Prompted by Malcolm Paul’s interview for International Times, in which Paul asked about my early years and education, I’m sharing this short essay commissioned and first published in the form of an audio essay in 2025 by the Royal Literary Fund.

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A letter to my teachers would of course say, ‘Thank you.’

It’s amazing how small things – a word of encouragement, a reading recommendation, an invitation to be student rep on a committee – how such tiny seeds can grow and blossom into opportunities, life-directions, even a career.

Generally the importance of such moments only becomes visible in retrospect. But I’m particularly grateful to one teacher whose intervention produced immediate and long-lasting results.

Anne Weeks – who sadly died quite recently (and here I’d like to offer my sincere condolences to her family and friends) was my A-level art teacher at Farnham Sixth Form College. It is entirely due to her that I was able to go to art school, and it was there I discovered I was really a writer.

I enjoyed drawing and was quite good at it. And I’d been lucky enough to grow up in a small town with a big art college, what’s now the University for the Creative Arts, Farnham.

Having an art school in town meant that ‘the arts’ weren’t somehow high-falutin’ but simply something people did: working class people like me. I knew this because for a few years we’d had lodgers in our single-parent household: art students doing Foundation Courses, or studying Animation. It was fascinating to see their work, and they’d encourage me in turn; show me tricks of the trade. I soon realised that I wanted to go to art school too, so when the time came, I included Art in my A-level options.

Anne Weeks – Mrs Weeks as we called her at the time – was a great teacher; generous and supportive. With her encouragement I thrived. I was in my element. For the first time I felt I’d met ‘my people’ – other students who were curious about ideas, and were into reading, drawing, painting. With the money from my Saturday job stacking supermarket shelves, I’d travel to London and go to the Tate, or to the former Courtauld Galleries in Woburn Square, or the Royal Academy. Finally, those of us who wanted to go to art school put in applications for the Foundation Diploma.

I was thrilled to be offered an interview.

A few days later we were back together for ‘double-art’, my favourite class of the week. Everyone had received their letters from the college, confirming places on the Foundation Course.

Everyone, that is, but me.

Shocked, Mrs Weeks asked to see my letter. It said, ‘We are sorry that your application has been unsuccessful.’

The colour drained from her face – she was furious.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘We’ll see about that.’

And she turned and stormed out of the class, leaving the teaching assistant in charge. A few seconds later, I saw her little orange Fiat 500 pulling out of the college carpark.

I didn’t see Anne Weeks again that day, and I don’t know what she’d said, but the next morning I received a second letter from the art college, which began with the word ‘Congratulations’.

Thank you, Anne, wherever you are, for opening that door.

I never forgot it.

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‘Letter to My Teachers’ © Tony White, 2025 was commissioned by the Royal Literary Fund and first published as a short audio essay, which you can listen to here…

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