Jackson Pollock, Art Thief!

Part I: My Art Teacher Depreciated My Art

In the second grade, I had one of those frustrated-artists/art teacher. She didn’t even fit the “does who can do; does who don’t teach” paradigm. But for the most part she was tolerable.

I was an “A” to “B” student whose forte was English, History, Science, Gym, and Lunch. I struggled through Math, a lot. Art was one of those subjects that I just did not have an aptitude for. But I was content with drawing simple stick figures that would have been considered masterpieces by cave dwellers. Get the picture?

During art-time, this teacher would praise the more artistically inclined students. I was not one of them. She would glance at my work and note that I had completed the assignment.

This would have been an excellent arrangement except that I happened to sit next to Isabelle. She was a shy girl who hardly spoke in or out of class because she was a fairly recent French immigrant, and could hardly speak English. Her grades reflected her lack of language skills. Except for Art.

This was during the mid-sixties when there wasn’t any ESOL (English as a Second Language) program. I myself was a Cuban immigrant, but my family settled in New York when I was four years old so I was fluent in English by the time I got to the second grade. In my neighborhood, the English speaking kids had their own version of Immersion Language Studies: you got your ass kicked until you spoke the language. Capice?

However, Isabelle was an accomplished artist. And our art “teacher” praised everything that Isabelle did. I liked Isabelle because she was the only girl who would smile at me when I smiled at her, and she would share her snacks with me.

One day the art teacher walked by my desk and noticed what I had been working on. The assignment was “draw your family”. I did my usual stick figures. The art teacher asked to see my drawing. “What is this!” she exclaimed more that asked. I looked up. She then said, “Is this what your family looks like!” she was fond of making interrogatives sound like declaratives.

Usually during art class, our classroom would be buzzing like a beehive that is being batted by very hungry bear. But now it was silent. She walked over to Isabelle’s desk and declared, “Why can’t you draw like this!” I wanted to shrink like “The Incredible Shrinking Man.” However, I felt more like the “Godzilla”. All eyes were on me. The teacher walked away, and within seconds the class was abuzz again, and they were talking about me. I shot a murderous glance at Isabelle. She looked like Iphagenia at Aulis in front of a sacrificial altar built by her father on a windless day.

The next day and just about everyday after that and until the end of the school year Isabelle made up for the teacher’s transgression by giving me all of her snacks.

However, the harm was done. From that day forward, I had made up my mind that I would never be an artist. Not that I ever aspired to. For the remainder my of days in elementary school, the art teachers I had were not so critical and just assumed I was not interested. Which was true, to an extent.

To be continued ...

© Trudge164, 2009