Picasso

I wonder, is it inherent in all people to want to create? Does everyone start off in the world as little artists and are only dissuaded through proclamations of talent, when compared to another, in which we give up this inherent want? I always enjoyed drawing and coloring, but realized at a young age that any people who possessed eyes could see that art was not my talent to wield.

My circles always look like ovals, my lines are never straight, all animals come out looking like disfigured dogs and I swear I have no idea how I passed geometry as any shape I drew came out looking hexagonish...

So as I sat on the floor this morning drawing and coloring alongside my kids...a thought dawned on me. My kids don't care that my pumpkins look like upside down icecream cones, or that the bats look like mice with wings! All they care about is that mom is creating with them, and that I think every crooked line, and oval circle is wonderfully beautiful. They drew and colored to their hearts content, only stopping to hang a picture on our mahogony cupboards.

Edie and Gabe became so focused on their projects that they never noticed how intently I watched them. Their art speaks volumes. Gabe is so careful in life. He's cautious and slow and never ventures far from his regular comfort zone. He looks before he leaps, and is much like his mother in this regard. But his art allows him a freedom I have never seen come from him. His strokes are bold and courageous. He's quick to color outside the lines leaving streaks of rainbows across my tiled floor. He bravely proclaims that his pictures are of his family and always points out the eyes on our faces. It's the one thing he's meticulous about drawing...Almost as though he knows that eyes are the windows to the soul, like he knows that love can be found there.

Edie is Gabe's polar opposite. She's never cautious in life and will no doubt be the first of our brood to break a body part. She'll always run before she walks and will never look before she leaps. She trusts that this fine line she travels is only worth taking if she journey's to its farthest edge, always perilously balanced on a cliff that could spell disaster or wonderous adrenaline...Oh, but her art! She's slow and careful and every stroke is measured with intense concentration. Every dot, and every line is placed there with exact precision. She adds colors only when it suits her, and only the exact color she deems is worthy. If her brother switches markers with her mid creation, she will throw a fit and refuse to add more to her picture until the color she requires is back in her hands.

Maybe that's what true art is...discovering a piece of ourselves so imbedded in our psyches that it can't escape otherwise! Or maybe i'm over thinking this, and it's just a whole lot of fun!