 |
First Art Opening For a Fourth Grader
My niece, a budding artist, an excited fourth grader, exclaimed upon leaving for the exhibit that she had hoped to see Monet. I explained feebly that this was a regional exhibit. We might meet some of the artists, but not Monet. She recommended that I read Linnea in Monet's Garden or go see the play to understand what she meant. Would Drawings Midwest satisfy her sophisticated ten year old tastes; inspire her into her next decade?
Systematically, we looked at each and every drawing. We took a break for refreshments. I offered to answer any questions. "What do you like best?" I asked. She said: "Meatballs, how do you make them?" "Captain Ken's Barbeque Sauce and Welchs Grape Jelly." I revealed. "No, not the sauce. How do you make the meatballs this round."
She looked over the railing to the courtyard below. I worried that she might drop the meatball. Then, she ate it. I changed the subject. I felt like a pigmy standing at the tall tables.
"Be a good scout and help me find a bench to sit down." The tattoed man walked by. He didn't wear a shirt and his upper torso and arms were heavily tattooed. His head was shaved and he had a pony tail.
"Is that allowed?" she whispered. "Why not?" I exclaimed. "Living art!" "No Shirt. No shoes. No Service!" she proclaimed.
She spied a bench. Wearily, I sat to rest. Of this giant wall work, we admired the scrolls. How creative! Sensing her restlessness to move on but valuing my comfort, I sent her on a mission. "Go to the end and see who is the artist and the title of this work. Walk behind the people and not in front. Walk gracefully and slowly. Come back and tell me what the information box says."
She studied the writing a long time. I studied the art. It looked vaguely phallic to me. It crossed my mind that this work of art could raise more questions than I, as an aunt, had bargained to answer. She was walking toward me with a puzzled look. I rehearsed my best auntie line used during stressful questioning. "That would be a good question to ask your mother!"
She stood ready to report. "RaVae Luckhart," she said. "Is that the artist or the title?" I asked.
"The artist." she replied. I instructed her again: " Go back and get the title." (I was getting very comfortable on the bench.) "Look below the name. Remember, walk behind the people and not in front. Walk gracefully and slowly and come back and report the title. Sometimes, the title is just, Untitled."
I returned to my study of the drawing . My niece approached with a satisfied accomplished look. "Well?" I said, "What did it say?" She replied in earnest sincerity: "DO NOT TOUCH."
"Ah," I said. "Indeed. Sit here save my place." I walked slowly and gracefully behind the people and not in front. "Accurate Ammunition." How well titled. Children seem to have the most accurate ammunition.
On the drive home, I asked my budding artist again about her favorite art at the exhibit. "The men's art," she reflected. Confused at who in particular she meant, I prompted, "But you liked art by ladies too." "No, I mean the art in the men's room." she stood firm.
"The men's room?"
"You know the first art room by the coat rack." She replied as if I was so dense.
"Oh, the MAIL room." I deciphered.
"Yes, is there a female room too?"
I explained the homonym: M-A-I-L as postal art and the M-A-L- E confusion. She liked this art. My heart soared. For seven bleak years in the night, I had sorted sundry and assorted objects of MAIL. This is the art that pleased my niece the best. I am prepared to tell a postal legend but she is rapidly discussing her pottery bears that she made in Girl Scouts. They convened a special meeting to do the dry brush method and finish by Valentines Day.
So, I will close with a true and legendary postal story about an object of love. THE SIZE 15 TENNIS SHOE: For a valentine, a fellow took a high top white tennis shoe, paid postage, addressed it and inscribed it to his love. He wrote in red magic marker and the big red heart on the bottom said: "I LOVE YOU WITH MY HEART AND SOLE."
Some of the most extraordinary art will never make it to museums. Some of the most extraordinary stories will never make it to poetry. But all of it makes the most accurate ammunition. For, art astonishes and I love it. I love it as I love my niece, with my heart and soul.
|