The Art of Letting Go

Earlier this week, I met someone by chance who had a close connection to a traumatic event from my past. The outcome couldn’t have been more different, yet the circumstances leading up to it were eerily familiar.

Let me rewind to 1986, when I was fourteen. I was a keen photographer, documenting the beginnings of the Hip-Hop movement in London over the course of almost three years. I’d been an avid breaker myself and often earned extra pocket money with a friend, dancing in Covent Garden on weekends. I was also into graffiti and DJing – mixing and scratching – much to my father’s disapproval. But the scene was my escape: from him, from school, and from the troubles that weighed me down.

Being so immersed, I became a familiar face and was granted unparalleled access to capture breakdancers, graffiti artists and DJs. By the time I was nearly fifteen, I’d given up backspins and windmills, trading spray cans for camera lenses for good.

One Sunday afternoon, I travelled to Westbourne Park to photograph the artwork under the Westway flyover – one of the birthplaces of British graffiti and street art culture. Two older boys approached me; they were part of a local graffiti crew. One started rifling through my rucksack, searching for cigarettes I didn’t have. They left soon after, but my instincts screamed at me to get away.

As I turned a corner towards Ladbroke Grove station, no more than five minutes later, they caught up with me. The boy who’d searched my bag punched me in the mouth, then followed with a hard right hook to my head that sent me to the ground. He kicked and punched me as I curled up, begging him to stop. They took my rucksack and my new watch.

Eventually, his friend intervened, pulling him away, and they ran off laughing into the distance. I was left bloodied and bruised, my face so swollen I was barely recognisable. Like all painful memories, it has stayed with me, but what haunted me most was not the beating itself, but the loss of what they stole: my camera, my photo albums with years of irreplaceable work, and my piece book filled with art I’d poured myself into.

Fast forward to the present day and I never gave up on photography. Instead, I dusted myself off and carried on. Still passionate about it, I decided earlier this week to photograph some new artwork in London, as I’ve done many times since that day.

I asked a man, about my age, who was piecing up legally if I could take a few shots. We got chatting about the eighties and shared stories, laughing over memories of the scene. He knew the artists and areas I mentioned, and I recognised the names he brought up. Then he mentioned the crew he used to be in, and my head tilted slightly. Two of its members were the same boys who had attacked me all those years ago.

He said that he knew nothing about it – he wasn’t there that day – and I had no reason to disbelieve him. We got along well, and as we parted, nearly forty years after that violent afternoon, I realised how different I felt.

It was a strange feeling to be thrown back to a place that had haunted me for so long. I felt no anger, which surprised me. Maybe it’s because I’m in a good place now, but I’ve never been one to hold grudges. Life sometimes leads us back to old crossroads – moments that test us, offering a choice between darkness and light. Between resentment and forgiveness. Between holding on and letting go.

Through the hardest times when I’ve felt trapped and hopeless, I’ve learned that if I just hold on, light eventually breaks through the clouds. I’ve known despair, helplessness, and the weight of pain. Some of these struggles are well documented in my books: Towards the Within forced me to face my youth; What We Become explored the turmoil of a relationship and the loss of a child.

The memories can be hard to deal with; they seep into me without warning, and I’m caught in a maelstrom of mixed emotions, trying to come to terms with all that’s happened. The anger and injustice have consumed me, dragging me into depression. A wise friend once said that it’s okay to feel those emotions – they’re part of being human – but what matters is not letting them define you.

But I believe in karma, and more importantly, in consequence. Those who act with cruelty or malice inevitably carry their own unhappiness.

Yet, it’s not about them, it’s about me. My journey. My choice to seek light, to see beauty in the world around me. I have so much to be thankful for – love in the eyes of my wife, the companionship of my friends, my cats and dog, and the beauty the world offers every single day.

Everything that came before is the past. It no longer serves me to hold onto it. There’s no point in living with regret or wishing things had been different. Letting go has allowed me to become someone I’m proud of, someone who endured, who stood back up, and kept walking.

And if karma does exist, then I have been truly rewarded with the amazing life I live today.