The reach of Trackie’s work is growing. The reliability and poignance of his printed prose and remixed memes resonate with tens of thousands of people online – statements that perform their function when felt in a gallery, when shared to an Instagram story, or for the duration of Trackie’s billboard collaboration with BUILDHOLLYWOOD, when seen on the walls of London.

For that piece, a flyposted graphic styled like a Nokia 3310 and emblazoned with the phrase “Boys will be what we teach them to be”, the message is clear: masculinity is learned, reinforced, and performed. And so is everything else. It’s not a poster designed for a clean white wall – it belongs in public, where it might catch someone off guard, interrupt their scroll, or start a conversation that a gallery couldn’t. That’s the power of Trackie’s work. It’s made for the people who aren’t always invited in.

Keen to name no names or galleries, nor to play a tiny violin while opening up about the structural issues within the aforementioned art world, Trackie is matter-of-fact about the biggest challenge he faces: money. Studio space, materials, time — it all adds up. When you don’t come from wealth, there’s no cushion. Just the grind of saying yes to everything, being resourceful with what you have got and, ultimately, squaring up to biggest challenge facing working-class artists.

“You can take the queerness out of it — what you’re still left with is the fact I’ve got no financial backing. That doesn’t go away.”

Okay Trackie, can you tell us where you’re from and what your early years were like? What role did creativity play growing up in the West of Scotland?

I’m from Glasgow, not far from the centre in a place called Whiteinch. I’ve not moved far – I still live about five minutes from where I grew up. It was an all-female household: me, my mum, and my sister. My mum worked hard and that was instilled in us from a young age – if we wanted something, we had to go out and earn it.

Creativity wasn’t a big part of my life early on. We’d do the odd school trip to Kelvin Grove galleries, and my mum would sometimes take us, but I saw art as something quite sterile. It just didn’t feel like it was for people like me. It wasn’t until I got to high school and heard someone talk about artists like Keith Haring and Andy Warhol that a lightbulb went off. That made me realise art could be about something else, something more relevant, or even silly. That moment probably shaped a lot of what I do now.

Were there specific people, pop culture moments, or places that helped shape your identity as an artist?

Yeah — my sister who was obsessed with Spice World. That film was just on in the background of our lives. We shared a bedroom, so I was constantly surrounded by the things she was into. When I rewatched it recently, I was like, this is still fucking iconic, it’s completely silly, completely satirical. And I think that sense of humour and ridiculousness is a big part of my practice now. She definitely helped shape my queer identity growing up, even without realising it.

Pop culture more generally was massive. I remember discovering reality TV, especially Big Brother. It wasn’t something my parents were mad about me watching, but it ended up being really formative. That show was my introduction to other cultures and different types of people, including queer people. The early seasons in particular were full of real, everyday folk, not influencers or celebrities, just people being themselves on screen. And that was powerful. I wasn’t surrounded by much diversity where I grew up, so seeing that kind of honesty and variety was an eye-opener.

Looking back, it probably gave me permission to start forming my own sense of self. And shows like Bad Girls and Footballers’ Wives, stuff a 10-year-old boy maybe shouldn’t have been watching, they shaped me too. TV and film helped shape my queerness and gave me reference points I didn’t get anywhere else.

Your new show Fruit II is rooted in queer memory – particularly the unspoken rituals and codes of growing up closeted. How did it feel to revisit that period in your life through art?

It was definitely cathartic. The older I get, the less I remember, so when I’m making work about that time, I’m piecing together what I do remember. And honestly, I can’t believe I tried so hard to fit into those norms. I can’t believe I hid parts of myself, just to avoid prejudice or how people might treat me. Now, I’m in a place where I’m happy with who I am, so I can look back at it all with a bit more nuance.

Fruit II is about reminding people of how far we’ve come but also acknowledging where we are now. Compared to my last show, this one is deeper. I did a lot more internal reflection and some therapy along the way. But I still wanted to present it in the fun, nostalgic, comedic way that’s always been a part of my practice. I didn’t want to make it too heavy or downbeat. It’s what it means to me, but I hope others can take something lighter from it.

Another key theme in Fruit II is the masc vs femme conundrum that so many queer people grow up navigating. In what ways have you personally felt that tension, and how has it found its way into your work?

Yeah, that’s something I’ve always struggled with. I was quite a naturally feminine teenager, and Glasgow doesn’t exactly pull any punches. You get it thrown at you. Society made boys think being feminine was wrong, that it wasn’t something to show or be proud of.

It’s like you’ve spent so long trying to suppress it that it doesn’t always come out naturally. I might present a bit more “masc” in the gay world, but honestly, the best parts of me are the ones I got from my mum, my sister, my interests, and the environment I grew up in, and those are all feminine.

This show is about celebrating the femme. And also, taking the piss out of masculinity, especially the kind of lad culture I used to feel I had to buy into just to fit in.

There’s a newspaper clipping in the show — an old EastEnders article, reacting to the apparent ‘outrage’ at the show’s first gay kiss. Did you include this clipping to speak to how far we’ve come as a society, or does it remind us how close homophobia still is to the surface?

I’m a big EastEnders fan – it’s one of the soaps that’s stuck with me. I came across this article written by, of course, Piers Morgan, back when he was at The Sun. It was their reaction to the first gay kiss on EastEnders in the late ’80s, it was a tough read (but not surprisingly from Piers). The headline was something like: “EastBenders”, and the whole tone of it was pure outrage like, how dare this happen on TV. And that was aimed at the mainstream public.

I originally included it in the show to make a point, look how far we’ve come. It’s screenprinted onto copper, which felt symbolic: I wanted to use something hardwearing and resistant to represent the community. But since making it, things have already shifted again, and not in a good way. So now, that piece feels like more of a warning. It’s a reminder that the same hate still exists, just in different packaging. The undercurrent in that article is still there. It hasn’t gone away – it’s just been rebranded.

For the London show, I’m considering showing the version that’s been left outside for six weeks, it’s weathered, discoloured, turned a bit blue. It’s like it’s endured something. And I think that visual shift adds a new layer to the meaning.

Your work is shaped by Scottishness, queerness, and class — not in isolation, but all at once. How do those identities inform one another in your practice, and how important is it for artists to embrace intersectionality?

I’m just speaking from lived experience. I’m Scottish, I’m queer, and I’m working class. It’s not something I consciously try to balance or layer in, it’s just who I am. So I don’t always think about those identities informing each other, because they’re already part of the same story. They’re just my background.

What I’m maybe more aware of is the idea that by showing my view of queerness, or class, or being Scottish, especially through humour and nostalgia – I might be introducing people to something they’ve not seen before.

A lot of institutions talk about inclusion, but real barriers still exist — especially for artists who sit at the intersection of different identities. Have you felt those barriers in the art world, and how do you think class, queerness or Scottishness have played into that?

Yeah, totally. If anything, queerness is the bit that does get represented. But class? That’s the real barrier.

It means saying yes to everything. It means making the work that sells while trying to find a home for the stuff that doesn’t. Paying for a studio. Figuring it all out yourself. I don’t say that like “poor me”, I’ve chosen this path and I’ve worked hard. But it’s a reality. If you don’t come from money, you spend a huge chunk of your time just trying to access funding, and that’s before you even get to make the work.

The art world still feels pretty closed off. I don’t know how we bring it down, I don’t know how to dismantle the patriarchy. I don’t know how to make art more inclusive at a structural level. But I do know I’m trying to make it more inclusive in my own way. A lot of galleries are still tokenistic, they want to be seen to represent working class or queer artists, but don’t really practise what they preach. I’ve got proof of that. I’ve lived it. That’s why I don’t want to answer to the system. I’d rather just do my own thing, and so far, that seems to be working.

Part of what makes your work feel so relatable is your use of everyday language, idioms, memes, old slogans. It’s funny, but it’s also political. What draws you to that kind of material?

I think it’s just what I’m surrounded by. I’m interested in people and conversations. I love overhearing stuff on the bus, I love stories. My mum’s always got a story, and I think that’s rubbed off on me. I love Scottish patter, it’s just so specific. It’s dry, sarcastic, and it’s totally different from English or Welsh humour. Maybe a bit closer to Irish humour in how it takes the piss.

For me, humour is a way to draw people in. It’s disarming. It’s not elitist, it’s a way of saying, “This is for you as well.” Someone might not get the deeper meaning of a piece, but they’ll recognise the phrase on the football top and think, “I get that.” That’s important to me, it’s not meant to be exclusive.

There’s a bit of documentation in it too. A lot of the things I use — memes, slogans, old ads, they’ve been done to death. But if I can breathe new life into them, that’s half the job done. Repurposing something familiar and giving it a different energy, that’s the fun part.

You’re collaborating with BUILDHOLLYWOOD to bring your work into public space. What excites you about seeing your work out in the world like that — and do you think it shifts the meaning compared to a gallery setting?

Definitely. I’ve always benefited from taking my work out of the gallery and into the real world. Galleries can be stiff, they’re not always welcoming to everyone. But when a piece is flyposted on the street, the audience is way bigger. It’s not just people who already care about art — it’s whoever happens to walk by. Joe Bloggs on his way to work. Teenagers on the bus. That’s exciting to me.

The meaning shifts too. You’re not seeing it in a quiet white cube, you’re seeing it on a high street, in the middle of everything else. That changes how people engage with it. They might not fully get it, but maybe it catches their eye or sticks with them for later. That’s the kind of art I like, it speaks to everyone, not just insiders.

For the BUILDHOLLYWOOD piece, I created a new graphic that says “Boys will be what we teach them to be.” It’s styled like a Nokia 3310 – that was my first phone, and probably yours too. I wanted it to feel nostalgic, but also really direct. The phrase came from a TED Talk I saw and it’s always stayed with me. It felt important to make a bold statement about masculinity,  especially given how extreme things have become with figures like Andrew Tate and the way young boys are being influenced online.

As for the Fruit II exhibition itself, what can people expect to see?

It’s a mixed media exhibition — you’ll see prints, sculpture, textiles. It’s a very personal show about my experience growing up queer in Glasgow, especially the shame that comes with it. It looks at what life felt like inside and outside the closet — the rituals, the performances, the uniforms we put on just to fit in.

And a bootleg Burberry spray-painted car? How do you get from A to B?

Yeah, I can’t drive. So I own a car I can’t even drive. It was a full car originally — a Nissan Micra, and I got it off Facebook Marketplace and had it delivered to a lock-up in Glasgow. Spray painted it there. But it was a nightmare to move, so I had to cut it into pieces. For the London show I’m bringing the back quarter — the boot, the doors, the bonnet. It’s kind of like a transformer now.

A lot of it draws on early 2000s reference points, stuff you’d remember if you grew up then. And there’s a celebration of the women in my life too. They’ve shaped me more than anyone, and that feminine energy is all through the show.

And putting that message in the street, not just in a gallery, is part of the point. It’s about visibility. It’s about confronting people with that question in the middle of their day, when they’re not expecting it. That’s when it might actually land.

Photographers: Brynley Davies & Josh Whettingsteel