Occasionally, I hear my son comment, “I’m not an artist,” as I pull some creation from his backpack. The daughter of an artist, I want to shout, “Of course you are! You are the very embodiment of creativity! You are young and free from social constraint and the indignity of criticism! You are the blithest of spirits; you are inspiration itself, oh, artist!” But I don’t. I listen to my third grader mumble something about not being able to draw very good. I correct him-- “very well”-- and remind him that there are many different kinds of artists and that building lego creations is sculpture, and rigging up ropes to make a hammock in a tree is design, and fighting bad guys with neighbors is playwriting and it’s all art and you are an artist!
Then I slump in my chair fearing I’m too late. Whose job is it to make sure every child feels artistic for as long as possible? The teacher’s? The parent’s? Shouldn’t every child feel the dazzling freedom of personal expression as often as the whim strikes? Shouldn’t art move through children like a second breath? I want all kids to think they’re good artists at least until 9th grade, for pete’ssake, when cynicism shows up and unpacks; every intention of staying awhile. I couldn’t bear to hear those words from my son so early in life, so I hatched a plan.
“I’m going to take you to the Museum of Modern Art and show you that art is more than drawing a tree that looks exactly like a tree. There are lots of different kinds of artists who use paper cups and chairs piled high, and video and string. And I want you to believe in your heart of hearts that you have the capacity to make art if you want to,” and he said, “I don’t want to go.” And so we went.
I asked a friend to go with us who had a child in his grade so that he would have a pal to flop around on the museum’s leather upholstered benches with. He spotted Van Gough-- whom he remembered from school-- then I tried to explain Jackson Pollack, Picasso and Calder—leaving out the misogynist/alcoholic bits. The crumpled pieces of red paper propaganda that we kicked around and the shiny pineapple candies that we were invited to eat were big hits. Then we happened upon Cindy Sherman.
“This artist loves to play dress up,” I said, “she loves costumes, make-up, wigs and fake stuff. And in every photograph you’re about to see, it’s all the same lady in disguise.” And so we walked through and they looked. An elderly couple stopped my son and asked what he thought of Cindy’s work. The woman looked like she could have been Cindy in her photos; big lips, hair and glasses.
“She’s weird,” he answered. They smiled.
“But good weird,” I said at bedtime, “right?”
“Yes,” he nodded. Good weird.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Slippery Slopes
Last Sunday my son and I ended up on a four-seater chairlift in between two friendly, young, large gentlemen dangling snowboards from their left feet. In the course of the short ride up the ski mountain we learned that they were friends and that this was their first day on a snowboard and ski mountain, ever. I asked how it was going so far and they smiled and shook their heads muttering good-naturedly something to the effect of, “So far so good,” followed by a bemused, “How did I get here?” I smiled and chuckled along with them. I was impressed with them for trying something new and told them so. Learning to ski as an adult takes a combination of courage, resolve and a rubber ego. I reminded them to take their time and take breaks as often as they needed to collect themselves if they felt nervous or out of control. I also reminded them that no one would be recording their experience or posting it on Facebook or YouTube and that they should be proud of themselves for trying something new; something out of their comfort zone. “Way out,” was the reply.
About two supports from the end of the ride and the disembark ramp, I also learned that this was their very first time on a chair lift and that the teacher whose lesson they had just finished didn’t tell them how to get off. Oh, I thought as we glided ever closer to our final destination, yikes. “Okay,” I said to my son, “you are going to ski down the ramp and straight ahead as swiftly as possible. Got it?” He nodded. Then I said to the guys, “And you two are going to stand up when we get there and use your right foot-- like Fred Flintstone-- to glide your board across and down the ramp; like a skateboard. If you fall, which you may, just scoot, crawl or roll out of the way as quickly as possible so that the folks coming off behind you don’t crash into you. You, to the right and you to the left. Got it?” They both nodded. Then, at the last minute I added, “You’re going to be fine. We’re all going to be just fine.”
And we were. The fellow on my right made it down without a hitch and the guy on the left didn’t fall until he was safely out of the way. My son wasn’t crushed by any of us and we all enjoyed the feeling of grace under pressure and the small triumph that comes with accomplishment; however minor.
I was glad that my son got the chance to see adults trying something new for the first time. I planned to beat him over the head with it the next time I wanted him to try a new food. I thought about what everyone had learned from the experience except for me. I already knew that I had a bossy, take-control side; that was nothing new, and I already knew how to ski and didn’t plan on taking up a humiliating, ego-crushing new sport any time soon.
The next day I went to my first ‘How to Teach Math and Science’ class. I hadn’t been in a science classroom in well over twenty years. Math and I had squared off last year in order to take the GREs, and again last semester in my statistics course, but I can’t say as I’ve missed her since we parted ways. The Cartesian Diver experiment was a great party trick and our professor demonstrated the small ketchup packet sinking and rising again at will within the clear plastic bottle of water with laissez-faire finesse. But how did she do that? I was almost certain it wasn’t telekinesis. Students raised their hands and density was revealed to be the magic afoot. Our professor wrote density equals mass over volume on the white board and I dutifully scribbled the formula into my notebook.
It was a vaguely familiar formula and the tiny trap door that had shut away years of lab partnering and high school formaldehyde cracked open, but just barely. She asked if everyone understood and I nodded reflexively, then she turned to wrap up the class. Across the table a student looked at me and whispered, “Do you?” For some reason I was honest with her even though she was a stranger. “No,” I whispered back. As the rest of the class stood to pack up and the bustle of bodies resumed, I slid around to her side of the table. She went over the concept until it made absolute sense to me. I was grateful for her help-- this was way out of my comfort zone-- and I was glad that I’d had the nerve to be honest with her. I was proud of my small triumph, glad for my rubber ego and very relieved that no one would be posting this moment on YouTube.
About two supports from the end of the ride and the disembark ramp, I also learned that this was their very first time on a chair lift and that the teacher whose lesson they had just finished didn’t tell them how to get off. Oh, I thought as we glided ever closer to our final destination, yikes. “Okay,” I said to my son, “you are going to ski down the ramp and straight ahead as swiftly as possible. Got it?” He nodded. Then I said to the guys, “And you two are going to stand up when we get there and use your right foot-- like Fred Flintstone-- to glide your board across and down the ramp; like a skateboard. If you fall, which you may, just scoot, crawl or roll out of the way as quickly as possible so that the folks coming off behind you don’t crash into you. You, to the right and you to the left. Got it?” They both nodded. Then, at the last minute I added, “You’re going to be fine. We’re all going to be just fine.”
And we were. The fellow on my right made it down without a hitch and the guy on the left didn’t fall until he was safely out of the way. My son wasn’t crushed by any of us and we all enjoyed the feeling of grace under pressure and the small triumph that comes with accomplishment; however minor.
I was glad that my son got the chance to see adults trying something new for the first time. I planned to beat him over the head with it the next time I wanted him to try a new food. I thought about what everyone had learned from the experience except for me. I already knew that I had a bossy, take-control side; that was nothing new, and I already knew how to ski and didn’t plan on taking up a humiliating, ego-crushing new sport any time soon.
The next day I went to my first ‘How to Teach Math and Science’ class. I hadn’t been in a science classroom in well over twenty years. Math and I had squared off last year in order to take the GREs, and again last semester in my statistics course, but I can’t say as I’ve missed her since we parted ways. The Cartesian Diver experiment was a great party trick and our professor demonstrated the small ketchup packet sinking and rising again at will within the clear plastic bottle of water with laissez-faire finesse. But how did she do that? I was almost certain it wasn’t telekinesis. Students raised their hands and density was revealed to be the magic afoot. Our professor wrote density equals mass over volume on the white board and I dutifully scribbled the formula into my notebook.
It was a vaguely familiar formula and the tiny trap door that had shut away years of lab partnering and high school formaldehyde cracked open, but just barely. She asked if everyone understood and I nodded reflexively, then she turned to wrap up the class. Across the table a student looked at me and whispered, “Do you?” For some reason I was honest with her even though she was a stranger. “No,” I whispered back. As the rest of the class stood to pack up and the bustle of bodies resumed, I slid around to her side of the table. She went over the concept until it made absolute sense to me. I was grateful for her help-- this was way out of my comfort zone-- and I was glad that I’d had the nerve to be honest with her. I was proud of my small triumph, glad for my rubber ego and very relieved that no one would be posting this moment on YouTube.
Carnation Day
Back when I went to high school in the barbaric eighties, our school had a Valentine’s Day tradition. For weeks leading up to the big day, students could purchase carnations through the student council to give to other students. For a buck, you could buy a white, pink or red carnation and write out an accompanying note, which would then be passed out to it’s intended on the morning of the big day, during homeroom-- in front of everyone--, by a member of the student council.
White was for friendship; usually sent between friends. Pink meant, “I like you a real lot,” and was a favorite amongst the anonymous set. It was pretty exciting to see a pink carnation delivered because everyone knew that pink meant someone had a crush and that was a big deal; unless everyone knew who the girl or guy was going out with in which case it was a big fat yawn. But, red. Woah. Red meant love and that was something else entirely. Friendship and like-a-lot I could wrap my head around but love was far beyond my comprehension. And its bedfellow, lust, was worlds away. I gathered it was some vague intention perpetrated between the really pretty junior and senior girls with thick eyelashes and shiny hair, and the burley, athletic guys with said same.
As a freshman girl, the notion that I might receive a pink carnation was exciting; a red one was unfathomable. My girlfriends and I logged hours on the phone the days leading up to the 14th, hypothesizing about who might have a crush on who and why. The morning of Valentine’s Day I was on pins and needles. I had purchased three white carnations for my girlfriends and they had promised to buy one back for me, so I knew I was assured at least that much. But nothing prepared me for the feeling of anxiety that washed over me when the two student council reps walked into our classroom holding an armful of carnations, some of them pink and red. There were only 24 students in our homeroom; who could be getting them all?
Not me, that much I knew. But tell that to the rising tide of hope and desire that was making my ears hot. I sat in the second row, watching and waiting as the flowers were passed out; envy reigned supreme. I smiled as I read the inside jokes that accompanied the white carnations from my girlfriends. Then I watched with big eyes and pounding heart as a pink carnation was held out towards me. I took it and whispered thank-you then flushed. Too self-conscious to look at anyone, I unfolded the slip of paper and read the unfamiliar scrawl. It read, “I really like your personality. From, Anonymous.” Ohmygod. Ohmygod.
I spent the rest of the day in a trance. As the popular older girls glided by me between classes laden with armloads of pink and red carnations, I nodded; simpatico.
White was for friendship; usually sent between friends. Pink meant, “I like you a real lot,” and was a favorite amongst the anonymous set. It was pretty exciting to see a pink carnation delivered because everyone knew that pink meant someone had a crush and that was a big deal; unless everyone knew who the girl or guy was going out with in which case it was a big fat yawn. But, red. Woah. Red meant love and that was something else entirely. Friendship and like-a-lot I could wrap my head around but love was far beyond my comprehension. And its bedfellow, lust, was worlds away. I gathered it was some vague intention perpetrated between the really pretty junior and senior girls with thick eyelashes and shiny hair, and the burley, athletic guys with said same.
As a freshman girl, the notion that I might receive a pink carnation was exciting; a red one was unfathomable. My girlfriends and I logged hours on the phone the days leading up to the 14th, hypothesizing about who might have a crush on who and why. The morning of Valentine’s Day I was on pins and needles. I had purchased three white carnations for my girlfriends and they had promised to buy one back for me, so I knew I was assured at least that much. But nothing prepared me for the feeling of anxiety that washed over me when the two student council reps walked into our classroom holding an armful of carnations, some of them pink and red. There were only 24 students in our homeroom; who could be getting them all?
Not me, that much I knew. But tell that to the rising tide of hope and desire that was making my ears hot. I sat in the second row, watching and waiting as the flowers were passed out; envy reigned supreme. I smiled as I read the inside jokes that accompanied the white carnations from my girlfriends. Then I watched with big eyes and pounding heart as a pink carnation was held out towards me. I took it and whispered thank-you then flushed. Too self-conscious to look at anyone, I unfolded the slip of paper and read the unfamiliar scrawl. It read, “I really like your personality. From, Anonymous.” Ohmygod. Ohmygod.
I spent the rest of the day in a trance. As the popular older girls glided by me between classes laden with armloads of pink and red carnations, I nodded; simpatico.
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