now: me, Meghan, and Mrs. Archer.
10
Everyone turns to look at us when we enter the art therapy room. Four kids our age and the therapist, all sitting around a long wooden table. One boy leans back, looking bored with us all, but I can see his leg moving like a jackhammer under the table. Another is short and stout, with more pimples than skin covering his sullen face. The girl closest to me is chewing her gum open-mouthed, the sound so loud it almost sounds like she’s talking. The other girl’s face is bowed so low that all I can see is the top of her head.
The only one who looks the least bit friendly is the therapist. She’s a tall, thin woman with long grey-black hair, dressed in the clothes of a working-artist: a T-shirt, paint-stained jeans, and sandals. She beams at us, then says, “Ah, good. There you are. Welcome. I’m Julie.” She motions toward Mrs. Archer. “And this is Eileen. She’ll be joining us every week and helping me out as a part of her training. I hope you’ll be nice to her. Now, if the two of you would take a seat, we’ll begin.”
I sit as far away from the others as I can, realizing even as I do it that it sets me apart, but I can’t seem to stop myself.Already I’m stiffening up inside, preparing for the isolation I’ve created—but then Meghan plops down in the chair beside me and I relax.
I take a deep breath and look around. The walls are the same ugly cream in here. And the supplies are so meager. All we have are large pieces of manila paper spread out on the table, along with jugs of crayons and big, flat paintbrushes with rough synthetic bristles that come off while you paint. Bottles of cheap tempera and cans of water sit in the center. Next to them are chunks of Styrofoam and wood, empty spools, cardboard tubes, glue, and wire. It’s like what you’d give to a bunch of kindergartners. I slump in my seat.
“I know some of you are artists,” Julie says, “and I’m sorry we don’t have anything better to use. My supplier went bankrupt and didn’t bother to tell me. I should have some better materials for you by next week.”
She looks around at all of us. “Some of you are probably nervous, wondering how this works. Let me tell you right now that no one’s art will be judged here—not by me and not by anyone else. The goal isn’t to create something artistically pleasing, but rather to express yourself. I don’t want you to think about how it looks. Instead, I want you to paint what you feel.”
I shift uneasily in my seat. She’s telling us the opposite of everything I’ve learned about technique. How a painting looks is what communicates the feeling. And aren’t we supposed to be expressing feelings?
Julie looks at me like she knows what I’m thinking, and I duck my head, avoiding her eyes.
“Any questions?” she asks.
“What are we supposed to draw?” the pimple-faced boy asks.
“Anything you like, Peter. It just has to come from inside you.”
“Gee, maybe I’ll draw my blood and guts,” Meghan mutters.
Giggles bubble up inside me, frothy and chaotic. I press my hand against my lips, holding back my laughter.
“If you’d like more direction, then draw how you see yourself right at this moment,” Julie says. “Eileen and I will be walking around the table to talk with each of you. Meanwhile, go ahead and get started.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. I don’t even know if I should be here. If he can get into my backpack without my seeing him, he can probably get hold of the art I do here. I’ll just have to make sure I don’t let stuff out in my artwork—make sure there’s nothing to show him what’s started coming back to me.
Meghan grabs one of the big brushes and starts spreading thick, dark streaks of blue over her paper. She doesn’t seem to care what her strokes will show. I pull out a crayon and roll it between my fingers. The scent of crisp paper and colored wax tugs at some sadness locked inside me.
I touch the
10
Everyone turns to look at us when we enter the art therapy room. Four kids our age and the therapist, all sitting around a long wooden table. One boy leans back, looking bored with us all, but I can see his leg moving like a jackhammer under the table. Another is short and stout, with more pimples than skin covering his sullen face. The girl closest to me is chewing her gum open-mouthed, the sound so loud it almost sounds like she’s talking. The other girl’s face is bowed so low that all I can see is the top of her head.
The only one who looks the least bit friendly is the therapist. She’s a tall, thin woman with long grey-black hair, dressed in the clothes of a working-artist: a T-shirt, paint-stained jeans, and sandals. She beams at us, then says, “Ah, good. There you are. Welcome. I’m Julie.” She motions toward Mrs. Archer. “And this is Eileen. She’ll be joining us every week and helping me out as a part of her training. I hope you’ll be nice to her. Now, if the two of you would take a seat, we’ll begin.”
I sit as far away from the others as I can, realizing even as I do it that it sets me apart, but I can’t seem to stop myself.Already I’m stiffening up inside, preparing for the isolation I’ve created—but then Meghan plops down in the chair beside me and I relax.
I take a deep breath and look around. The walls are the same ugly cream in here. And the supplies are so meager. All we have are large pieces of manila paper spread out on the table, along with jugs of crayons and big, flat paintbrushes with rough synthetic bristles that come off while you paint. Bottles of cheap tempera and cans of water sit in the center. Next to them are chunks of Styrofoam and wood, empty spools, cardboard tubes, glue, and wire. It’s like what you’d give to a bunch of kindergartners. I slump in my seat.
“I know some of you are artists,” Julie says, “and I’m sorry we don’t have anything better to use. My supplier went bankrupt and didn’t bother to tell me. I should have some better materials for you by next week.”
She looks around at all of us. “Some of you are probably nervous, wondering how this works. Let me tell you right now that no one’s art will be judged here—not by me and not by anyone else. The goal isn’t to create something artistically pleasing, but rather to express yourself. I don’t want you to think about how it looks. Instead, I want you to paint what you feel.”
I shift uneasily in my seat. She’s telling us the opposite of everything I’ve learned about technique. How a painting looks is what communicates the feeling. And aren’t we supposed to be expressing feelings?
Julie looks at me like she knows what I’m thinking, and I duck my head, avoiding her eyes.
“Any questions?” she asks.
“What are we supposed to draw?” the pimple-faced boy asks.
“Anything you like, Peter. It just has to come from inside you.”
“Gee, maybe I’ll draw my blood and guts,” Meghan mutters.
Giggles bubble up inside me, frothy and chaotic. I press my hand against my lips, holding back my laughter.
“If you’d like more direction, then draw how you see yourself right at this moment,” Julie says. “Eileen and I will be walking around the table to talk with each of you. Meanwhile, go ahead and get started.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. I don’t even know if I should be here. If he can get into my backpack without my seeing him, he can probably get hold of the art I do here. I’ll just have to make sure I don’t let stuff out in my artwork—make sure there’s nothing to show him what’s started coming back to me.
Meghan grabs one of the big brushes and starts spreading thick, dark streaks of blue over her paper. She doesn’t seem to care what her strokes will show. I pull out a crayon and roll it between my fingers. The scent of crisp paper and colored wax tugs at some sadness locked inside me.
I touch the
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