to say there were punches and bruises. I would draw a veil over the event, and return to producing drawings of kittens or steam engines to order. 

Contemporary pupils would ask, “Are you going to be an artist?” There was no way to answer – the concept was outside my juvenile frame of reference.

12 Years Later

Mick and I were standing in the entrance of the college, self-consciously searching for another pocket to stick a hand into. We’d not been particularly close friends at school, but now in this alien environment, we were grateful for the mutual support. On the first day of college term, there was a busy, noisy ebb and flow of returning students who knew where they were going. It was the late sixties and the outfits ranged from jeans and desert boots, ex-army greatcoats and denim jackets for the boys, to mini-skirts, boots and Afghan jackets for the girls. By comparison, we were conspicuous in our acceptable sixth-form garb of Burton suits, white shirts and ties. Eventually, a tall and ill-coordinated figure in a leather coat stopped and observed us. He finished rolling a cigarette.

“Got a light?” Mick fished his lighter from a pocket. The figure had to pull back his long hair to accept the flame. Mick’s prized Zippo lighter had a wick like a pyjama cord. After inhaling deeply, he coughed, “Freshers?” We nodded. “Have you registered? You need to go to D7 – follow the signs.”

He ambled off and we followed his instructions.

An hour or so later we found ourselves in a red-brick junior school some half a mile from the main building. This was the St Philip’s Annex. It was to be our home for the next year – the Foundation Year.

There were around 40 of us, eager new students – the ‘bulge’ year. We had ranged ourselves in a large square room which had little attempt to disguise its previous use as a school classroom. There were insufficient chairs so we spread ourselves on tables and a handful of artists ‘donkeys’. At the front of the room was a battered table in front of a large school blackboard. On either side were two older men, each with a mug of coffee and a world-weary smile. As the murmuring slowly subsided, the older man stepped forward and introduced himself as our course tutor. He was tall with a ginger beard, and wearing a brown corduroy suit. He then introduced the other man. Slightly younger, he wore a leather coat, a practised cool attitude… and a Dylan cap, which it transpired was to hide his prematurely thinning hairline. 

The senior tutor (“Call me Gordon”), began to explain the building, various health and safety rules and other practical items while handing out timetables. His colleague then stepped forward.

“I’m Mike Cooper, and this is your first assignment.” He theatrically spun over the blackboard to reveal a single sentence of neat chalk writing:

“Express the visual analogies for the primary and secondary colours, in terms of line, shape, colour, shade, and texture.”

He stood back with a smile to “Call Me Gordon”, as the room fell into silence while we scribbled down the words from the board. It was clear they had 

played this scene before and stood without comment while we puzzled. Standing in silence looking from one dumbstruck face to another, wondering who was going to put their head above the parapet.

“Well…”, It was a girl at the back, who appeared rather older than the rest of us. “What does it mean?” The question we’d all been afraid to ask.

Again, our tutors smiled knowingly and almost winked at each other. Mike stepped forward and with a world-weary expression began to deconstruct the brief. The scratching of pens and pencils filled the room once more as copious notes were taken.

It was “Call Me Gordon’s” turn to wrap up the session.

“Okay, that’s all for today, you can go home.” He looked over his new charges, all in our smartest clothes for our first day. ‘And come back tomorrow dressed and ready to do some work!”

Our intake was split into two groups, using some arbitrary algorithm. The main purpose it seems was to have manageable-sized tutorial groups, though we were all brought together for many briefings and lectures. Mick and I were in different groups, so when we got together we’d compare notes and share opinions on our fellow students. We were both inner city kids, but many of our fellow students were from the leafy suburbs or the ‘barbecue belt’, as we called Cheshire. There was a dilettante element – those who were not necessarily motivated but thought art school would be a cool place to while away a few years. Also, there were girls! We had arrived from a boys-only grammar school, and the prospect of close, day-to-day collaboration with the opposite sex, provided an additional frisson. 

Most of our foundation year days were to be spent in the annexe – which underlined the fact that we were not ‘properly’ on the course yet. Our little gulag was also shared with the product design course. In the basement of the building were workshops, sculpture studios, and the subterranean home of the product designers. They were a strange crew, who rarely mixed. Their conversations and sense of humour didn’t encourage socialisation. But, let me step back a year or so.

More than one kind of designer

Until my final year at school, I had no idea that ‘designer’ was a profession. In fact, I would not have been able to tell you what one did. My skills acquired in education, apart from usual maths and English, were mainly technical and scientific. I’d even been forced to drop Art – though our farsighted art teacher had arranged for an after-school study class. The school’s aim was clear, they saw me in a red-brick university chasing a science degree. It was purely by chance that I came across a brochure from a local college explaining the various careers in design. At the time it seemed an opportunity to combine my technical skills and artistic aptitude. So, when I signed up I had some jumbled idea that I’d be designing television sets and washing machines – in short, a product designer.

Now, meeting those who had chosen the product path, I was relieved that I was on the foundation course. I had time and flexibility to shape my future.

We were not permanently anchored in the annexe, and had to pay regular visits to the main building. There we learned a lot more about what would be available to us after the foundation year. The graphic design area excited me the most. The work posted on the walls, exhibitions from international colleges, and the opportunity to peep over the shoulders of working students were eye-opening in every sense of the word.

There were print rooms, type rooms, photographic studios and dark rooms (with always a student or two trying hard to look as though they were auditioning for ‘Blow Up’.)

Mick and I had our first lunch in the refectory. When at the annexe, lunch was usually a pie and pint at the Black Horse, but now we were able to observe the faculty members as a whole. The most noticeable breed were the fashion designers, instantly recognisable by their distinctive plumage. The product designers were equally idiosyncratic, with their conservative sweaters, and sensible shoes.

We were joined by Pete, who slumped heavily into one of the plastic Eames chairs and began to noisily drink his tea. Just a couple of weeks into the course, we were slowly getting to know some of our fellow students, and Pete already stood out as a talented, if nervy guy.

“Watching the girls?” he asked, bouncing his knee. We hadn’t realised, but that was exactly what we were doing – or to be fair, we were people-watching in general. Also of interest to us, were the staff. Most male senior staff wore suits, collars and ties. Younger lecturers and tutors were more relaxed, in cord trousers, leather coats, and button-down shirts. The female staff tended to wear skirts and sweaters, with the occasional trousers – the exceptions again were the female fashion lecturers, who advertised their roles with statement outfits.

Mick had been staring at Pete; “What’s that in your hair?” There was pale dust covering Pete’s black mop.

”Sawdust. We’ve been doing sculpture this morning. I’ve been working on the bandsaw,” Peter grinned as he ran his fingers through his hair with little effect. It underlined another way to identify the art students. Jeans and other garments were invariably stained with paint, ink, plaster of Paris and other substances.

”You going to the pub?” Pete asked. It was Wednesday lunchtime and the afternoon was dedicated to Student Union Activities, according to the timetable. This was generally viewed as a half day away from studies.

”No, I need to go and cash my grant cheque.” I answered. We were part of the lucky generation who enjoyed maintenance grants to help fund our education. They were not huge sums, but without them, I doubt that many working-class kids would have managed to afford further education. They were meant to contribute to books, materials, and accommodation, for example. They arrived around the first week in term, and our first task was to get them cleared by the education department, so they could be cashed by the bearer. Next, we would take them down to the nominated branch and cash them. Few students had bank accounts, and without cash or credit cards, the funds could not be used – cash was king.

That afternoon found me with more cash than I had ever seen in one place, in my jacket pocket on my way to the artist materials store, Entwistle & Thorpe, to fill the gaps in my course materials list. I lived at home for my first year, so I agreed to pay my mother a proportion of my grant as a contribution to my keep. This was the reverse of what was meant to happen. The sums we received were small, with the expectation that parents should top them up. In reality, only kids from wealthy families enjoyed that situation. This was brought into focus as term progressed and the grants began to run out. You could spot students hanging around the refectory, poised to jump on slices of bread left on trays, to be converted into ketchup sandwiches. Loan sharks were on the prowl, and student flats became crowded with itinerant lodgers. I remember going to a party in one flat lit by paraffin lamps ‘borrowed’ from road works.  

As the term progressed we adapted to our new routines. There were some idiosyncrasies in the course. There had been minimum education qualifications expected – GCE A-levels and O-levels, but like all art colleges there was the big get-out clause, ‘Students who display exceptional abilities may be admitted without the required qualifications’. In practice, this meant that when students were called in for an interview, the course tutors or senior lecturers ignored the qualification requirements.

That afternoon found me with more cash than I had ever seen in one place, in my jacket pocket on my way to the artist materials store, Entwistle & Thorpe, to fill the gaps in my course materials list. I lived at home for my first year, so I agreed to pay my mother a proportion of my grant as a contribution to my keep. This was the reverse of what was meant to happen. The sums we received were small, with the expectation that parents should top them up. In reality, only kids from wealthy families enjoyed that situation. This was brought into focus as term progressed and the grants began to run out. You could spot students hanging around the refectory, poised to jump on slices of bread left on trays, to be converted into ketchup sandwiches. Loan sharks were on the prowl, and student flats became crowded with itinerant lodgers. I remember going to a party in one flat lit by paraffin lamps ‘borrowed’ from road works.  

As the term progressed we adapted to our new routines. There were some idiosyncrasies in the course. There had been minimum education qualifications expected – GCE A-levels and O-levels, but like all art colleges there was the big get-out clause, ‘Students who display exceptional abilities may be admitted without the required qualifications’. In practice, this meant that when students were called in for an interview, the course tutors or senior lecturers ignored the qualification requirements.

The snag lay in a sensible need for some essentials. For example, students were expected to achieve a minimum of GCE O-level in English. This seemed fair enough, and so it was part of the curriculum. However, a sizable proportion of us had already passed O and A level exams in the subject, yet we were required to sit through the same lessons. The first puny punches of student dissent were to be thrown.The snag lay in a sensible need for some essentials. For example, students were expected to achieve a minimum of GCE O-level in English. This seemed fair enough, and so it was part of the curriculum. However, a sizable proportion of us had already passed O and A level exams in the subject, yet we were required to sit through the same lessons. The first puny punches of student dissent were to be thrown.