When I was in second grade, I made my mother a clay duck. It took me until the final minute to finally finish and do the best job I could. I remember coming home and being embarrassed by the uneven wings. The crooked bill. The less than stellar painting skills of an 8 year old. When I presented that misfit clay duck to my mother, I may as well have given her a handful of diamonds. I can still remember her face lighting up as if she just received a rare gift. Every single piece of art that I ever gave her was met with the same joy.
Whether it was a painting of a dinosaur or the meticiulous drawing of a wasp that took me the majority of science class, through the eyes of my mother I was Picasso. Da Vinci. Van Gough. She kept every single painting or clay art project I ever gave her. Kept, not because they were masterpieces, but because they were made by me.
This little trip down memory lane comes from the art projects I do with my kids at school. I see their parents reactions and I am disappointed that I don't see their faces light up as mine did. They see the "art" as little more than pieces of paper to clutter an already cluttered house. The "sculptures" as just another thing from school to create more chaos in their organized living room. I have been to the houses of my kids and even though there were toys galore and more clothes than they could ever wear, I was hard pressed to find very many of the crafts or paintings made at school.
Almost 17 years after I gave that ugly duck to my mother, it is still kept in her china cabinet. Kept alongside other creations from my sisters as well as pieces of a more intrinsitic value.
Growing up I knew I wasn't an artist. I knew that sculpting or painting wasn't something I was good at or really even enjoyed. What I did know was that my mother would have supported me if I did. She would have been the first in line to see my gallery opening of ugly ducks with ill-proportioned bodies if it made me happy.
Thank you Mom for always making me feel like the Picasso of the Comer household.
We see this all of the time with the fun projects we send home. It is so sad to see that it at times doesn't even make it to the car. I find it in the driveway. It is a constant battle of who are we doing this for. It then becomes our job as teachers, educators, nurturers, to give each child that "Joan" reaction.
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