I had drawn a picture of a female figure skater - short skirt, skate boots, mittens, sweater…she probably had a bun in her hair, though I don’t remember for sure. I’d recently discovered Charles Dana Gibson, and I thought big, poofy buns were the height of beauty for a woman. She also had boobs. Apparently, I wasn’t supposed to be drawing boobs. And apparently drawing boobs was considered by my fellow fourth-graders to be a punishable - or at least reportable - offense.
I have no memory past that shocked and angry outburst. I don’t remember anything being said by the teacher – and I’m sure that it was indeed reported to her, knowing some of the precociously sanctimonious shits I went to grade school with. But I can still hear that little brat’s voice in my head. I’m hearing it a lot nowadays. I wonder if she moved on to get a job with the Secret Service and is now one of the ones they send out to art galleries to “check into” displays that might be considered a threat to members of the current administration.
My political/social views are pretty strong, but I don’t intend to use this journal as a soapbox. However, I have a painting in mind that is somewhat political, and it’s a sad thing that this voice from my past comes into my ears more and more when I start thinking this painting through.
I like polar bears. I like drawing polar bears. I have a whole set of paintings in mind involving polar bears. There’s a polar bear family living in my brain. However, my polar bear family and I are not happy with certain plans being bandied about Washington right now. That unhappiness has turned into a painting idea. I love the idea. If I ever get time to paint it, I know I’m going to love the painting. But, I wonder what it might bring to my door when it finally sees the light of day.
That’s a sad, sad thing.
(However, I am reminded again that “boobs” is a fun word.)
