My Kingdom For A Canvas

Paper is Sometimes Better - March 1959

Finding a way to color my world always made sense to me, even at five years old. I found out at an early age that not everyone could take the pictures in their head, pick up a pencil and then put that picture on the paper. I thought about this ego-boost as I watched my first grade class during our trip to the Coca-Cola company. That's me and my mother in the photo. I was such a cute little idiot. How could I possibly imagine the terror  that I was about to evoke.

 

Back at the classroom, I had gotten used to my teacher complimenting me whenever it was finger painting time. My view of things was that she enjoyed my works of art. Her praise more likely stemmed from the fact that I didn't make as big a mess as the other kids. Regardless, I must have made an impression on Mrs. Clark because she decided to present me with a shoebox full of crayons.

These days, kids would accept nothing less than a computerized multi-colored marker system but back in the day, things were a lot simpler. That box of whole and broken crayons represented ideas on a stick which I had not yet imagined. I shyly said thank you to my teacher and when my mother picked me up, I walked home grinning with the box under my arm.

As I sat on my bed, scribbling away on the paper that my mother had given me, I felt a sense of discontent. Didn't she know that I was given this gift because I was an ARTIST? Could she not see that my soul was tormented and these minuscule sheets of paper could not give relief to my distress? I'd seen beautifully large paintings and I craved for space so that I could express my inner feelings. And then suddenly it hit me. The WALL! The largest canvas that I could have possibly wished for. The wall next to my bed spoke to me and my crayons and I had to answer.

The surface was bumpy and it made drawing my straight lines a bit more difficult but that was okay. I now had the area I needed to draw really pretty pictures (I mean, works of art). I happily kept expanding my work because, why not? I had lots of space.

After about fifteen minutes of drawing, I guess I was being too quiet because my mother came in the bedroom to check on me. She raised her voice talking about getting this stuff off the wall before my father got home. Most of what she said is lost to my memory but two things I do remember clearly. One was that it's difficult for me to clean the crayon off of a wall even with soap and water and two, I cried while I was doing it. I understood why my mother said my work couldn't be on the wall but I don't think she understood my point of view.

This experience did not stop my creative flow but it was clear what the bigger issue really was. There will always be critics.

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