Artistic Justice

     I'm easily amused. My mind is challenged when tasked to think outside of the box, but I color outside the lines all the time.

     I don't know what my dad saw in me, but I remember what he said: "I'd rather live with you because you can find your way out of a paper bag".  I am guessing that this tidbit came from a conversation we had about his eventual old age and whether he would choose to live with me over my brother. His response caught me off guard. We were not alike.  He was an extremely educated man. Far from the several degrees he garnered in his profession, his zest to learn was his purpose. Those, in the world today, who learned from him and shared insights with him, are extremely successful business people. 

     I was not the academic child.  My brother finished college with two degrees and I was never going to attain that laudable goal. Something in my gut said, "why bother".

This quiet rebellion began with after-school detention in kindergarten.  My teacher required me to color the square-just the square; no scribbling outside the lines. My first attempt was tossed in the trash can. Looking back, I can't believe that I was the only student in her class tasked with a "do-over", but my memory is painfully clear. Thankfully, Mom came to the rescue, arm in arm with the principal.  I was moved to another class. It was empowering to realize that I was important, that I had rights at the tender age of 5.

     She fostered my creative being.  Mom was an artist in her own right but never shared her talents publicly. In the 1950s, wives were wives and sometimes mothers and volunteers. We enjoyed quiet times of drawing and coloring and cutting construction paper.  We created entire circuses of Playdoh animals. Our gallery covered the walls of our kitchen, windowsills, tops of cabinets and changed with the seasons. I remember her carefully tucking the artwork into old dress boxes from Neustetters department store.

     Mom could sketch women's fashions. I know she had some formal training and one Christmas, I bought her a cabinet's fill of canvases, sketchbooks, paints, and brushes.  Sadly, she never used them and they were re-gifted to a girlfriend when I married.

My brother mailed me a box this past year and among the old photographs was a sketchbook from my grandmother.  Her landscapes are beautiful and chronicle her youth in the Wisconsin city of Green Bay.  The sketches of trees and river banks filled the pages.   I imagine the stillness beckoned her and she felt connected to her God there.  I did not know these qualities about her. I wish I had, my life could have been so much more enriched.  The few paintings I have finished are certainly a testament to these two women. Not so much the subject matter, but the fact that they are part of me and part of them.

     I still color outside the lines and view much of the world with skepticism. I rebel frequently and often find that I don't fit with the traditional point of view.  I am at an age where I am bold in my opinions and appearance.   The odd and unusual deserve more than a passing glance. Their purpose shouldn't be questioned, but rather appreciated. The giant anteater has a champion in me.

     I think of myself as a second- hand puzzle at the thrift store- waiting for a chance to go home. Although most likely there is a piece or two missing, my value is no less than an unopened one.

I have never been one to applaud the popular trends, change does not come easily to me. I feel unfinished.

     Perhaps this reincarnation is just now in its defining moments. Perhaps I am not my memories and my latent potential is finally within reach.  Perhaps all the crayons and neatly colored boxes are not the template of my life.

     What lies on the outside of the closed square is far more enticing to me.  Coloring over the line into the space of possibilities allows me freedom.  Freedom to be who I am.  I already knew this in kindergarten.  I believe it now.