The Amazing Arts

When I was a child I am sure I thought art was limited to “art class”. It was painting and drawing, molding and shaving, cutting and pasting. Art demanded a bouquet of brushes, the silky tips soaked in tin cans of water, readied to be smashed into tiny squares of color that usually melded eventually into a putrid green. Art was round-tipped scissors, gobs of tasty glue, clay, crayons, charcoals, and multi-colored construction paper. Art was smearing hues from one end of a canvas to another, mastering stick figures, and was, God forbid, “staying in the lines”. My classmates followed instructions and believed. “The sky is blue, bananas yellow, and trees green.”

I know better now. Of course, the sky is not always blue, bananas yellow, or leaves green, and, thank goodness, art is not bound to a single definition. It need not be a painting suitable for framing; it can be a poem written on a whim, a basket woven by fingers, deft and chapped. It is Michelle’s fruit art or an outfit sewn to perfection. It is Deb’s watercolor, Allison’s fine-line drawing, Louise’s finely knitted scarf, or Karyl’s jewelry creation. Art includes Shawn’s photography, Andrea’s Zumba dance, Alicia’s athleticism, or Jean Paul’s culinary masterpiece. It is Doyle’s voice, and the twang of Bart’s guitar. It is Kirk’s sculpture, Dave’s design, or my story.

Art is magic. It can draw a person into a place where persistence and practice, diligence and dedication, grit and tenacity are consummate rewards that one who has not been there may not comprehend. When I am sad, satisfied, angry, or confused, I know what to do. I write. It makes everything else pale in comparison. Simply the doing of it makes me happy.