The Joy of Crayons

There’s nothing like a new box of crayons. Their smell – the sharp, new tips – the bright colors that just cry out to be used. I bet my feelings about new crayons are influenced by the fact that I got new ones every year for the start of school, so now they are wrapped up in the emotion and excitement of new teachers, new paper and pencils, a new desk, and new things to learn.

I watched some kids color this week, or more correctly, I watched the kids and their parents color. It seems like the parents get more into the coloring than the kids do, as if they’ve been dying for an excuse to get creative. I mean, here their kid is with a new box of crayons and a fresh coloring book, and the parent just HAS to color that tree green, or that flower red.

As I watched the coloring, I realized that one of my biggest art “revelations” involved coloring. My mom was an art teacher, so of course she never encouraged me to “stay in the lines;” she was prone to give me a blank piece of paper instead of a coloring book, to inspire more creativity.

The revelation came when I was pretty young. In a coloring book I was coloring a scene of girls sitting on a beach in bathing suits under an umbrella that I filled in with primary colors, and Mom decided to “help” me for a bit, as grownups do. I watched as she picked up a red crayon, held it above the page, and gently shaded a blotch of red on one of the girls’ bare shoulders. “She’s been sitting on the beach too long,” Mom explained. I remember staring at the sunburn Mom had given the girl, suddenly struck by the fact that there was more to this coloring book than just filling in the pictures. They could be my own, more than ever now. A blank sky could be filled with birds or a sunset or a hot air balloon. A field could hold cows or flowers or a picnic basket and blanket. I can’t help but see that very moment as when the world of Art was opened to me, truly. All by a little shade of red on a girl’s shoulder.

So if you have a little time, why don’t you “help” your kids with their coloring books. Show them what is possible. Or if they’re not around, grab a piece of blank paper from your printer and draw a little something. I know you want to.

"24601!"

This week I took a one-day class at UNLV from a businessman/instructor who walked by my car on the way to class wearing a hat with a long yellow feather sticking out from the top. (I love eccentric people like that! He later said he works as a clown on the side.)

Later during his lecture he asked the class, “Do we have any writers in here today?” I felt my arm flinch, wanting to raise it, but I didn’t. Then I sat there and wondered what I would have to do to feel able to call myself a “writer.” I write a weekly blog, so does that make me one? I’ve had a few articles in newspapers - does that qualify? Or do I hold the “writer” label up to higher esteem – maybe you have to have published a book, or have to be paid to write, to be called that lofty title.

There are many labels for myself that I wish I had, or ones that I wonder if still apply. For instance, I was a professional singer/dancer for fifteen years. I don’t perform any more, so can I still be called a singer, or a dancer? I could still do it, so does that qualify? Is an elderly woman who used to dance still able to call herself a dancer? If it is deeply ingrained in you – in who you are – does that allow you to keep the label?

I can’t help but think that quality and quantity have to apply. Someone who has had two weeks of dance classes cannot be called a dancer. Someone who sings in the shower isn’t a singer. So, have I earned those titles during my career – so much so that I can use them all my life? Or am I relegated to using them in the past tense?

I have had drawings and photographs accepted into art shows, and have even won awards and sold some of my work, but does that make me a photographer? I don’t think so.

There are two titles I would love to proudly display, those of “writer,” and even broader, “artist.” I think maybe I’ll be able to call myself a writer after I finish my book – my goal is to finish it this year, and then move on and tackle the 600 pages of a previously abandoned book. But the title of “artist” is more reverent to me. My mom was an artist, in every way. To me, an artist isn’t just a painter or someone who creates – the word means the person has a gift, a way of life, a view of the world – all which combine into someone who has earned the title. If I am ever able to call myself an artist, it will mean that I finally have gained true confidence.

So, who am I? (That sentence was a clue to the title of this post, for the musical theatre people who will get it.) I am one who does not claim titles irreverently. To me, you must earn them. I look forward to the day, someday, when I can proudly boast of who I am. For now, I write. I paint. And I create. And I’m happy with that.

1944-1999

This week marked the ten-year anniversary of my mother’s death. For those of you who weren’t lucky enough to know her, she was an artist, writer, painter, pianist, nature-lover, philosopher, poet, and all-around amazing person. And I have to say, writing that last sentence was difficult, because she was so much more than words could ever express.

Lance and I started dating about a year before Mom died, and one of my biggest blessings is that he was able to meet her. And even though their two meetings were brief, he was able to see how special she was. She was (and is) such a part of me that it was imperative that he understand. I am very lucky.

I wanted to include a poem of Mom’s here today, but it’s so precious to me that I’m afraid of putting her poetry on the Internet and having someone use it as their own. So, I will share a small paragraph of hers that I have always loved.

Mom taught elementary art in a school where sports were the priority, as they often are, and the Arts were almost always low on the list of school priorities. At the end of every year there was an awards banquet for all the kids, and Mom sat and waited through dozens of sports awards before she gave hers for Art. The superintendent always took the majority of the time, going on and on about each sport and each team, on and on about the excellence of athletes and the importance of the athletic department. Finally Mom couldn't take it anymore. She grabbed a crumpled envelope from her purse and furiously scribbled, completely changing the speech she was about to give:

"Art is not a competitive sport. Prizes are not given for making the biggest sculpture or painting, or the most paintings, or for mixing the bluest blue, or for drawing the straightest line. That’s not what it’s all about. The measure of art is really how each person learns to be sensitive to his environment and to his feelings – and how he learns to express that in his own personal way."

I hope you all have had someone in your life who has opened the world of Art to you. Its value is immeasurable. Mom taught me that.