Blue Paint, Broken Systems, and the Beginning of Something Real
Listening to the Light
THE FINE LINE
medium: Painted by hand, intuitively using the iPad Pro
“This post is a reflection from From London to Mexico, a book in progress about the quiet signs that guide us into unexpected change.”
My teaching career kicked off with an explosion of blue paint and the sudden realization that I was right in the middle of a broken department.
Barely out of teacher training, I walked into my very first real post: a state secondary school in Kingston-upon-Thames, South West London.
I remember my first day so clearly.
Picture a young, freshly trained teacher standing in front of his first official class. More than thirty students crammed into one room. Apparently, this was the “fast track” group; the most academically able kids in the school. Bright, sharp, quick to react. I introduced myself, doing my best to sound confident, and for a moment, things seemed… passable.
And then it happened.
A loud thud cracked across the room as a projectile slammed into the side wall. A full litre bottle of blue paint, brand new from the store cupboard, and which I now realise might as well have been a grenade, had been hurled with remarkable force.
Laughter exploded. Chaos unfolded. Brushes and palettes followed. It was like one of those distressing performance art pieces. The kind you walk into at the Tate Modern, pretend to understand, and then quietly edge away from while looking for the exit.
My teaching career was approximately seven minutes old, and it felt more like a fast track to early retirement from the battlefield, due to a serious injury to my ego.
It took months, long, humbling months, to build even a shred of respect, routine, or order in that department. I was quickly informed that the previous Head of Art, whose place I’d been asked to fill, had gone on leave due to stress. Serious stress. What I didn’t know, but would soon find out, was that the department had been in decline for some time.
One of the students, someone I eventually built a good relationship with, told me quietly one day that their old teacher had more or less given up.
It was tragic, and deeply unsettling. The department was broken. And nobody seemed to believe it could change.
The turning point came in the form of Liz, my line manager.
Liz was one of those rare people you hope to meet once or twice in your life, though she’d absolutely hate being described like that, and probably raise one unimpressed eyebrow at the sentiment. She had a drier wit than me (which is saying something), a no-nonsense presence, and a talent for cutting through wildly complicated problems in one sentence flat, usually while stirring her tea like a surgeon preparing for a transplant.
She was a formidable presence in the school: revered, respected, and, between you and me, quietly feared by the headteacher himself. The senior leadership team often tiptoed around her, even as they prepared to invite her into their fold. It was only a matter of time.
But she wasn’t just sharp. Liz was also an inspirational English teacher, beloved by her students, fiercely loyal to them, and quietly dedicated in ways that most people never saw. I later found out she had a passion for amateur musicals and had lovingly stitched and kept hundreds of costumes from years of performances. That was her world. Her magic. And maybe that’s why she understood mine. She could feel the pull of the arts. The mess, the meaning, the making. It’s what connected us.
It was Liz who said yes when I suggested the unthinkable: a week-long residential art trip to St Ives, the very place my grandfather had taken me all those years ago. The spiritual heart of my own journey into art. The colony that shaped my earliest creative memory.
It did feel a little unrealistic at the time, and I’m sure others thought I was a little naive to think I could pull off a trip like this, or to believe a bunch of inner-city teenagers would find meaning in a Cornish art colony. But deep inside, I had to believe that art mattered to them, and to me.
Liz didn’t hesitate. She insisted on coming with me, and that sealed the deal. I had the passion, expertise, and vision in my subject, and Janet had the experience to ensure the trip ran smoothly.
We brought twenty-five students of mixed ages to Cornwall. We stayed in a youth hostel. We sketched and painted en plein air, and back in the studio, we developed ideas inspired by the surrounding landscape, the hills, ancient buildings, harbour, and seascapes. We visited working artists in their studios, and the students were always shocked to discover that some people actually made a living from it.
For many of them, it was their first time leaving London. Something happened that week, something no Ofsted inspector’s framework could measure. We became a community. We created something real.
Those students came back different.
I came back different.
The ones who were with me on that trip stayed loyal. And suddenly, a shift: respect. Trust. Space.
Once I had that, the rest was just time and effort.
At the end of that year, Liz sat me down. She told me the old Head of Art wouldn’t be returning; he’d taken early retirement due to his health. The senior management team wanted me to stay. And not just stay, they wanted to offer me the official role.
I’d done it. Head of Department. After one year.
It usually took five, minimum. I had no idea how it had happened. But there it was.
And from that point on, something started to build. Over the next five years, the department went from chaos to clarity. From instability to strength. We earned an ‘Outstanding’ rating in our Ofsted inspection. Not because I was brilliant. But because I’d stayed. Because I’d listened.
Looking back, that residential wasn’t just a turning point; it was a quiet declaration of faith in the invisible threads between us. The ones that form when we show up fully, create something real, and trust what arises.
Thank you for reading Listening to the Light.
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