Colors of My Heart
“If you asked me when I first became an artist I would have to say it was when I got my first box of Crayola crayons. I grew up in the 40s. I was spawned in the Edgewater in New Jersey. I remember the first day of kindergarten, I had to draw a picture, when I tried to turn it in too the teacher I was told I write my name on it. I couldn’t write my name, what a shame! That was the beginning of a long torturous journey through public education for me, a child of the 40s without a guardian, on a quest to find the artist in me.”[I kid you not. Things to note: 1. she was “spawned,” much like a woodland animal, not “born” as we often think of ourselves; 2. she fails to tell us if the drawing she handed in on that first day was good—should she really be saying this is when she first became an artist?]
“…I have a misty watercolor memory of a public park where neighborhood children were taught arts and crafts…I owe a debt of gratitude to the powers that made that park program happen. From there came the spark that illuminated my young soul and ignited that unquenchable fire to express in watercolor what I see and fee. Thanks also to the coloring books and those books that require you to wet the darkened spaces that magically turn to royal blue and magenta. These were the building blocks, the first steps, and the activities that actually made me a visible person.”
[Um, is this some sort of twisted arts-and-crafts acceptance speech? Oh, and she's quoting song lyrics-- "misty watercolored memories..."--get original, lady! Also note the mixed metaphor of using watercolor to cause a fire. This woman is deep, and has a lot to share. Two pages worth, to be exact.]
“There were special people too who pulled me out of my shell by engaging me in that most fascinating of worlds, creativity-making something wonderful out of bits of nothing. I made a puppet out of strips of paper with flour/water glue. I named him Mortimer Snerd; he led to a phenomenal puppet show on the bay window of our first floor bedroom. What an incredible day that was...
“The people in my family are not plant people. Plants seem to be a luxuriant thing during those hard times when putting food on the table and a roof over the head were daily accomplishments. But, my sister was a teenager at last and she had a plant. I’m not sure what kind of a plant it was. I suspect it was some form of ivy in a clay pot. The first time I saw it was riveting; here was something non-essential, something growing-alive, something that needed to be recorded. My first real watercolor was of that plant. Then came a collection of flowers from a picture in a book. But the work that made me credible at last with my family (on my mother’s side, at least) was of a church in British Columbia. That watercolor will outlive me by many years and has been coveted by more than a few of my mothers relatives...
“Today I teach drawing to children. Some kids only want to draw ‘Mr. Underpants’ and they are happy, and I am glad they are happy. But, I look for the quiet one in the corner, the invisible one, and I search my bag of tricks for the right word, line, or color, that will light the spark that will allow the world to see the wonder that they truly are.”
[That is the very end of the letter. Some things to note in the last three paragraphs: (1) Mortimer Snerd, homemade hand puppet and actor, who debuted on the bay window for one night only, was an actual puppet in the 50s, popular among kids and adults alike. here he is:
How creepy is he?
3 comments:
I think she might mean Captain Underpants? Spongebob would make more sense though, given his popularity in recent years. If you google "Mr. Underpants", you get this image:
http://lh4.ggpht.com/_-J5QyMVmhqs/RzeENhEadoI/AAAAAAAABQ4/6eKBfTTKvSQ/IMG_0553.JPG
I think the children are definitely drawing that dude.
Whilst working at the admissions office of Bard College I had a similar experience. There was a women who would call every two or three weeks, and upon my answering the phone would promptly inform me that she had dialed the wrong number. She'd then hang up on me; it was somehow implied that it was my fault she had dialed the wrong number. She would do this 8 or 9 times and then say, "Well, since I have you on the phone, we might as well talk." She would then talk AT me for about 45 minutes when I would pretend to set the building on fire and tell her that I needed to evacuate myself and all perspective students.
She then started writing letters addressed to "The Young Man at Bard." We believe they were hand-delivered to the mailbox at the admissions office.
True story. I have some of the letters to this day.
Some oldies just want to tell their story - I say, better a letter than a phonecall. False arsony stories can ilicit sentences like, "I passed by the admissions building today - I think you exaggerated the smoke damage."
so was this some sort of contest? Did the magazine ask for people to submit why they are artists or did she take it upon herself to do it. I guess either way it is still a sad, sad, sand (and funny) letter.
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