Streaming Thoughts on Art

Streaming Thoughts on Art

When I was six, fine art meant anything from first grade art class that made it onto the fridge, or got an A+ grade, something which was basically handed out. You could draw a tree with stick figure people, ‘V’ shaped birds, and there was an A and a fridge worthy drawing. And then art class turned from drawing to pottery, or so they called the clay bowls we made, mixing colors together to make ‘marble’ colors for mom’s kitchen, where the palm sized bowl still holds odds and ends. And there was painting, where smocks of dad’s old shirts were a requirement.
But then, everything changed. The always A work became B; with a try harder note. The stick figure people needed clothing, emotions, and real bodies. The birds needed feathers and bodies. The trees needed leaves. You’re A+ palm sized bowl became a C and ‘bigger next time.’ The marble colors became ‘one color only, please.’ Less work became fridge worthy and A+ ‘Great Work’ and your sloppy name; instead, magnets holding nothing.
I learned that ‘Great Work’ was never really true, and, as years passed, they became less predominant. That jump from first to second grade and beyond made art less fun. My most complex bird is still that ‘V’ in the distance, houses still uneven.
Today, I refuse to take art. I color out of the lines; I make a mess when I paint, still in dad’s old shirts; I draw stick figure people and V birds, but now, never for a grade. For friends instead, to brighten their day with a left-handed, childish, sloppy, uneven house, cloud like tree, stick figure friends, and intentionally misspelled ‘Feel Better’ (Feel Betur) or Happy Birthday (Hapee Birfday). That jump from childhood art many people make to ‘quality’ art never was something I took; and I intend to keep my childish fridge-worthy fine art, ‘V’ shaped birds and all.
Fine art means something different now then it did years ago. Rather than grades or comments, applause grades me. Not one person, many. Fine art is nine months of learning and practice, an hour a week, maybe less. My sport, because yes, my art is also my sport; my sport is practiced only once a week, school weeks only, to have one chance, just one presentation. My art can’t be redone if I don’t like it. Think about that. Think of the time painting and writing is given. Think of my time, less than two days worth of time for me. At least a month for painting, two for writing. My art is counted in hours of practice, not days of work; a single mistake-less performance, graded by applause. And some people say dance isn’t an art.

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soon to be a Calliope Submission, any comments on it?