‘It’s nice you have a hobby.’
That’s the kind of patronising reaction I always get when I tell people I’m an artist.
Never mind the fact that I’ve held numerous solo exhibitions in major art galleries, or that my paintings have prices with more zeros on the end than I can possibly believe.
They think I can’t possibly be a professional artist – or indeed, anything – just because I’m blind.
It’s frustrating, infuriating – and an illusion I’m going to spend the rest of my life shattering.
I knew from the age of six, when I first stepped into an art gallery, that I wanted to be an artist. I was blown away by the paintings and sculptures I saw there and I bought my first sketchbook straight away, determined to give it a go myself.
Brought up on a rough council estate, with problems at home, my sketchbooks became a form of escapism, a way to get away from the harsh realities of my life.
By then, I was already partially sighted in my right eye. I didn’t know it then, but I’d been born with retinitis pigmentosa, a group of eye disorders that affect the retina.
It never held me back though.
I wore glasses, which enabled me to get around and, despite dropping out of school at 14 and running away from home, I ended up getting a degree in model-making, then finding a job as the arts and crafts supervisor at The Range department store, where I met my partner, Anita.
We fell pregnant and had our gorgeous girl, Dakota-Rain, in 2014. I got a new job, this time as a dental model maker, where I could use my degree and throw myself into it.
All the while though, my sight was deteriorating and by then, I’d lost all vision in my right eye.
Not long after Dakota-Rain was born, I started to notice dark shadows in my left.
Aged 32, I went to the opticians and four consultants came in to see me, examining my eyes. ‘Do you drive?’ one of them asked me eventually. When I nodded, he sighed. ‘You’ll have to hand over your licence. You’re going blind.’
That was how I was told I was losing my sight.
Sitting on the train home, my life was suddenly full of questions. I’d have to give up my job – how would we cope financially? Dakota-Rain had mobility issues, how could I be there for her? The future seemed so uncertain.
But, as I slowly got my head around it, the fact that I was going to lose my sight focused me. I had dreamed of being an artist aged six – why couldn’t I go ahead and do that?
So while I joined a local blind cricket team and learnt to use a white cane, I also threw myself into my art. With my vision decreasing every day, I had to question, how could I engage with art if I couldn’t see it? So I began to explore textiles and sculptures.
As I started to struggle to read, I learnt braille and found I picked it up easily, identifying the patterns of the raised dots. That made me question – why isn’t this an art form?
That was what inspired my next pieces of art. I still used colour, as I wanted everyone to enjoy my work, but I made my pieces out of braille.
When I was asked to do my first exhibition, I entitled it ‘Journey By Dots’ and made sure it was fully accessible. The white bouncing lights of art galleries hurt my eyes, so instead, we used UV lights.
And rather than a silent gallery, where visitors stood and looked at each piece from a distance, people were encouraged to feel and touch my work.
They talked and laughed while discovering my art. It felt like a playground.
Then, I was approached by James Ryan, the founder of Quantus Gallery and Grove Gallery in London, who recognises how exclusionary art can be, and supports artists from outside of the usual route or background.
With his support, I held my next solo exhibition and the rest, as they say, is history.
Still, despite this success, people don’t take me seriously, simply because I can’t see.
And now, although I do still have limited sight – most people registered blind do – it’s as if I’m looking underwater. It hurts to know I won’t get to see Dakota-Rain grow up to be the beautiful woman I know she is going to be.
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Platform is the home of Metro.co.uk’s first-person and opinion pieces, devoted to giving a platform to underheard and underrepresented voices in the media.
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The hardest thing to deal with is other people’s reactions to me and my work.
It’s as if they still view those of us who are blind as people to be pitied, as if we can’t achieve anything meaningful or pursue meaningful lives. Or, if we are doing something out of the ordinary, they think we’re just a tick-box exercise – there to fill the right numbers.
I’m determined to change that perception.
I go to schools and give talks, explaining what being blind means. I’ve engaged with more than 3,000 children in order to change how the future generation sees us.
I ran the London Marathon, raising £3,000 for Vision Foundation. Having recently become a patron for VICTA, a charity who supports blind and partially sighted children and young adults, I am running it again for them this year.
Of course, going blind is an overwhelming, often terrifying, prospect. But to anyone out there who is facing that diagnosis, know that you can still live a fulfilling, happy life. Find other people in that situation, get support. And embrace walking aids – I know my white cane makes me stand out but I view it as my magic wand. It’s my means of independence.
And to everyone out there, please, don’t look at us and only see our disability – look at our abilities and all of the other things about us.
We are so much more than just ‘blind’.
And you’ll see that, if you just look.
As told to Sarah Whiteley
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