I was born in Detroit. My father, Robert, made his first fortune selling paint to the car industry. My mother, Hazel, was a telephone operator.

Our house in Detroit was beautiful, right off the Detroit Golf Club. We spent much of the time fishing and riding horses. It was one of the few times in my life that I had my father’s undivided attention.

When I was 7, my parents decided to move to Los Angeles. But my parents didn’t move out to L. A. immediately. Instead, they remained in Detroit for a year. I was sent on ahead, probably so my parents could enjoy their social life without disruption. My father put me on a train in Detroit, tipped a porter to keep an eye on me and when I arrived I was taken to the Hollywood Military Academy, where I had been registered.

My father had been so successful that he was able to retire. I admired his success, but he was strict and didn’t hesitate to punish or hit me for the slightest offence. I came to hate him, and I became rebellious(叛逆的). The four boarding schools I attended were like an extended Hollywood family. Many stars sent their kids there so they could work on movies without distraction. I became connected to the film industry through my friendships. I already was determined to become an actor. My father hoped I’d join his company, but I wanted nothing to do with it or him. Instead, I decided to try my luck in the picture business.

In 1950, when I was 20, I had a screen test. When the head of the studio, Darryl Zanuck, saw the test, he signed me. The day I found out, I felt absolutely great. Suddenly I was recognized. Through the years, my father voiced doubt about whether I’d make it. My mother’s support was our secret and canceled out his discouragement. At the end of his life in 1964, my father finally told me, “Nice job” about my film work. That’s the praise I got.

I am a strong believer that if a child is raised with approval, he learns to love himself and will be successful in his own way.

Several weeks ago, I was doing homework with my son in the third grade and he kept standing up from his chair. I kept asking him to sit down,telling him that he would concentrate better. He sat but seconds later, as if he didn’t even notice he was doing it, he got up again. I was getting angry, but then it hit me: I started noticing his answers were much quicker and right when he stood up. Could he concentrate better while standing up?

This made me start questioning myself and what I had been raised to believe. I grew up to believe that a quiet child was more likely to succeed. This child would have the ability to study hard, get good grades and become someone important in life. Kids that were active and loud would only be losers.

Now people perhaps come to realize that their kids are born with their own sets of DNA, and all they can do is loving and accepting them. As parents, throughout their growing years and beyond that, we need to guide them and help them find their way.

I have stopped asking my son to sit down and concentrate. Clearly, he is concentrating, just in his own way and not mine. We need to accept our kids, and their ways of doing things. There is nothing sweeter than seeing our children being themselves. It makes us happy and that’s just the way I want my kids to live a happy life.

My father, Michael, led me through the outside shed he’d filled with his paintings. “When I have an exhibition…” he began, pointing to the artworks he’d created, before stopping. Poor Pa, I thought.

In 1994 he’d been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease only in his forties. But after finding the right medication, he could continue on as normal and so had our family—Parkinson’s just wasn’t something we spoke about.

A husband and father to three, he had had a successful career and had always been extremely creative. Even when his Parkinson’s advanced, my father decided to attend a painting course. In art lessons, the class practised painting still life objects, like pears, but my father had other ideas. Inspired by his favourite artist, Jackson Pollock, a leading abstract expressionist, he began producing abstract pieces. He thought that it helped us to see the world in a different way. Soon, I realized he was right. When I observed my father’s works, I could interpret each of them in many ways.

While in 2019, my father was diagnosed with kidney cancer and given just three months to live. We all couldn’t contain our sadness, but we soon received great news that a new form of immunotherapy shrunk the cancer considerably. As weeks turned to months, it felt like my father was a walking miracle. To our sadness, his health battles had started to take a toll on him, and as he continued speaking about wanting to share his paintings with the world, I knew what had to be done.

In October this year, we welcomed the public to “My Kids Could Do That”, my father’s first public showing. Everyone loved his works. His eyes lit up with pride when he saw the walls filled with his works. I’ve got three of his pieces in my home and I couldn’t be more proud of what he’s achieved.

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