I am an art teacher at a local elementary school. The hours are grand, the pay is very pleasant, and the children are… well… there are children.
Each day, save for Tuesdays, I teach each grade for two hours. We learn about colors, animals, and the pitfalls of clear, logical directions in the presence of young children. It boggles the mind how many different interpretations there are for “First, draw a circle.”
It’s Monday, so I had the 1st graders. We learned about drawing portraits. I covered the many parts of the face, perspective, profile, and the fact that the only way you should draw a person’s brain in a portrait is if the person’s head is open.
I talked about the eyes, and how the eye ball rests inside the lids. Then, I showed how the eye brows curve down and inward toward the nose. When I asked what goes below the nose, a chubby, mischievous little Mexican boy stood up with his hand raised high. He yelled out proudly, “BOOGERS!”
After a rushing river of laughter from the class, and many other nonsensical answers to various questions of mine, we finally got to self portraits. I walked them through the drawing process as some sat diligently working. Others stood next to their chairs, leaning over their papers with markers clenched in their paws. Still others wandered over to the window, the sink, other children, a book shelf, all the while being redirected to their seats – only to wander again.
After laying out the step-by-step process, and walking the class through drawing their own likenesses, I saw a little girl on a side table starting to pout.
”What’s wrong Catherine?”
“Mine doesn’t look like yours at all!” She buried her head in her hands and started to make the childhood crying sound that resembles a Ferrari being floored.
I looked at her drawing and, after a second of total confusion, patted her on the head and said, “Kiddo, your self portrait is great, and if it looked like mine, you’d have to cut your hair and grow a beard.”
Before I could further console her, a bizarre feeling inched its way down the back of my arm. Again, total confusion paralysed me for a moment. Slowly, I realized this was how it felt to have the tip of a marker dragged down your skin.
As I write this, I still need to remember to wash off that long black line.
