“Poverty was the greatest motivating factor in my life.” – Jimmy Dean
I tried to think up my own quote for living in poverty, but honestly, I did such a poor job of it that I decided to google “quotes about poverty” and found that Jimmy Dean quote. I honestly can’t think of a better assessment for why I’ve made the decisions in my life that I’ve made and how I’ve tried to live. In truth, poverty truly was the greatest motivating factor in my life. If it hadn’t been for poverty, I may not have developed into the artist that I am. Hell, I may not have picked up a pencil and placed it on paper at all, but for the fact that I needed an escape from the everyday shit show that was my life. It was either that or reading. And believe me, the public library was my best friend growing up, as well.
So, what did art mean to me while I was growing up? As I think back, I remember back to kindergarten. My favorite time of day was to do something, anything, that was artistic or crafty. There was always something for me. I mean, the scent of a new pink pearl eraser or a freshly sharpened No. 2 pencil. Those two things take me back to the times when I first set pencil to paper, and subsequently erased the marks I’d made. Because art really is about correction, just like writing is about editing. But that aside, I loved everything about art time. It was my escape from everything. And when it was over, the world came crashing back down. I didn’t have control over the situations that surrounded my life, but I did have control of being able to draw.
So, art, generally, gave me the ability to do something extraordinary. I know Bob Ross talks about practice, and others talk about repetition and doing things until you are so good at them that you’re an expert. But I also believe in the idea that some are born with particular gifts. Some are prone to athletics. I mean, I know I love basketball and football, and I could practice both of those sports until I was exhausted, but I’d never be that good. Sure, maybe good enough to play in high school, but to take it up to the level of college or professional? Nah, not so much. But art and music. Those two things seemed to be wired into me. I knew from the first time I understood what a pencil and paper could do that I could draw. And it was that knowledge that allowed me to escape where I was in life.
When I really get into my artwork. Not just from a forced, “I need to do this” kind of angle, but when I truly get into it. I lose myself. I lose concept of time, and where I’m at, and it simply becomes a part of me. Those are my favorite times. I can sit for hours in front of my easel painting, and my body doesn’t tire. My eyes don’t lose focus. And every mark and every brush stroke seem to line up exactly the way I intend. I think this must be how athletes who find themselves in the “zone” feel. They can’t miss a 15-foot jumper, or every single pass from the quarterback hits the wide receiver in stride. Or when a musician loses herself in the music and could perform for hours without being exhausted. I feel badly for people who are never able to experience this in some manner.
But the title of this post is “What Art Meant to Me Growing Up”. And the reality is, it was everything. Without art, I would never have had the experiences I’ve had. The highs and the lows. The love and the disappointment. Let me chat with you about some of those.
Kindergarten
There was something about the creation of that clown. It wasn’t anything special. I mean, among a kindergarten class of like five, I think my teacher, Miss Cindy, deemed it a solid second place. I think my friend Doug got first place. Of course, I blamed it on the fact that he was the teacher’s pet. Creating the clown, though. That was what I remember. The smell of the vinyl swatch from the big “catalog” book. The combination of greens and blues and how much fun it was to cut it with “grown up” scissors. Gluing it to the paper, and of course, coating the back of my hand with a thin layer of Elmer’s Glue so that it would make my skin look “old” when it dried. Then coloring the face in, adding the yarn for the hair, and a big fluff ball to the top of the clown’s hat. Every detail is so memorable to me. It was, quite literally, unadulterated fun. And I hated it when the art time ended. If I’d been able, I’d have done art all day, every day.
Second Grade
I hate to skip first grade, but honestly, I don’t even know if we did art in first grade. I remember snack break and those small half-pints of milk and tiny straws. I remember meeting my best friend for life, Tyron, for the very first time on the swings at recess, when we sat facing each other and laughed at every single cuss word we knew. For whatever reason, though, I don’t recall a lot of art in Mrs. Crow’s class. Perhaps that was because I left in the middle of the year to move to Ogden, Kansas, and changed over to Ogden Elementary. Ahh, yes, maybe there was some art, afterall. I think I remember we made a tracing of our whole body on butcher paper and got to color it in. And maybe even did two so that we could stuff tissue in it and staple the sides together to make some weird kind of full sized paper doll.
But Second grade. I remember second grade. And I remember, aside from getting second place in kindergarten in my class of five, that this was the first time that I understood the concept of competition. I won first place in a poster contest for traffic safety. I received a kite, and I think some free tickets to the Shrine Circus, along with getting my picture in the paper. I guess thank God that current juried shows give out money for prizes instead of kites. Although, kites are pretty cool.
Sixth Grade
Obviously, we’re skipping ahead. I’m sure I got to do some amazing projects with all of my teachers, but sixth grade was transitional for me. It’s when I truly began to believe I could be an artist. It was during my sixth grade year in Mrs. Williams’ class, that we were allowed to do an acrylic painting for a Mother’s Day gift. We were told to sift through magazine covers or old photos and find some suitable ideas to paint. I had chosen two. One was a white sparkly cross on a purple background and the other was an old grain mill scene. I ended up choosing the old mill scene based on the recommendation of a man who would later become somewhat of a surrogate father to me. Mr. Gary Pillard.
Art time was in the afternoon, after our third recess, and honestly, I couldn’t wait. I loved the scent of the paint, the feel of the brushes, and everything about it. It was during that time that I painted, learned, and for the first time, really felt like an artist. At the end of everything, by the time Mother’s Day was close at hand, Mr. Pillard came up to me and told me that I should enter my painting into the county fair. Until now, recognition had simply been my peers and maybe a teacher every now and then. Not that the opinion of 12 year old boys doesn’t matter, but frankly, it was more about, “can you draw boobs?” than any real affinity for creating art. So for me, this was big. I couldn’t wait for my mom to see it, and further, tell her and my dad that “the High School Art Teacher!” had told me I should enter it in the county fair!
And so I did. My dad, bless his heart, even made a frame for me out of oak. Sanded, mitered, and finished with polysomethingorother to give it a beautiful gloss. And I won first place. At the time, I had no idea that “the High School Art Teacher!” was also the judge of the artwork at the Marshall County Fair.
Seventh Grade
Remember how I said there were highs and lows? This is one of the lows, and it’s one of those things that could have derailed someone who was not only young and impressionable, but also incredibly insecure. I mean, in sixth grade, I was in that transitional state. It’s that time where boys really should shower, wear clean clothing, and just generally make sure their hygiene is passable. Mine wasn’t. Going into seventh grade wasn’t a lot different. I know, so many people say just because you’re poor doesn’t mean you can’t be clean. I get that, and they’re right. To be honest, I hadn’t really been taught that. I was told that too many showers or too many baths would dry out my skin, so just bathe once per week. Thankfully, in seventh grade, I also had PE, and at that time, when we had PE, we showered afterward.
Seventh grade was also the first time I knew I would get to spend an entire 9-weeks doing art for 1-hour per day. My excitement and anticipation was unending. However, I wasn’t scheduled to take art until the second 9-weeks. But I was so excited about working with “the High School Art Teacher!” Mr. Pillard. I hoped he would remember me from the time he came to visit us in 6th grade and had told me I should enter my painting into the county fair. In my boyish mind, I knew I’d be his star pupil. I’d garner his praise, and he would mentor me into future art greatness. I also knew I wanted to do a drawing. Something that would be really cool and show my skills and hopefully impress “the High School Art Teacher!”. So I sat down one evening with a copy of the local paper, which featured a Friday night football article and accompanying photo. I drew the photo. Sometimes my paper overlapped the newspaper, sometimes not, and I never considered that my pencil marks would pull ink from the newspaper onto the back of my drawing. In the end, I had a drawing of which I was fairly proud.
Much like Ralphie Parker in “A Christmas Story” and his for sure “A” essay about his Red Ryder BB Gun, I had my art in hand, ready to present it at the opportune moment, waiting to bask in the glory of the accolades I knew I’d receive from “the High School Art Teacher!” Mr. Pillard. I just knew he would be thrilled to have an up and coming student who would change the art world at Marysville Junior High School. So I gave my drawing to a friend who I knew was in that 9-weeks of art. I was desperate for an opinion. Excited, full of expectation of being “the next great artist” of Marysville.
When I saw my friend during passing period after his art class, I walked up to him, confident of my success and asked, “So… what’d he say?”
He looked at me, an expression of contempt etched across his face. “He said you traced it.”
Obviously, I hadn’t heard him right. I smiled and laughed. “What?”
He shook his head, “He said you traced it. There was newspaper ink on the back of your drawing from the photo.”
I shook my head, “I didn’t trace it. What the hell? I drew it free hand.”
“Yeah you traced it, Mr. Pillard said you did.”
“No, I didn’t. Where’s my drawing?” I asked.
“I threw it away. You traced it.”
My heart dropped and in that moment, I felt lower than I’d ever felt in my life. And despite the fact that I was only twelve, I’d had some pretty low times up to that point. Shit happens when you grow up poor.
And for that semester, because of that one comment. I was a pariah. Everyone in that class “knew” that I had traced that drawing. Like most hot gossip, the word spread throughout the seventh graders that I was a fraud. That I had traced a drawing and tried to pawn it off as my own work. And I was devastated. Everything within me wanted to simply curl up and go to sleep and simply never wake up. I told my mom and dad. Dad brushed it off and I think said something about getting tough skin. But my mom simply told me to prove him wrong.
And so, when my 9-weeks came around, I did just that. I drew more and better than I had in my entire life and I cemented my place within “the High School Art Teacher!”’s heart. And that was life changing.
To my knowledge, Mr. Pillard doesn’t remember this event. And I’m okay with that. He changed my life for the better, and for that, I accept the pain and the anger that I felt when I had been wrongly accused. Because in the end, it forced me to be a better artist.
Time moved forward as it does, and I developed as an artist. I learned to paint in acrylics and oils. I began to understand ceramics, and batik, and other techniques that just seemed… right. I loved art.
Unfortunately, during my freshman year, I experienced another down… but it was of my own doing. I’d been accepted to the “Gold Show” at KU, however, the week prior to the show, I was caught cheating on a Physics exam. Mr. Pillard had a no cheating policy, and because of that, myself and my work never went to Lawrence. Lesson learned… you work to get ahead… you don’t cheat.
During my sophomore year, I painted a painting that, again, Mr. Pillard told me I should enter into the county fair. I won grand champion for it. And that was the year that I found out he was the judge. It was a good painting, but was it the grand champion? Or was it a nod to the fact that I had gone from the boy who he thought had traced a picture, to the artist who was finding his own way in the art world? I don’t know and I’ve never asked.
In short, art has given me an outlet. A way to define myself. A way to find solitude and sometimes even happiness. It’s also a way to make money. From working for Mr. Pillard pugging clay to odd jobs of sign painting and art and graphic design. It is in my veins. It is my life. It’s what I know, and how my soul speaks. It’s my life. One day, and I’m okay with this day, it will likely be my passing. But I will have created and made art and left a mark on the world, even if it is simply a small paint stain on a sidewalk. So I will be happy. How could I ask for more?
-Neal