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When I Knew I was an Artist
In a world where there is considerable emphasis on how to learn the skills to get rich fast, it is worth stopping for a minute and learning about what it is that an artist does to make art. it is not a recipe for success in the market, but it is a way of life that guarantees a degree of satisfaction that is priceless. Kay Smith, Artist of the American Scene was born in Vandalia, Illinois in a small rural community where she attended a one room schoolhouse. This is her description of how she became an artist. I was four years old or maybe five wearing a polka dot dress my mother had made for me and in a schoolroom for the first time as a visitor. It was a day non school kids came to the one room school house and experienced a school day meant to prepare us a bit for first grade. As the day wore on I became restless, I imagine from unaccustomed confinement. The teacher gave me a box of Crayolas and paper to keep me seated a little longer and cautioned me to be quiet. I heard her and that did not seem a bad thing for her to tell me. I happily I drew a giraffe. The giraffe wasn’t right – it needed something else. I decided polka dots would be good and set about energetically producing polka dots in profusion by powerful downward jabs with the crayons. Black ones, blue ones and there I was stopped. The teacher said I must be quiet–I was making too much noise. This was a big surprise as I thought I was quietly minding my own business. I was not talking out loud or whispering. I was coloring. I sat there looking at my giraffe. It seemed to beg for yellow dots. I felt very unsettled. I continued to stare at the drawing that I could not finish because it was too noisy. This profoundly puzzled me – but it opened a thought. My drawing and my hand were connected just as sure as the colors were connected to the crayons. It was a primitive realization of an individual (artist) recognizing his effort as art. I got it – that I was making art and it was mine. I sat there for a long time looking at the drawing and rolling the crayons back and forth under my hand. Perhaps I began to cry quietly, of course. I do not remember but I do remember very well the teacher came to me and asked if I was okay. I started to cry and said I wanted to go home. I didn’t like school. When Kay was in art school, many years later, she made another discovery. She describes it as follows: The one most astounding thing I learned in my first year at the School of the Art Institute was that I was not an artist and could not call myself an artist just because I was attending art school. One became an artist by work and virtue of his/her understanding of the process of making art. Then downright revelatory for me was – we were taught how to see – and once one learned how to see we were on our way to being an artist — and how well we learned how to see and evaluate and break a thing down into parts the better artist we would be. That seeing was wherein genius lay. Putting all this together I wrote my father that an artist was the eyes of society and I was learning how to see what others could not and bring those features into people lives as art. My father wrote back — ”secretarial school assures students of steady employment. Why can’t you see that?”
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