“Painting is a physical tribute, honoring the gifts that surround you and the life you’ve been given. Art permits you to step out of the labyrinth and into your own private joy.” Robert Genn
When I was in the second grade my teacher, Mrs. Potts, drew the picture of a beautiful clown. He had large blue buttons and a bright red ruffle, and a pointed hat with a blue ball at the top. His face was white with big red lips and cheeks, and dark circles painted around his eyes.
When Mrs. Potts finished the drawing, she hung her masterpiece in front of the class so we could draw one just like it. I tried very hard to make the circles that seemed so easy to Mrs. Potts. But when I finished a squished, cramped creature stared back at me from the page looking nothing like it was supposed to.
The day the teacher drew the clown I thought, “This time I’m going to get approval for “my art,” and in the confusion when everyone was leaving school for the day I stole Mrs. Potts picture.
I took the drawing home and showed it to Mom and said, “Look at my clown.” Mom’s mouth opened in surprise and delight. “Oh, Cindy, did you draw this?” she asked with reverence and awe.
I nodded my head, “Yes,” without saying it. (Was that a lie?)
I was, at last, the talented daughter she expected.
Mom was thrilled with my clown. She went right out and bought a frame and put the picture on my wall.
At school the next day the first words out of the teachers mouth was, “Who stole the clown?” No one said a word in the anxious silence. Every day for two weeks the teacher asked, “Who stole the clown?” At recess kids would ask, “I didn’t steal the clown did you?” Everyone wondered who had taken it.
I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t tell my mother who had gotten such pleasure from my lie, and I couldn’t bring my classmates home anymore because they would see the clown on my wall. It seemed as though my torment would never end. I used to lie in bed starring at it, wondering how I could accidentally knock it to the ground and set it on fire.
I was grateful when, two years later we moved. I could, at last, bring a friend home to play.
Here I am, 56 years later, living in Ojai, making a living from my paintings, which I sell in art shows, online and on greeting cards. When I first began to paint I drew with a permanent marker. I forced myself to use my mistakes of perception, or a careless line. Nothing mattered more to me, than telling the truth.
