Flickr cc Lauren Manning
Once there was a little girl. A creative little girl.
She sketched foreign alien planets with deep craters and rocket ships made out of pencils blasting into space. She created clown costumes out of cardboard, construction paper, doilies, and oodles of scotch tape. She molded fantasy and sci-fic inspired creatures based on the pictures in her head. She created a treasure chest out of aluminum foil, over-sized beads, and glue. She drew raw, sometimes grisly pictures advocating the fight against poverty. She danced, carefully, to a record while imagining she was a princess in a far away land.
Once there was a little girl. A confident little girl.
Her paintings and sketches were likely never destined to hang in a great art gallery, but that didn’t bother her. Her work was creative, original, beautiful and she knew it. Her biggest concern, when it came to her artistic endeavors, was that her little brother would “copy” her. Her art wasn’t done for praises; she never had a chance of winning a drawing contest because she always submitted her second-best piece; why would she part with her best one?
Once there was a little girl. A courageous little girl.
A little girl who wasn’t afraid to proudly showcase her artwork on her wall. A little girl who sang at the top of her lungs. A little girl who was thrilled to try something new, whether it was woodworking, oil pastels, or writing a character with a British accent. A little girl who could cut and glue and draw and tape without the fear of whether the end result would be “good enough.”
Once there was a little girl. A creative, confident, courageous little girl. And something horrible happened: she learned about artists.
She learned a terrible fun-killing word — artist. She learned that some people were “artists” — talented, special, gifted people whose “art” didn’t look anything like her play. She learned that grownups don’t play with color or imagine whimsical worlds or cut up construction paper for fun; not unless they were an artist.
Once there was a little girl. A creative, confident, courageous little girl. And something horrible happened: she grew up.
As she packed up her dollies and teddy bears, she also packed up her paints and her scissors. She packed up her sketch books and her glitter. She packed up her yarn and her Play-Doh. She packed up her markers and her costumes. But worst of all, she packed up her creativity, her confidence, her courage.
Once there was a now-grownup little girl. A self-conscious now-grownup little girl.
She no longer believed anyone would “copy” her; now she feared they’d judge her. She no longer called it play; now she called it art. She no longer wanted to try anything she could; now she limited herself to the few things she thought she was “actually good at.”
Once there was a now-grownup little girl. A nervous, curious now-grownup little girl.
She was introduced to a new type of play; at first she could only copy what other people had made because she was too scared she’d do it “wrong.” She practiced collaging; remembering, slowly, how fun an afternoon spent with scissors and glue could be.
She cautiously stepped out again; this time she tried something very scary. She practiced writing fiction; remembering, slowly, how fun it was to make up characters and whole other worlds.
She called it “entertainment,” but knew that, unlike entertainment, it made her feel whole. She called herself “not-an-artist,” because she felt she needed to differentiate herself from the “real artists.” She called it “therapeutic,” which is just a grownup word for a nice way to spend an evening. She called it “practice,” which is just a grownup word for play.
Once there was a now-grownup little girl. A creative, almost confident, closer-to-being courageous now-grownup little girl.
She’d forgotten so many things about color, fantasy, and play as she’d grownup, including the most important thing: it was fun. And remembering that, made all the difference.
Filed under: Poetry
