Rolf Harris - Early Life

Early Life

Harris was born on 30 March 1930 in the Perth suburb of Wembley Park, in Perth, Western Australia. His parents were Agnes Margaret Harris (née Robbins) and Cromwell ("Crom") Harris, who had both emigrated from Cardiff, Wales and he is the nephew of Australian artist Pixie O'Harris (1903–1991). Harris was named after Rolf Boldrewood, an Australian writer whom his mother admired.

He grew up in the suburb of Bassendean; in Western Australia, Harris is frequently referred to as "The Boy from Bassendean". As a child he owned a dog called Buster Fleabags, which he later wrote a book about (for the UK Quick Reads Initiative).

As an adolescent and young adult Harris was a champion swimmer. In 1946 he was the Australian Junior 110 yards Backstroke Champion.

He was also the Western Australian state champion over a variety of distances and strokes during the period from 1948 to 1952.

Harris attended Perth Modern School in Subiaco, and the University of Western Australia.

Whilst just 16, and still a student at Perth Modern School, his self-portrait in oils was one of the 80 works (out of 200 submitted) accepted to be hung in the Art Gallery of New South Wales as an entry in the 1947 Archibald Prize. He painted a portrait of the then Lieutenant Governor of Western Australia, Sir James Mitchell, for the 1948 Archibald Prize.

He met his wife, the Welsh sculptress and jeweller Alwen Hughes, while they were both art students, and they married on 1 March 1958. They have one daughter, Bindi Harris (born 10 March 1964), who studied art at Bristol Polytechnic and is now a painter.

Read more about this topic:  Rolf Harris

Famous quotes containing the words early and/or life:

    Women who marry early are often overly enamored of the kind of man who looks great in wedding pictures and passes the maid of honor his telephone number.
    Anna Quindlen (b. 1952)

    I remember my youth and the feeling that will never come back any more—the feeling that I could last for ever, outlast the sea, the earth, and all men; the deceitful feeling that lures us on to joys, to perils, to love, to vain effort—to death; the triumphant conviction of strength, the heat of life in the handful of dust, the glow in the heart that with every year grows dim, grows cold, grows small, and expires—and expires, too soon, too soon—before life itself.
    Joseph Conrad (1857–1924)