MOMA Mama

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.