When I Was Seventeen
- Gus Jonsson
- Jun 30
- 2 min read
A light jacket flecked with black, a turquoise tie over a navy silk shirt, black slacks paired with red patent leather loafers. That was my Saturday attire, top to toe,
when I was seventeen
Blonde curls and ‘Love, love me do’ small gold rimmed round sunglasses,
when I was seventeen
I remember walking through the bustling city streets of London, everything new and exciting wherever I looked, an art student in his first year
My bold fashion choices drew glances—some appreciative, others puzzled. It was the perfect expression of my youthful confidence; a mix of rebellion and sophistication that made the world feel like my stage,
when I was seventeen
Art, and in particular painting, had become an integral part of me. It was my way of conveying the intricate tapestry of emotions and dreams that fuelled my teenage years. Therefore what I wore reflected a fragment of my soul—sharp, daring and unapologetically unique,
when I was seventeen
The city's rhythm was intoxicating, a blend of honking taxis, hurried footsteps and the occasional street musician pouring melodies into the air. I remember stumbling upon a gallery just off Wardour Street its entrance marked by a faded sign and a collection of abstract splashes painted directly onto the brick wall. Inside various works hung like fragments of dreams—wild, free and messy, yet brimming with life
I stood there transfixed as a middle-aged curator wearing white tennis shoes and a tartan scarf draped casually over one shoulder approached me. " I’ve been watching you, you’ve got an artist’s eye and soul," he said with a knowing smile, his words lingering in the air like the high tones of Linseed oil and Turpentine.
It felt like an affirmation of a sort as I stood amidst the canvasses breathing passion. I promised myself that my life would be a masterpiece of colour and creativity, blending chaos with beauty, much like my Saturday attire,
when I was seventeen
Comments