As I sit on the short, hard bench, my back hunched as a press my elbows into my knee caps, I stare ahead of me trying to grasp something. A big white canvas only marred with a child-like black and red scribble stares back at me. Unappreciative thoughts start to fly through my head,
” How did this get here? Couldn’t anyone have made this? Is this even art?”
I push those thoughts out of my head and stare harder at the canvas. Every lesson I write I encourage my students to think critically about artists and writers decisions. Everything is purposeful, so this piece must be too. My sculpture teachers voice floats into my head,
“Modern art is art and it is all created with intention, look past what seems easy to discover the why”
I take a deep breath and look again. I see anger, child-like impulse, I see yelling I hate you at your parents over something small when you really don’t mean it, I see unfiltered rage. I see the meaning of this piece as I interpret it.
I stand up and begin to walk away still tussling with these themes in my head, I smile because an artwork I almost didn’t give the time of day made me feel.