It wasn't because I didn't like art. It was because the art teacher would put forth simple instructions, outlined step by step, for all to do. Somewhere between steps one and two, I would encounter and absolute and unmitigated failure.
Example: Take your piece paper and a pair of scissors. Cut the paper into a circle.
I would cut and cut, and end up with some sort of bizarre shape of abnormal cuts and gashes that it would take a Phd in mathematics to find a name for this thing that I had cut out.
The remainder of art class was always downhill, because completion of the project was predicated on having a usable circle. Since I didn't, I would have to salvage what I could while every one of my classmates had something that they could be proud of.
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| My attempts to emulate great art made me look like this! |
But for now, stuck in elementary school, I still had to endure my flailing artistic fingers. But on this day in February, art class was a little different.
"I wanted," said the teacher, "to have a field trip to New York, to the Museum of Modern Art, but the Board of Education said no."
A collective gasp came over the class of 12-year-olds.
"Wait a minute," said one student, speaking for all of us. "I thought we were going to the art museum in New York."
"You are." The teacher reassured. "You are going to the Metropolitan Museum of Art this spring. However, I tried to persuade the Board of Ed. to give you another field trip, a different field trip, to the Museum of Modern Art."
Yes, the Wethersfield Board of Education didn't want 6th Graders at Charles Wright Elementary School to get too much education. In the words of Richard Milhous Nixon, that would be wrong.
There would be no class field trip to the Museum of Modern Art. But our teacher gave us the next best thing: A video about the artists featured at the MoMA. For one day in art class, I was spared both frustration and humiliation!
Even more than I enjoyed not embarrassing myself, I actually enjoyed the video too. When it was over, the teacher played an identification game. Those who dared accept the challenge would stand up and see a series of paintings. The goal was to name the artist who had painted it.
I stood up, confidently. And I nailed it. And I mean, nailed it. One by one, I saw the images. One by one, I identified them in less than a second. Starry Night? Easy: Van Gough. That girl on the farm? Andrew Wyeth. Melting clocks? Dali. I was on a roll!
When I saw one those famed examples of organized chaos, I was so quick to answer that I gave the artists nickname instead of his actual name.
"Jack the Dripper!" I said with excitement, as if answering faster would give me more points in this thing that wasn't even a competition.
The teacher rolled her eyes a little bit. She gave a half grin. "That's right," she said. "But I would prefer you called him Jackson Pollack."
When it was over, I had scored perfection: 10 for 10. For one day in art class, I was unmatched among my peers in the opposite direction of failure.
The teacher stressed that seeing these paintings in person was still of paramount importance. Unfortunately, we would have to go on our own time. I walked away skeptical if that time would ever come.
Come 2006, I met someone. I felt special around her. She felt special around me. It was all that stuff they don't teach you in school, although maybe not for lack of trying. Her name was Nicole, and she decided it was time to take things to the next level.
"I want to go to the MoMa," she said.
And so we did. When I walked up to the fourth floor and saw all those paintings in person that I saw in 6th grade art class, I couldn't help but feel thankful for that one particular lesson more than 10 years ago.
As you can see, I wasn't the only one smiling.
It would be nice if I were able to thank that art teacher in person. I'm not saying she played matchmaker, but she sure helped.
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