I still remember the birthday present I gave my father when I was six or seven years old. It was a drawing, made with crayons, of a man walking a dog on a leash. I don’t know if the man was meant to be my dad and I don’t know if the dog was supposed to be my little terrier, Zipper. Hard to tell with a stick-figure sort of drawing.
It was done on a piece of tan cardboard, perhaps from a discarded box, and I had then cut out strips of the same tan cardboard and glued them around the edges for a ‘frame.’ On the back I attached another piece of the same cardboard for an easel-type stand, making the picture suitable for display on our living room mantle.
I think the gift was well-received, though I don’t remember that part. I do know that my dad kept it for the rest of his life. I found it, after his death, in an accordion file with his other ‘important papers’ and keepsakes. In spite of being touched that he had saved the drawing, my overall reaction to seeing it took me back to the moment I had determined that it was completed and ready for framing. Disappointment.
It wasn’t the kind of disappointment that made me want to try again or to learn how to do a better job. It was the realization that this wasn’t where my talents lay – a heavy thought for a little girl, but there it was. On occasion, that thought was reinforced when we had an art lesson at school. I could never capture what I saw, much less how I felt.
On the other hand, my life has been greatly enriched by the many opportunities I’ve had to visit galleries and museums, to experience first-hand the masterpieces of the ages and, to count among my friends some of the finest photographers and painters of current times. I’ve been lucky that way.
All of these thoughts flashed through my head earlier this week as I watched my friend Noel Thomas sketch scenes during the fast-moving performance of “Klondike! The Great Alaskan Gold Rush” at Ocean Park School. Five of us were sitting in the back of the gym enjoying the show, but I was hard-pressed not to watch the magic exuding from Noel’s pencil instead of the actors in front of me. As always when I see him work, I was full of admiration.
And was there one other little feeling there? Ah, yes… perhaps a touch of pencil envy! After all, it hasn’t been easy going through life stuck in stick-figure mode.
Among my father’s many accomplishments were his drawing and painting ability. As an aeronautical engineer, his work tended to be very realistic when it wasn’t cartoons. I have one son who is a wonderful artist and art teacher and another who is a graphic designer. Unfortunately, although I love to draw, I figured out pretty early that the gene was turned off in my generation so I understand your pencil envy, although you HAVE employed your ample skills very, very well. I am glad that my boys got it and encouraged them from the time they could hold a pencil and last year our art teacher at school gave some of the staff lessons once per week, but I won’t quit my day job.