As a child, I have distinct memories of my late elementary art and music classes. If you had asked me, I never would have suggested that I was an artist. In art classes, I liked the "crafty" projects. Winter snow scenes using bleach and q-tips. A very childish introduction to quilling, as we made three dimensional snowflakes, dusted with glass glitter, one of my favorite projects.
But bring out a drawing or painting project with a measurable objective in sight? No thanks. Those did not come easily for me. They were not my natural talents, and I lacked the learned skills of those crafts that would encourage confidence.
There was one "real art" medium that I loved, as I think most children and students do. Clay. I remember waiting all. year. long. for the few weeks where we would get to mold and sculpt and learn about the firing process. I can still see the wire my teacher used as she sliced the clay. I remember the damp feel of the cool grey mound. I can hear her voice, reminding us to use the "peench" method (her pronunciation of pinch.)
I remember our project in 5th grade. We were to create a bust (mine would only be a head). I carefully worked on it. Selected a light blue glaze for the eyes and espresso for the hair. I scratched KS-5R on the base, so that it would belong to me.
It might be one of the ugliest things I've ever made. {grin} But I kept it. (And if I can find it, I'll change out that picture above and share it here!)
The next year, in middle school, we would all have to choose between art or music. I liked to sing, had a decent voice...and to be honest, was still pretty nervous about that drawing and painting stuff...so I chose to pursue chorus. That fifth grade art class was my last formal art class in an educational setting.
During those middle school years, my love for writing increased. A poem about a squirrel was published in a junior anthology. I was encouraged by my English teachers and kept on writing. Notebooks, plastered with Hello Kitty and other Sanrio characters, were filled with story after story, poem upon poem. I had a variety of journals that I wrote in, each with a designated purpose.
In high school, I created two independent study writing courses with a favorite and inspiring English teacher. In college, I took additional writing classes that were extra time and extra tuition...but worth every bit of the creative challenge.
I shared my hopes of one day being a writer...
...and may have secretly hoped that I already was.
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This is Day 1 of 31 Days: Crafting a Creative Life. You can find an archive of all the posts from this series here. Thanks for joining me this month!
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