“From what I’ve been told this is a mother/child art group ranging from six months to two years old?” Carmen asked.
“Yes,” the instructor said, “We use edible finger paints and a variety of paper types to allow our young participants to explore the textures and colors of art.”
“And what do the mothers usually do?” Carmen asked.
One mother laughed and said, “We manage the chaos.”
Carmen waved a few young people from the doorway. “I hope you’ll accept some assistance in that role today, because I’d really like everyone to be engaged.”
A handful of male and female college aged “assistants” came to stand at the table with the mothers. Each one had a wooden easel box full of everything from oil paints and brushes to art sticks and charcoal pencils. “Please accept these art supplies as a gift from me to you. Inside your box you will find a variety of tools you could use to perform the task I will set for you. Keep it simple. You’ll have about an hour to complete your project. Before we can truly teach art to our children, we must experience it ourselves.”
Six easels were set up with a blank canvas just a foot or so behind each child.
Jake’s smile faltered when one student handed him a box of art supplies. “No, thank you,” he said.
Lil smiled over her shoulder at Jake. “You’re not getting off the hook that easily. If I’m doing this, so are you.”
Jake inspected the contents of the box doubtfully. He set his easel directly beside Lil’s.
Carmen said, “I didn’t study art formally so this may be an atypical lesson for some of you. Today is not about learning a specific technique but will hopefully be interesting to you regardless of your various abilities. Today we will explore your artistic voice.”
As she spoke, the instructor handed out multiple baby jars filled with brightly colored paint to the college students who opened them and began to work with the infants.
“I brought three pictures with me today that I feel represent my voice. My style and my art have been called many things: Mexican, Latino, Tejano, Chicano, Tex-Mex, Mexican-American, contemporary, modern, woman-centered, figurative, and representational.” Carmen smiled. “I suppose my work is some or all of these things. Basically, it is just what my heart and mind dream up. I am my art and my art is me. I am passionate about color and fascinated by Mexico.” She pointed to one of the easels. “The first painting is called Listening to My Own Counsel. When we reach a difficult crossroad, we sometimes go looking for answers outside ourselves. The answers are almost always within us. The four black birds represent the voices and advice of others. The woman turns her gaze and ears inward, beneath her blanket . The blue feather represents traditional wisdom. Symbolism is one way to express yourself in your art. The second painting is called Manitas.” She lovingly laid a hand on the top of the second painting. “Manita is short for hermanita or little sister in Spanish. This is how we fondly refer to our sisters and girlfriends. I portray two women, sisters, back to back and on the lookout for each other. I symbolize their tight unity and entangled love by weaving their hair into one thick braid, which runs down the center of the painting.” She moved to stand beside the last easel. “The third and final work is called Esperanza. It is a pencil drawing and one of my earliest works. It is my interpretation of a handful of stories passed down through the generations, from my great-grandmother, to my grand-mother, to my mother and lastly to me.” Carmen’s expression creased with sorrow as if she were experiencing the pain depicted in the artwork. “This story is of the hardships the people endured during the war, particularly the women. Wives often accompanied their husbands to war to carry ammunition, cook, wash, and tend to the injured. Nursing infants and those born on the battlefields became part of those camps. At night time, when enemy troops were near it was imperative for the survival of all that the hungry babies be kept quiet. When breasts ran dry, desperate mothers stuck stones, clods of dirt and even bullets in the wailing child’s mouth. Some inconsolable babies had to be smothered. The magnitude of this tale imprinted on my mind as a child and I tell it in this pencil drawing.”
A couple of the women teared up at the description of the last image. One woman said with disgust, “I would never hurt my child, no matter what.”
Carmen shook her head sadly. “If you can say that, you have never seen war up close. And before you judge, ask yourself-are we so different from our ancestors?” She looked each woman proudly in the eye, holding their attention and pulling at their emotions. “We still give our children to war every day when we send our young men and women into battle on foreign soils. Are our older sons and daughters less precious than our infants? Is that loss any less heart-wrenching than the one in my story?” She took a deep breath, regaining the calm with which she had entered the room. “Still, embrace the reaction you felt to my story. Express it on canvas today. Art is not about everyone having the same vision or shared history-it’s about finding your message, your voice, and exposing it to the world. So, no matter what anyone draws today, accept it because it is an intimate look into their souls and therefore should be honored as such.”
“Damn,” Jake whispered to Lil. “Now I can’t draw stick figures.”
Lil wiped a rogue tear from her cheek and smiled at him. “You could if your soul is full of sticks.”
“What if I draw you naked?” His words tickled her ear.
Lil wagged a finger at him. “Try it and you invite serious payback.”
Carmen smiled and said, “Enough chatter. Choose your tools. Take a moment to look inside yourself instead of at the blank canvass. When you are ready, put a piece of yourself onto the canvas. Tell your story.”
The room was charged with emotion. Even the babies seemed to sense that something important was happening and were subdued as they dunked their fingers into the edible paints and mixed colors onto the papers before them.
Lil chose colorful art sticks.
Jake chose black charcoal pencils.
Lil dove into drawing with bold lines and bright colors.
Jake’s moves were more precise and calculated. He drew himself on top of a mountain surrounded by several doors. Behind each door was a path that led to a different destination. One led to a cliff. One led to a place of order and straight, bold lines. Another led to a much less clear picture. Jake reached over and borrowed a few of Lil’s art sticks even though he could have easily used his own. He drew a simple woman with a child and surrounded both with a wild assortment of colors. It was the only place where color touched his sketch.
He caught Lil watching with fascination and actually blushed. “That’s how you make me feel,” he said simply.
Lil almost knocked over her box of supplies, catching it at the last second. She looked at her own sketch and wondered what he thought of the fact that she hadn’t included him in it at all. She had drawn herself, serious and determined, looking miserable with Colby clutched in her arms while she chased Abby. She wasn’t even entirely sure what the scene meant, only that it had poured out of her and now stared back at her, revealing something she wasn’t sure she wanted to discuss with Jake.
Jake studied her sketch for a moment and said, “Don’t take an office job, Lil.”
She searched his face.
“You’re already the mother Colby needs.”
Lil looked quickly at her child, who was licking the green paint off one finger, then back to Jake. “I’m not, Jake. I haven’t been the person I need to be, but I am changing that.” She thought about how part of becoming a better person had involved killing any chance that something real could develop between them. Forgetting, even for a moment, that her friends were using this time to access Jake’s private accounts would only lead to more heartache. She had to remember that none of this was real.“The older I get the more I wonder if anyone has the answers or if, like me, they are just doing the best they can and praying every day that it’s enough.”