Earliest Art Memories

Certain experiences with art from my childhood stand out in my memory. When I was in second or third grade, I liked to draw horses, and I was pretty good at it for my age. I turned in a horse drawing with homework one day. The next day, the teacher called me up to her desk for a private conversation about that drawing.

“Who drew this picture?” she asked, somewhat sternly. I was confused, since my name was clearly written on the drawing. I hesitated and she asked again, "WHO drew this picture?" I finally answered "I did," stating the obvious, I thought. 

Now the teacher looked confused. She said, “You didn’t draw this whole horse.” I said, “Yes, I did.” She said, “Didn’t someone else help you with this part?” pointing to the hooves. 

It was beginning to dawn on me that she didn’t believe I could draw a horse like that. I was beginning to feel insulted. After all, everyone in the classroom asked ME to help THEM draw horses. “No,” I said, “I drew the whole thing.” 

She was beginning to look doubtful, but it was clear that she still didn’t believe that I could draw like that, so I offered to draw one for her right there. She finally said that it wasn’t necessary, so I guess she believed me. 

I’ll never forget that moment, when an adult asked me a question that had an obvious answer, when I was accused to not being the author of my own work. 

When I was in the 6th or 7th grade, I was given a series of individual art lessons. I don’t know how this came about, whether a teacher suggested to my mother that my talent be encouraged, or if Mom thought about it on her own, or how my parents afforded it, for that matter. At the end of the first lesson, the teacher told me to sit outside and draw my own house before the next lesson. 

Apparently, even then I didn’t like plein air painting. I thought to myself, “I know perfectly well what my house looks like. I don’t need to go sit outside and look at it in order to draw it!” So I drew a highly accurate rendering of the house we were living in at that time. 

When I showed it to the teacher, she seemed quite bemused and finally said, “You didn’t sit outside and look at your house, did you?” I was quite surprised that she knew that, but I admitted I hadn’t. “But it looks just like my house,” I insisted.

She smiled, chuckled, shook her head, and said, “I’m sure it does, but it shows it from an angle that no one but a bird or someone on a ladder could see. If you were sitting outside and looking at it, you wouldn’t see the entire roof like this, and the house would sort of go up like this.” She demonstrated. I immediately “got it.” I understood the concept of point-of-view and perspective, and I also understood that accuracy is not the only goal of art.

Another vivid memory is taking a class field trip to see a Vincent Van Gogh exhibit. When and where it was has grown dim in my memory. I went online a couple of years ago and found that there had been such an exhibit in about 1958 at the old Los Angeles County Museum of Art or at the Southwestern Museum, but I can’t find that information online today. That date doesn’t fit with what age I remember being or where I remember living. 

Whatever time or place it was, I will NEVER forget the first time I saw a genuine Vincent Van Gogh painting! “Wowee,” I thought, not yet knowing the term “blew my mind.” By that time, I was familiar with many of Van Gogh’s works via reproductions, and I learned that reproductions cannot possibly convey the energy, beauty, and vivid colors of his art. I also remember thinking that I now understood why people liked looking at art, that it IS a worthwhile activity, that it’s worth it to go see the actual works. I was absolutely thrilled and exhilarated by that exhibit.

My fourth and final memory has to do with musical theater. We had an Uncle Bobby McColgin, who had been married for a few years to my father’s sister Ruth. He worked at Columbia records, and he occasionally grabbed a bunch of 33 1/3 rpm record albums  and mailed them to us. They were mostly out-of-date musicals, and my sister and I were always excited to get them. Our Mom liked to listen to them, too. I’m sure this is where my love of musical theater originated. 

When I was in high school, Bye Bye Birdie came to Los Angeles, with the original Broadway star, Dick Gautier, in the role of Birdie. Again, I don’t recall the venue. For some reason, Mom determined to take us to see it. We couldn’t afford it, and Dad would never “let” us go. He hated to drive downtown and he couldn’t drive us himself, so he would throw a fit if Mom tried to drive us. But Mom was determined and decided on our usual strategy -- we didn’t tell him and made up an elaborate story to cover our tracks.

After much excited anticipation, the big day of the matinee came. Mom drove my sister and me downtown, and we actually managed to get there alive. Poor Mom had to buy the cheapest tickets, and we were very high up and behind a pillar. We had to take turns peering around the pillar. But nothing got in the way of our enjoyment of the energetic singing and dancing and the bright colors of the show. When Dick Gautier did his sexy dance in that gold lame skin-tight outfit, Mom put her hands over her face and groaned. Then she tried to cover my sister’s eyes. It was too late for me, since mine were already popping out of my head. We all had a grand time and managed to get home safely without Dad finding out or getting mad at us. Seeing my first real musical is still a vivid memory. 

Now I’m remembering that when I was in the 4th or 5th grade, a girl I knew at school invited me to her house, and she wanted to play a record for me. It was “HMS Pinafore” and that was an ear-opening experience for me. I had no idea such things as musicals or operettas existed, and I absolutely LOVED this one. Another still vivid memory, and I’ll always be grateful to that little girl.