by Alexis

Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up.

Pablo Picasso

In the third grade my teacher asked my class to illustrate the story of Creation. The one from the bible where God says “let there be light” and then he makes the entire universe in seven days. We were to draw the Garden of Eden. The way the world was before that darned Eve messed it all up.

At 8 years of age I reckoned I was quite the talented artist so I decided to spice up my interpretation. I had the lush trees filled with fruit and the cornucopia of species, but my animals were classier than the ones in biblical accounts. My mice drove drop top convertibles that filled up at tiny gas stations, the cats floated down the river on margarita filled rafts, and the monkeys donned cool sunglasses and peace signs.

When the final touches were complete I surveyed my masterpiece with great pride. Sometimes you just know you did a good job, and this was one of those times. Each animal was crafted with such detail that they almost seemed to come to life. And my use of color was pure unconventional genius! I was sure Miss Hammond would be more than impressed.

She wasn’t.

Her eyes squinted as she examined my work. Her lips pressed together. She began taking labored breaths which made her nostrils flare out.

“This is not the Garden of Eden.” She said. Her words were tight and thin. “The Garden of Eden did not have bears reclining on lawn chairs along a purple river. You will draw this assignment again. And this time, you will do it right.”

If I wasn’t eight years old at the time, I probably would have had much more to say to Miss Hammond. I would have dug in my heels and fought a good fight. I would have defended my creativity and my right to be wrong. I would have told her a thing or two about art. But as it was, I redid the project and this time, I coloured within the lines.

Years later I had the opportunity to facilitate an arts program at the Calgary Drop-In Centre. A new project spearheaded by my mother and the Wildrose United Church, the program was designed to give people living at the shelter a chance to find within them a creative voice that had been muted by life on the streets.

In the programs beginnings, my job was basically to supervise the clients and make sure the supplies were being handled with care. If they needed help with simple techniques like shading or mixing colours I would provide that too, but I quickly learnt that the best way to teach art was to sit back and watch it unfold.

In those first few months over the course of an afternoon, clients would come and go. Some of them were seasoned artists relieved to have a quiet space to practice their trade, but many hadn’t picked up a pastel or a piece of charcoal since grade school. And some had no memory of their last brush with creativity at all. When you are fighting to survive, self expression often takes its place in the backseat alongside things like hopes and dreams.

When I would ask some of them what brought them up to the art studio the response I became used to hearing was “I just wanted a break from the second floor.”

“Well, while you’re up here why don’t you grab a canvas and some paints” I’d say as I led them towards the art supplies.

“Ok, but I’m not a very creative person.” So many would reply.

And as I would watch their white canvases slowly fill up with images and colour, I began to learn that there is no such thing. We all have that spark in us, waiting to be set free.

Every child is an artist…

As their paintbrushes would swirl across the linen surfaces for an instant I could see them; Children again, exploring the world as if for the first time. They would tell me stories about the images they were creating, the past, the part of themselves they were drawing it from. Some of their paintings were childlike in their simplicity and hopefulness, others dark and ominous and laced with pain. All beautiful in their own right.

As the months went on artists continued to come up to the sixth floor, bringing new mediums like beading, and carving and collage. Each new face, new spark breathed new life into the space. Musicians began to come too, and what was once the serenade of public radio became live Spanish guitar and a chorus of modern day Beatles.

We are all creative. Whether we live in a quiet suburban neighourhood, or the downtown eastside, we have the possibility within us. The lucky ones have managed to carry it with them from childhood intact and unafraid. For others it has been blown out by the Miss Hammonds of the world. By those who dare not see life in anything but black and white for fear they may be wrong. For others still the spark has been extinguished by demons far more menacing and powerful than the words of a third grade teacher. Their voices silenced long before their inner child could escape unharmed.

But still a wick of hope exists. The faintest light waiting for the opportunity to be ignited. Waiting to be handed a paintbrush, or an instrument, or a pen. Waiting for the chance to add a ribbon of colour to a world of too much grey. Waiting for the chance to be seen. To be heard.

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