These ribbons were awarded to a couple of abstract paintings I entered in my high school art show when I was a junior or senior. I think the paintings are still around somewhere, because my mother saved them. I always felt as if my last name, rather than the art, might have snared those ribbons. (Assistant principal’s daughter…)
I liked art class, though, even the incident that resulted in a cracked tailbone. Sorry; shared that story once on my blog, and not only did a hapless former fellow student get “info stalked” and exposed in my comments, but it ended with lies being told about me. I took that entry private. The Internet can be treacherous.
I did a truly horrific painting of a bird that somehow got moved around with my stuff for years until I finally threw it away. I hope it’s long since decomposed in some landfill.
My favorite part of the three years of art I took was when the school got a kiln and we worked with clay. I didn’t make anything particularly noteworthy or innovative, but it was still fun. I made something for Lynne that she may or may not still have. My personal favorite was a blue ashtray that I made. I never used it as an ashtray–I usually kept it on my dresser to put my watch, rings, and other jewelry in before I went to bed at night. In the early 1990s, Mother lived with us for a time, and she did use it for an ashtray. She was washing it one day and broke it.
One time when I was at my brother’s place in Nevada, I spotted an ashtray that he made in high school on a table outside his house. My mother used it for years. She also used an ashtray Debby made until she stopped smoking just before she died. I think that may have been returned to Debby. And I remember a little yellow clay pot, but I don’t know which of them made it or who may have it now.
Of the clay pieces I made, I believe this little bottle is the only thing I have.
I remember you suffering through your broken tail-bone and a little (blue?) blowup doughnut you had to carry around. I also seem to recall some measure of indignant resentment you carried (along with your little pain-saver) at those who cruelly poked fun at your inflatable predicament. I did not realize the incident happened in art class. I’ve never thought of art as a contact sport.
It was a sort of rust colored donut. Along with my bruised behind I had to endure the slings and arrows of “Expecting a flood today?” etc. etc.
A certain someone pulled my chair out from under me in art class as I was sitting down. He was HORRIFIED later when he realized I’d been truly hurt, because he was only being a funny boy. I was never mad at him; just one of those dumb things that happen. You might ID him as #10 on the field and the court.
Jocks will be jocks, and I think you ID him again. I never had the opportunity to have an art class in h.s. — it was only for the kids that couldn’t pass the math and science classes. As if I ever used any of those math and science classes.
Jim S knows him–we are all old friends–but I didn’t ID him to the public unless you know the town, the high school, and the year. And I still don’t understand why anyone would feel compelled to discover those things and share them publicly.
Trust me, the person in question was way more than a stereotypical jock. He wasn’t being malicious–he was just being a kid.
It’s too bad art had that function/reputation in your high school. I think art, music, and theater classes can literally save young lives. My art teacher was cool. Her daughter sometimes reads here, too; we’re also old friends.
I have a very sad Art class story but I am using it for Emily …
That’s probably a good plan. I’ve just been giving this shit away all year. No wonder I have nothing left for fiction. (I’m kidding. My fiction is FICTION.)