Art Parts

Year-by-Year Art

1^st grade

No kindergarten for us small-town northern Minnesota kids. But, if you’re anywhere near my age, you’ve probably done the two art projects I’m thinking of, and probably in first grade or so. Are they art? I suppose so, if there’s an art to following directions.

First, the Plaster of Paris hand molds, painted gold. I still have mine. The other was those Thanksgiving turkeys you made from tracing around your hand. If you think you didn’t do that, or don’t remember, I’m sure there are countless examples online. That’s cringe-worthy, but way beyond cringe is the hats and headdresses we made for photos of us as pilgrims and Indians.

2^nd grade

Absolutely devastated because Allen Newhouse could draw cardinals that looked real. On his own. Not at an art time. Not following any directions. It seemed to just come out of him perfectly. Which of course meant that meant I wasn’t the best. The best. To be second as something was losing.

3^rd grade

Fire poster contest. I colored a before and after picture of a forest fire, paying attention to where the trees and other objects were so it was obviously the same area. We were aware of forest fires in northern Minnesota. I got first place. Saved from humiliation for the moment. I still have the Tonka Firetruck I won. My grandson covets it, but so far it’s staying here with me—though my head is shaking back and forth as I write this.

Later that same school year, my teacher asked me to stay in at recess to paint a mural that had been drawn—I think by her, but I’m not sure. I had seen a picture once and tried to duplicate the amazing contrast between the mountain and the snow. I’m sure it was a black and white photo—what else could there have been at that time?

So, I painted the mountains black, finishing them off with white snow on top. Stunning! It achieved what I envisioned. She had left me alone in the room to work on it, probably taking time in the teacher’s lounge. She came back for a moment before the rest of the class came in from recess.

I didn’t get the reaction I anticipated. “That’s not what mountains look like!” I know more words followed those, but I can’t recall what they were. I had obviously ruined her project. Hers. Not mine. I may have kept in the lines, but I definitely had also crossed them. I can still feel the shock of her reaction as I waited for her praise.

4^th grade

A poster contest again—was it for a national holiday? The annual poppy sales for the V.F.W.? Who knows… But poppies were definitely the focus of mine. My mom’s idea: Poppies on Parade. And so I created it, especially since my mother was always my main audience. If I succeeded at something, I got her attention.

The poster was amazing. I turned poppies into a band, little arms holding instruments, marching in formation. It was clear to me that no other poster submitted even touched what I had done. And I lost. My mother wasn’t happy about that, but she didn’t blame me. She blamed whoever was in charge of the contest.

I’m guessing they passed that job onto the classroom teachers, but making whoever it was the villain of keeping first place from me didn’t help me in the long run. Now, as a past teacher, whether it was a good poster or not, I can clearly see why, especially in a small town, you want to share the experience of winning something with more than one student!

5^th grade

In all of mom’s civic volunteer experiences (so many of them), if there were posters to make, she would volunteer, bring the material home, and have me create them. That went on for a few years. I could draw a straight line, print well, and that was enough. Signs for floats at our Midsummer parades, posters for events, check, check, check…

6^th grade

While I don’t remember doing art in our sixth-grade classroom, a little art recognition happened in the back of that room that, while not the perfect situation, felt more like art than the poster-making. There, out of sight of the teacher (who trusted me to sit back there with that bunch), the boy behind me asked me to draw faces of girls. Then he filled in the rest of the clothes-less bodies to share with his buddies. How did he know all that stuff?

7^th grade

Art class. Finally! But, no…

Art class consisted of filmstrips of painters and paintings by the home-ec teacher who didn’t know anything about art. On Fridays she threw out markers and paper and let us doodle anything we wanted. That was it. Oh, and she wasn’t much of a home-ec teacher anyway. If only girls were allowed to take shop… That would have been art. I tried, but didn’t even get partly there. Home-ec vs. Shop class. That’s a story for another time. But this time?

With no art classes beyond those “markers on Fridays,” I was the kid who went off to college, not allowing herself to take an art class because I wouldn’t be the best. But here I am, decades later, playing with picture book illustrations for an inner critic story. And if you’re writing an inner critic story when your inner critic is at her worst (or best?) when it comes to art (at least if you’re me), you have to do the art yourself. Harsh. But I’m learning, growing, and knowing it will never be like my illustrator friends, but it will be mine. Vulnerability can be sublime!

Sometimes the things we most want are where we erect the biggest borders. And when those things we want feel insurmountable, I believe they hold the biggest possibility of joy and sense of purpose. So, check those borders again. They might not be real. You might see that it’s child’s play. No voice that says you can’t, no rules, no inner parents, just first steps and next steps as they appear, one after the other. Once you tear down a few of those walls you’ve erected, they get easier to see through.

Often, when people are really good at something, they tend to quit when they hit a wall. It’s the ones who keep picking at that wall that bring it down and get to where they’re going. You can stop, and you can start again. Persistence is everything.