Hey guys. Yes, I totally missed Thursday, and yes, there was a sort of semi-reason behind that. The first reason is because I went to see STAR WAAAAAAARS! End of subject.
The second reason is that I forgot.
In my defense, art class is trying to kill me. No joke. But before we go on, I need one of you to explain something to me:
What is this?
And WHY did I have to paint it?
While kindergartners are off at the playground, happily painting their little trees, and first-graders are staring into their gerbil cages, painting… Well, let’s be honest, the first-graders are probably painting poop, and feeling monstrously pleased with themselves for it. BUT THE POINT IS, at least they’re painting SOMETHING.
What am I painting, you may ask?
Frankly, I’d rather paint poop.
Anyway, this month in art class, we’re studying the strange subject of modern art—AKA, the kind of art that was literally only created so that people with no talent can still feel good about themselves. (No offense to anyone who appreciates this kind of stuff.) Now, I know some of these guys are considered masters (*cough* Paul Klee), and I don’t want to criticize the masters, but…
I’m totally criticizing the masters.
THAT unholy abomination up there is NOT art. It’s a fraying volleyball that some kid drew graffiti eyes on with a red magic marker.
I’d be lying if I denied that some small part of my snowflake soul felt slightly ruffled when my art teacher announced that we would be painting frayed volleyballs. I’m an ARTIST, for pity sake. I want to paint a masterpiece, not… not this.
Not that I couldn’t paint it, because at the time, I believed I could paint anything. But frankly, I didn’t want to paint it. Who would? So I stuck my little artistic nose in the air and grumbled under my breath. Because THAT, my friends, is NOT art.
And I OBVIOUSLY know.
We’d been doing this kind of thing for a while, taking Klee’s artwork and replicating it, but last Monday, our teacher informed us that we would now be making up our own modern art. And I was like, pffffft, no biggie. Slap some paint on a canvas and claim that it invokes “depth”, and you’ve got modern art. I was still very insulted that she wouldn’t let me paint Isengard or Smaug or some other such thing that I had deemed worthy of my artistic prowess, but hey, I wasn’t about to let that get in the way of stunning the masses with my newfound talent for modern art.
I went around, looking at some of my classmate’s paintings, and while I wouldn’t go so far as to say modern art looked any better on them than it did on Klee, there was some kinda cool stuff. And I was like, pfffffffffffffft, I can do better than that. Watch the master, folks.
I sat down, cracked my knuckles, and began.
(Now look, I know this narrative is painting me (HA, pun intended) as an INCREDIBLY narcissistic, arrogant person, but really, that’s not the case. I don’t actively go around thinking I’m better than everyone else. But SOMETIMES, when you’re stuck in a class of sixteen people, only a few of whom actually want to be there, and you’ve just completed a masterpiece of Arwen, and the teacher hands you a painting that looks like five-year-old scribbles and says it’s a thousand-dollar work of art, SOMETIMES your head gets the best of you. Such was the case with… someone.)
Half an hour into it, the strangest thing happened. It was so strange, it took me a while to process it. Even now, I’m having a hard time comprehending. As I sat there, painting studiously, I realized a groundbreaking realization:
I cannot do modern art.
Shocking, I know.
While the three other girls at my table had cool inverted trees and these splashy rainbow things, I had…
Yes, the white lumps are glue.
I have devised a helpful chart so that you can better understand what everything represents.
Please appreciate how embarrassing this was.
And still is.
My art teacher went around our table, scrutinizing everyone’s work and offering comments such as, “Wow, Abby, that’s beautiful,” or “Very nice, Jillian. Lovely shade of green,” or, “Zoe, you have very cool composition here.”
There are only four people sitting at my table. It was very obvious that she skipped me.
I would have skipped me too.
So I went home, where the balm of familial affection washes away the sting of failure and shame, and showed my pathetic picture to my family.
Anna fell off her chair laughing.
Mom said, “Oh. Uh… Well!”
(And then later, when she was reading over this blog post, proceeded to cackle insanely and go, “What in the world? This is the worst lookin’ thing…”)
Dad politely suggested I name it “Humility”.
I have done so.
Moral of the Story: Don’t try modern art. Your faith in your artistic talents will be sorely shaken.
PS. I bet you ten bucks my mother will comment something about bigheads. Just watch.