The Artist Within

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It started when I was in preschool. I wanted to be an artist. There was some type of expressive energy inside of me, and it wanted to come out as a picture, maybe a painting. There was a song in my heart -- it wanted to be sung, maybe played soulfully on a coronet. Problem is and was, I have no talent in those areas. In elementary school, I progressed slowly. People would look curiously at my picture and say, "What's that?" I improved to such an extent that they could make out what I was drawing. More tactful types would offer up tips on things like balance, color and perspective. Others would laugh outright. In about 5th grade, I noticed that one boy next to me could doodle a great picture of a hot rod. Another could doodle pictures of Batman and Superman all in the space of a minute. My doodles were truly doodles. By 8th grade, I had to throw in the towel. I told my art teacher that I wanted to be an artist. Then I noticed, the people next to me in class, crass ruffians with no artistic career goals, could paint better than me. Enough already! I quit! My art teacher liked me and gave me an 'A-' out of sympathy -- maybe the only time I got a sympathy grade like that.

Starting in 6th grade, I joined the school band playing the trumpet. I wowed'em on the 2nd practice because I could play the scale quickly, and also "Mary Had a Little Lamb". Alas, that was the pinnacle of my music career. The band teacher soon saw exactly how much potential I had and gave me "Glow Worm" as my piece to practice on. If one recalls, that's the same song that Lucy Ricardo squawked out on the saxophone on "I Love Lucy". Lucy was trying to be bad, for comedic purposes. My musical grandeur continued two more years thru junior high, where band directors put me in 3rd part (3rd part mind you, not 3rd chair). In that illustrious place, I would get to play a whole note every few minutes. I would endure this insult, while first part trumpeters would be doing staccato virtuosos at the other end of the row. The humiliation I endured. :-) The insult added to injury is that I had to wear a polyester orange & gray band uniform with high-water pants. I finally took the hint at the end of eighth grade, and "lost" my trumpet. My mother wondered where it went, but she didn't look too hard.

Speaking of parents, their loving guidance is what brings us along. Neither of my parents were what you would call patrons of the arts. My father deemed it unmanly (I heard that remark!), and my Mother has a tepid interest at best. "Blame the parents" is only part of my mantra. I realize that my innate lack of ability was there all along -- just nice to get words of encouragement, not raspberries or indifference. To parents everywhere -- if your child brings you a ghastly paint smudge on construction paper, you display it on the fridge with magnets, immediately. You tell him that he's the next Picasso. It won't advance his art career, but it will give your child the "mojo" to try any and everything -- and eventually succeed at something. I still have a set of 24 crayons with colors like "Cornflower Blue" and "Sienna". I'll wax creative now and then, but now I go for the abstract, Jackson Pollock thing. The pictures can be viewed at the Penrose gallery. (I live on Penrose). I still have that song, and I sing. Only now I sing to my cat, with lyrics sometimes altered for a cat audience. The artist lives!