Artistically challenged no more
I didn’t take art in high school. I thought you had to be able to draw if you wanted to take art. I was drawn to drawing, if you will, but I wasn’t good at it. So I figured art wasn’t for me. It was for the kids who were “gifted” that way. The rest of us took Algebra II.
Silly. I didn’t realize you enrolled in art class to learn how to make art. Interesting that I didn’t make the connection. I had been taking piano lessons since elementary school. I didn’t know how to play the piano before I started. It was understood that once I began taking piano lessons, I’d learn how to—play the piano.
But art was in a different category in my mind. I looked at artistic ability as a sort of innate talent that someone possessed or not, and at piano as something you studied to learn.
In adulthood, I found myself at a point where I needed a new “sit down” hobby I could engage in while the kids napped or played outside. It was pre-InterWebs time, so I taught myself to crochet, thanks to books from the craft section of the library. They came with enlarged diagrams that illustrated each combination of “stitches.”
While I was rooting around the shelves, I stumbled on some watercolor how-to books in the library’s art section. I decided to give it a try. Supplies didn’t cost too much and it seemed risky and mysterious to try something that elementary kids do with abandon. I still thought art was somehow reserved for the artistically gifted.
Watercolor did not disappoint. I achieved no great competence, but I spent many lovely hours putting color on paper and watching what happened. It was fun. And there you have it. I had to become a bona fide adult to realize that art is fun and everyone can try it.
We all practice art of some sort anyway. We like the way a vase with a single flower sits alone on its shelf, the way rows of corn disappear in parallel lines over a hilltop, the way a bit of curry flavors a stew.
We fabricate the curve of a car fender, mow the grass on a diagonal, pour just the right amount of milk into our Cheerios, plant flowers in pleasing colors, use the TV remote to pick letters from the search menu without a single mistake, run five miles on pace, drive all the way across the state without breaking our cruise. All the disparate things that satisfy our inner artist.
My husband and I hang out with the grandkids quite a bit now, and I’ve rediscovered coloring. Crayons have improved since the dark ages. The Crayola classics remain, but technological innovation has given us twist-out crayons that require no sharpening. If you’ve never rotated crayons inside a manual sharpener and spent the next hour brushing crayon flakes off the couch, you wouldn’t appreciate this remarkable step forward.
And markers? They’re amazing now. Every color and style of marker-tip you could dream of, and glitter if you want it. Adult coloring has been in vogue for quite awhile, and I understand why. It’s grown-up wish fulfillment.
Our granddaughters are pretty good at coloring and drawing. Of course, as a grandmother I would think so. And I hope they never suffer from artistic hesitation the way I did. They have fun putting color on paper and watching what happens. They happily draw birds that have fingers and toes, and fish that live in or out of the ocean. I’m in favor.
If I had it to do over again, I’d take every art class I could and skip some of the other stuff, like algebra. (To be honest, I only took Algebra I.) Math is art too, but it doesn’t have glitter. I’ll keep putting color on paper and see what happens.