Barely Acceptable

I was in eighth grade, and "Barely acceptable" stood out boldly on my graduation certificate.  It was my grade in the Art class.  Even while trying to hide my disappointment, I had to admit that this score, just barely above "Failed", may have been a generous gesture by the teacher.  For as hard as I tried, what showed on the sheets I grudgingly submitted, was painfully different than what I had in mind.  I have been carrying this trauma ever since.  Eventually, I learned to joke about it while sketching stick figures.

When Adi suggested we take a drawing class, I recognized that after a long life of analytical activities, this may be the chance to finally give my right brain a workout.  I reasoned that even if I didn't learn to draw, I would benefit from improving my observation skills.  Furthermore, paying more attention to detail may decrease the occasional forgetfulness.

It was with significant trepidation that I came to the Casa de la Cultura Oaxacena, and sat at the large paint-smeared table. All my public school frustrations were bubbling just below the surface.  The instructions for the first class were simple.  Take a large sheet of paper, use a pencil, and draw the cube in front of us.  I started to work, and it was more than an hour before I came up for a breath.  Time flew, and my apprehension was greatly reduced.  On the second class, it was a bottle.  This time, it took the entire two hours before I raised my eyes from the work.  I was totally exhausted from the intense concentration, and the anxiety was a thing of the past.  Surprisingly, my sketches resembled the models, and surpassed my own criteria for "Acceptable".  Over the next few weeks, my mental stamina increased, and with it, my concentration level.  As I  translated what my eyes saw, into the fine movements of my hand and fingers, I was transported into an isolation bubble.  I could not hear nor see anything that went on around me.  My absorption became a source of amusement for Adi and the other fellow students.

For the last project this quarter, we used pastel chalk to draw an object of our choice.  A razor is used to scrape the variously colored sticks onto a rough-surfaced sheet, and then using a finger, you rub the powder into the paper.  I am not sure what element in this style caught my fancy.  Maybe it was the freedom from the laborious task of  shading in pencil, or maybe it was the infantile urge to put my fingers in a colored mess.  Whatever the reason, the new media changed the game from an interesting challenge into challenging fun.  It's hard for me to believe, but the apples shown above, are my graduation piece.

Meanwhile Adi, who in middle-school had her own painful experiences with art, was also surprising herself with her new-found skills.  She did the pomegranates.  I think the difference between having fun and having talent is obvious.