When my brother and I were children, my parents believed in nurturing our talents and helping us become whatever we wanted to be. Kindergarteners have a very small skill set, but they get to paint a lot, so one September day I brought home a roll of manila paper. It was heavy with paint, damp and creased from where my fingers clutched it on the walk.
Jackson Pollock No. 9 – It really does look like that long-ago painting, manila paper and all.
Prepared to gush over any bit of artwork, no matter how rudimentary, Mom and Dad watched me unfurl the paper and thrust it their way. Stunned, they stared at the masterpiece I’d so casually brought into the house. It was like something out of Jackson Pollock – The Kindergarten Years. Bright splashes of color dotted the paper, flirting and frolicking in an arrangement that dazzled the eye. Abstract and playful, it was the work of a confident painter, one much older than five.
The next day they quietly began saving for a fancy art school. I would be the first artiste in the family, and they wanted to make sure I had an opportunity to mix more media than crayons and fingerpaints.
Excited to show off their daughter’s talent, they had the picture framed and hung in a place of prominence over the dining room table, where we could admire it.
And then one night during dinner, as my brother kicked me under the table so my parents couldn’t see, my mom turned to me and asked, “What made you decide to put that dab of blue right there?”
“What?” I asked, more worried about Mom catching me kicking my brother back than about answering her.
She repeated her question.
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Well, what about the red, right there in the corner? What inspired that?”
“I don’t know.” Thinking the chat finished, I surreptitiously fed another pea to our golden retriever, who hovered hopefully beneath my heavy wooden chair.
“And the yellow?” she tried again, waving one hand at a few blobs.
“I don’t know,” I repeated. “It’s not mine. I didn’t paint it.”
Silence, as my parents’ forks froze over their plates. When my mom could form a coherent thought, she asked, “You didn’t?”
I shook my head, oblivious to their tension and, not understanding that my entire future as an artist hung on my next word, said, “No.” Then I went back to shoveling stuffed peppers in my mouth because, really, they were delicious.
“So, uh, who did?” my mom asked gently, as if hoping my answer had been a mistake.
I looked up, mid-bite. Seriously, were we still talking about this? “I don’t know.”
“But why do you have it, then?”
A close approximation of my kindergarten artwork, circa 2011.
“My teacher told us to take a painting home. I liked that one.” After all, even if I had no talent in the visual arts arena, I could still recognize a pretty picture when I saw it.
Silence. My parents’ eyes flicked to the picture. To me. To the picture – the one I hadn’t done with my own skinny little fingers and globby kindergarten paint.
They stopped saving for art school but, just in case, asked me to bring home a few paintings of my own instead of leaving them for my teacher to discard – an easy request since I created a new masterpiece every afternoon. And each day it was the same: a house with curtains in the windows, a slanting stick figure family of four, sun in the upper corner. Tulips. Grass. Our pets made an occasional cameo appearance. Sometimes there was a rainbow.
To this day my drawings look as if I did them with my left hand while crossing my eyes, but that’s okay because I never had art school aspirations anyway. I wanted to be something much more practical: an author.
Stacy, you can – and will – do it!!! And thanks. I love the idea of being an inspiration to someone.
Faith, LOL! No, he’s not my favorite, either, though I suppose I kind of get the appeal. Still, the best thing about his work is that it was unique, and if people are imitating him it rather defeats the purpose.
Lisa, Thanks! Like you, I’d love to be able to draw! Maybe if we worked as hard at our visual arts as we did with words, we could get there. But what’s the fun in drawing a picture when you can write a whole book?
Jen, I’m looking forward to it, too! And, yes, you would know how my brother and I behave. In a lot of ways, we haven’t grown up. Especially him. But don’t tell him I said that…
Clarissa, thanks! I had forgotten this one until my mom reminded me, and I knew I had to post it.
Leslie, please do! Sharing is good. 🙂
E.R., that’s what I thought at the time, but then I learned otherwise. Hasn’t stopped me from trying, though!
This is priceless!
Oh, I loved this. Aren’t children logical in their own way? After all, if you’re told to ‘take a picture’ why not take the one you like best 🙂
At least your parents had ambitions for you. When I was 5 I got a toy kitchen. But then when I was 8 I got a toy typewriter and the rest is history…
What do you mean you have no talent? I love that picture! Great story.
Haha, this is so great! I work with kindergarteners, and I love watching them paint. Sometimes you see things that resemble rainbows or trees or suns… and sometimes it’s just one big blob of mess. Love it.
Too funny! Parents are ready to grab on to their kids talent, aren’t they? (Okay, I should say, “aren’t we?”).
As I type, my 2-year-old is working on a scissored masterpiece. Litle bits of paper everywhere. Genius the way she cuts those pieces! 😉
Caryn, you’re a great storyteller! 🙂 Loved this!
I can’t even draw a straight line. However, hearts and flowers were my thing when I was little. And I *loved* to color. My mom would buy me those giant posters – I remember one was an undersea picture and one was birds – that you could color, and I would spend hours working on them. As long as I didn’t go out of the lines, I was a happy camper.
My drawings look more yours did at 5 years old. Good thing I decided to be a writer, too. Fortunately, I’m a better photographer than I am an artist. 😀