The Blossoming Art Critic

I am not an artistic person, which I discussed a while back in a post. My ability to create is limited to ‘messes’ and ‘grilled cheese.’

I just don’t have it in me. My muse never materialized, and my hands are more comfortable gripping a firearm or a fishing pole than a pencil or paintbrush. In grade school, when the rest of my classmates had graduated to clay or other more advanced mediums, I was still struggling with the concept that the crayons did not in fact taste like fruits of their corresponding colors.

Even the simple act of writing takes a toll on me. If you had any idea of how many times I have to go back over each one of these posts and remove redundancies, spelling errors, excessive commas, and redundancies, you’d be alarmed…especially considering that so many still make their way into the final product.

Moving on…

It appears that The Narrator has inherited my artistic sensibilities. In spite of my no longer being gainfully employed, I cobbled together the funds necessary for he and I to make our annual trip to a Monster Truck show that comes to our area every summer. I took him for the first time two years ago when I got out of the police academy. After six months of spending very little time with him, this seemed like the perfect opportunity to get out, just he and I- for a few hours. He enjoyed himself so much we went back last year, and as soon as summer rolled around again this year, he asked if we were going.

On the way up, we drove through a small town that had an art gallery. Outside of it was someone’s sculpture- a large piece of twisted metal, painted a uniform orange, and bearing no semblance to anything that I could recognize or associate it with.

It did not escape The Narrator’s eye.

“Daddy? What’s that?”
“That’s a sculpture. Someone made it, it’s art.”
“Art?” – At this moment, I know his mind is going back to his Kindergarten art class with glue, macaroni, and construction paper.
“Yeah. People make art out of all kinds of things. The artist here used metal, and it means something special to them.”
“Oh. Well, it looks like a pile of junk to me.”
Maybe sports will be his thing.

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3 thoughts on “The Blossoming Art Critic

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