When
I was twelve years old I joined my mother at Drew University in Madison, New Jersey where she was taking a three-day workshop for Sunday school
teachers. She took me to the college bookstore and told me I could pick
out a book. This was to be my very first book I would purchase at a
bookstore! Wow! Double Wow! I scanned the bookshelves and saw a series of small books on
various types of art. I chose a book with the above cove that fascinated me on
two counts. First, the picture: the combination of colors and shapes:
all perfect geometry - orange circles, black half circles, purple and
cream rectangles, large dark green squares and a black square in the
middle. Second, the type of art: Abstract Art. The world "abstract" resonated with me, a word starting with that bold A and having such an
otherworldly sound, a word with an A matching the A in art.
When I
returned to my dormitory I turned the pages fascinated by all the paintings. I didn't bother reading any of the
commentary. The next day I played sick so I wouldn't have to go to the
church classes. I remained in my room with paper and crayons doing my
best copying the art in the book.
At the end of the day, when one
of the Sunday school teachers returned to the dormitory, I proudly (and perhaps somewhat roguishly) showed her my drawing and my book. I could detect she was outraged. She promptly belittled my efforts:
"You don't have this black spot in the right place!" "That circle is so crooked!" Your colors don't
match what's in the book at all." She was absolutely appalled I did what I did.
My
reaction to all of this was not to be upset, but to be pleased. I
enjoyed being transported to this special, different world of art. And
how this world could trigger such a violent emotional response in an
adult.
Now, in retrospect, I can only smile at the encounter - a
boy's entering into the world of abstract art and communicating his love
to a Sunday school teacher. Now wonder she was so mad! And,
predictably, she countered with all the judgment and outrage she as
spokeswoman for the conventional and average and mundane could muster.
A few years ago I took the artwork on
the cover, a painting by the French artist Auguste Herbin, and made an
enlarged copy that I have hanging on a wall in my den. Now, sixty years
later, abstract art still resonates with me and I still love this little
book that I keep on my bookshelf.
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