Of the memories I most cherish, one is of a time when my daughter was having her first lesson in painting, in art. We were at a friend’s house, she was just 7, canvas, tripod, the whole 9 yards. She had been inclined to the arts since she was 2 or so. Not like every child is naturally curious and learning through art, but considerably art-oriented. There had been an episode when she was about 3 where she had become frustrated at not being able to draw things accurately, and I had explained to her that everything worth doing took practice, that it took time and dedication to get good at anything. I brought a couple of personal examples into play, asking her if she thought I was OK at this or that (for context, nothing more, and what perspective does a 3 year-old have, right?). And she had understood. I have always tried to reason with her; she has always been a reasonable person, my baby daughter, my child.
My friend, the master, expounded and demonstrated on points of view and sources of light, and how these came into play in art. She was trying her hardest, and it wasn’t coming out like she had imagined it would. Her frustration eventually led to a tantrum. I have learned since before then that my immediate reaction to her tantrums -based on what kind of tantrum – is either to let her vent on her own while remaining nearby, or to pick her up, hold her close, and let her vent while feeling that I am there for her. This time, the tantrum required the latter, and so I lifted her into my arms, held her head over my left shoulder as she cried her frustration out, and I agreed with her that, yeah, it was difficult to do this, and yeah, it was difficult to put into any medium what we see in our mind’s eye… but I also reminded her that it didn’t matter if it didn’t come out perfect or even close to what she wanted, and that I would be proud of her and love her no matter what. Again, I reminded her that this sort of thing would probably look bad for the first few if not many attempts, and I promised her I would try to paint along with her, so she could see just how good she was. The idea cheered her up and she chuckled heartily – a sound I can recall like a recording at will in my mind, a laughter that could only come after crying a certain way.
You know how parents sometimes take it easy with their kids in competitive situations? Yeah, that wasn’t it. I genuinely suck at painting and drawing; couldn’t draw a stick figure faithfully if my life depended on it. The result? Dad’s dumb old self is wasting canvas and paint on attempting a wolf, as that’s my daughter’s choice of subject, while she increasingly paints better and better before my eyes. To wit, the art in this piece is the painting that resulted from the session.
She painted that. The moment she let loose. The moment that she stopped caring about any expectations, her own included, she simply gave herself to it, and she created this.
My favorite memory, bittersweet as it is because it involved her crying, is holding her, going to her aid when she was breaking down and just being there to help her stand back up on her own two legs and her own wonderfully strong soul.
But if you you ask anyone, they might look at the result: the painting. It is an impressing piece of work, and when people realize it was painted by a child, it becomes even more noteworthy. The painting is owned by one of her grandmothers, and that’s good and well. I cared not for the result in any covetous way, and where it ends up, while my daughter lives, is of no meaning to me. What I own is what is truly wonderful: the memory of holding her – every human sense involved – and knowing that the little person that she is now, growing ever-taller, ever-stronger, and ever-wiser, has that strength in part because I was granted the vision to see the moments key to build that up. The raw material was there, as it is with any child, and I was happy to help that plant grow into the mighty tree-in-making that currently reaches up to the sky.