Currently I’m reading the book Living the Creative Life: Ideas and Inspiration From Working Artists by Rice Freeman-Zachery which I actually got for Xmas this year but kinda put it on the shelf and forgot about it until the other day. What the book is, is discussions with “working artists” (including Violette, who my mom and I really dig) about various aspects of creativity and while I’m only on chapter 2, so far it’s actually been really inspirational and I highly recommend it.

Right now they’re talking about their creative childhoods, which has gotten me thinking about my own childhood and whether or not it was creative. After going outside and sitting in the sun about a billion times today, I’ve decided that yes, my childhood, while completely fucked up (if you’re a long time reader, you’ll agree), was incredibly creative but not in the ways you’d think coming from two parents (well, one & a half) who were both artists.

My mother always encouraged me to be creative and says to this day that she’s always seen art as my path in life. At the same time, for most of my childhood she had this marvelous art room that I wasn’t allowed to step foot in. She had hundreds of dollars worth of art supplies that I was never allowed to touch, especially her expensive paint brushes. She hoarded this stuff and I was threatened with the promise of broken fingers if I touched any of it.

Now, this isn’t to paint my mother in a negative light here, there was a reason I wasn’t allowed to touch any of it, just as Madison isn’t allowed to touch most of my art stuff: it was expensive and required for income. If I messed up a $20 paint brush, my mom didn’t have $20 to replace it, just as I don’t have $20 to replace any of mine. (Actually, I don’t have any $20 brushes because I cheap out and buy the student grade ones at Curry’s even though I’d prefer ones with plastic handles and natural bristles…but I digress.) But – and maybe this is part of being a creative child – I was a thief, which my mother will also attest to. When I was a kid, I was pretty much a total kleptomaniac and I’d creep into my mom’s art room after school and snip bits of ribbon or paper or buttons or wood pieces and hoard it all in my desk at school to use in art projects. I’m sure my mother knew, but she very rarely said a word.

Art class in school was almost always disappointing, in general, but sometimes we’d have these wonderful women come who were art consultants for the school board and artists themselves. The most notable and the one I liked the best, was Judith Tinkl who’s a quasi-famous textile artist from Uxbridge, Ontario and whose husband, Viktor Tinkl, is an amazing sculptor. Together they’ve created on their property one of the greatest art houses I’ve ever seen in my whole entire life and it bums me out that I haven’t been able to go see it in many years.

But back to my story…

These art consultants would come and teach us specific things, like working with clay (I made my mom a mug and I made my dad a dragon), embossing copper, which I loved and still do to this day (I made my dad a lion’s head), paper geishas and of course, papier mache everything. Because I was creative and inventive in my creations, my teachers pushed me to be even more creative and once I even won a scholarship to the region’s art camp but I wasn’t allowed to go for reasons I forget now. (I probably did something bad. :o/)

When I went to my grandmother’s on the weekends, I would make things out of stuff I’d stolen from the art supply closet at school – amethyst chips & magnetic tape come to mind – and sell them in her store, which I’m pretty sure I’ve written about recently.

My point is that the ONLY positive reinforcement I got as a child was in the realm of creativity and thus, I think it’s safe to say that yes, I had an incredibly creative childhood and that (combined with child abuse and mental illness) is probably why I can’t do anything else as an adult.

I know I’ve told this story before, but in grade 8 I went to a school in Port Perry, Ontario called S.A. Cawker and art was taught by THE BIGGEST DICK IN THE WORLD, MR. BYERS, who thankfully was not my homeroom teacher. One day he told us to create large papier mache pieces using chicken wire and to make our sculptures a play on words. Then he put us into groups and we were told to brainstorm ideas. As we all did this, he walked around the room, hovering over the groups and listening in to our ideas. He was hovering just as I suggested to our group that we do “embarrassed” and make a bear with red cheeks and a bare ass looking embarrassed (yeah I know, not the most creative idea but we were brainstorming!) and as soon as I finished explaining my vision, Mr. Byers, in front of the whole class started YELLING AT ME and he said that everything I do is socially unacceptable and that I’d never amount to anything as a result. Then he kicked me out of the class. Know what my group ended up making while I was in school SUSPENDED for putting forth an idea? A #1 with a hole in it and a golf club propped against it.

At the end of the year, right before graduation, my friend Heather and I stapled Mr. Byers’ coat to his coat rack about 500 times with a staple gun.YEAH MR. BYERS, THAT WAS US.

Anyway, it’s arguable whether or not I’ve amounted to anything, but Mr. Byers was an uncreative DICKHEAD who should never have told a kid something like that. Luckily, I’ve always been fairly rebellious and when  someone’s said “you can’t” my attitude has usually been “oh yes I fucking can” and who wants to be socially acceptable anyway? Not me.

So that’s what I’ve been thinking about this afternoon in between cleaning the bathroom, reading this book and watching the pilot of Glee (which I’m not sold on yet). Now I think I’m gonna go have lunch in the sun while it’s still warm enough to enjoy and continue reading.