Every Child is an Artist (or mechanic, or chef . . .

Every Child is an Artist (or mechanic, or chef…it’s all the same when art is all that is around us right?)

Life is essentially an existence made up of many different experiences. The ones that stand out typically are because they were meaningful in some way. Perhaps they are meaningful because of the person we were with, the place, or the day, there is really no telling! Some of those memories are what forms a person’s interest for certain things later in life. Perhaps a child who went fishing with a grandparent who has since passed may have grown up to continue to enjoy fishing or even have made a lifelong passion/career out of it. Same goes for sports, cooking, car repair, music or any other interests! Personally, art was a particularly fond memory. Three early experiences come to mind when thinking about what led to a continued interest and passion for visual art in my own life. It started at home with my mom, of which I have two instances in mind, and then was developed more during my first year at school in kindergarten.

“Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist when we grow up.” -Pablo Picasso

What is considered a memory anyway? Especially in regard to early memories. Where do they begin? We are told of our early experiences by relatives, or through photographs and then it is up to us to connect the dots as we form and recall memories surrounding such experiences. This was the case for me when I stumbled upon an old photograph of me at the age of two, where I was sitting in a highchair, in a plastic apron (that I faintly remember the Crayola graphics of and the smell that resembles a new shower curtain..), with a paintbrush in chunky hand, a watercolor set, and a coloring sheet that had a few strokes of yellow paint on it. I found this picture as a teenager and would often stare at it, reflecting on how I had continued to develop artistically. It forced me to wonder about my early artistic experiences. I also began connecting those dots to actual memories, such as the cabinet in the kitchen that held my art supplies at that same age. I remember it because I sustained a burn from the iron that tumbled onto me as I was seeking out those art supplies. Clearly I wanted them! (I still have a mark from that memory). At this point in reflection, it became obvious that art was instilled in me at an early age.

earlyart1

Flash forward a few years and we are living in a new house. A duplex to be specific. This was not the only new thing in my life, as my parents had gotten a divorce when I was three and I had gained a stepfather and stepbrother through a new marriage. Though things were different, art was still constant. My mother still mostly facilitated such activities, as I remember being excited to sit down and color with her. I would stare at the way she darkened the outlines around the pictures on her sheet. To me, it was interesting. I didn’t exactly recall this in full clarity until I was working at a residential facility for teenage foster girls when I was 22 years old. These girls faced a great deal of monotony in this type of living arrangement, where they also attended school, showered, slept and had any type of social interaction other than the occasional field trip to equine therapy, or to the hairdresser as a reward for good behavior. Not to mention, that a lot of them grew up without a constant parental figure who could provide evolving interests for them. With all of that being said, the girls took interest to me as a new person and wanted to know about me. I also felt anxious having 13 girls looking to me as a mentor. So, during free time, I did what felt natural and talked about art to start to try to connect with some of them. A couple of the girls were interested and wanted to show me their coloring sheets that they had been working on (it is the age of adult coloring books, you know). One of them asked me how to create value in her coloring, and I attempted to explain, backed by my years of experience and formal training. It quickly became clear that the concept was lost on her. I realized I needed to back up. Back wayyyyy up. I put myself in her shoes and imagined the possibility that she had not had anyone show her how to color before. So, I said “here, start by outlining darker around the edges.” She then understood that value was about how hard your press the color onto the page. From there she learned how to go from darker, to lighter. If I hadn’t realized that art had definitely been a privilege instilled in me from a young age before, I did then.

Now enter the world of school. It’s no secret that Kindergarten is a big step and sometimes scary for kids! This was no different for me. When I reflect on those early days, I of course remember things like how the teacher would show us how to count using blocks, teaching us the concepts of over/under, playing in the reading loft and doing “experiments” like growing seeds in a paper towel and sandwich bag. All of the new things took the edge off of the scariness. But nothing did so more quite like the art room. I felt at-home there. I can still picture the room quite vividly and now, as an art educator myself, am impressed for the small-town, underfunded school that it was. I was still a little intimidated by the new materials. At some point I glimpsed into the supply closet and saw “big people” art and supplies with huge paintings, canvases, and a skeleton replica. I quickly realized that I better get to work if I ever wanted to do stuff like that. During one of our first projects, “I messed up.” The art teacher did not hesitate to let me in on the golden-rule of the art world, which is that “you can’t mess up art.” My 5 year old mind, currently learning about doing everything the “right” way, was blown. I repeated this mantra to myself over the years in situations like the time where a student in high school accidentally knocked over a bottle of hot pink ink over a drawing that I had been working on for nearly a month. I begrudgingly incorporated the ink into the work and then tried to hide my happiness at the end result.