Growing up in Louisa – The Value of Encouragement!
Weekly feature . . . by Mike Coburn
Just like nearly everyone else, I was introduced to art in grade school. Mrs. Armstrong passed out pages that came from coloring books and some crayons. We cute little munchkins began to color like mad. Some kids didn’t even try to stay within the lines. They scribbled broad strokes of red or green all over the drawing as if to hide the drawing from view. Others tried to do a good job, but didn’t get the colors right, or at least to my liking. Still others did a decent job. Mrs. Armstrong taped them up all around the room where they would hang for a time.
Over the long run it wasn’t so much about how well someone performed in our early art lesson, as the compliments, both verbal and by displaying our work, that would give us encouragement to continue to try again. Granted, some gave it up. They were wired differently than I was, but they would find compliments with other kinds of endeavors. They thought art was a total waste of time. I remember that in our class it was Sandy Adams and me that would really enjoy art. We wanted to do more. Both of us showed talent and that spurred into a competitive mindset, each trying to outperform the other. We were later to be co-art editors of the school’s news publication. Even in high school we’d be on the Scarlack (yearbook) staff.
This early experience convinced me that I had talent, but I was reminded that the only way to improve was to practice my drawing. No one at school or anywhere else showed me any of the techniques that might have pointed me to a professional career, likely because no one knew those things to teach. As to the drawing, I was a boy who had been exposed to war movies and newsreels. The natural thing was that I drew pictures mostly of army tanks, airplanes, and sea-going battleships. Later, as my horizons grew, I drew scenes from baseball or football. I remember I was proud when I drew a really good football helmet, and then a fairly decent catcher’s mitt. I hung them in my room at home. The practice of pasting these to a refrigerator had not developed. We had only within a few years moved from a small icebox to a small refrigerator. Of course today our huge stainless two-doors and some drawers are covered with the artwork of our grandchildren.
Going back to the grade school experiences, I recall that one day my mother brought home an art book. I read it eagerly and discovered it contained lessons on drawing and shading. It opened a whole new world to me, as books often do. I discovered that I could draw a face and by careful shading I could indicate the contrasts between light and dark. It wasn’t long before my benefactor, my dear mom, bought me a set of tempera colors. For the first time I tried to paint some trees and a house that looked vaguely like home. I worked to get the angles and pitches of the roof line, and then I added the front porch. Sadly, it wasn’t a grand painting, but again I got encouragement from the family. I next sat down to paint two oil paintings (new tubes were given me). One had a black background with a pink rose bud that nearly covered the whole of the canvas. The contrast between the flower and the dark background made the rose jump out. The second painting was of a scene that had been burned into my mind downriver at Catlettsburg. It was a night scene of the Ashland Oil refinery! Out of the blackness were heavy dark blackish clouds and the bright lights in oranges, cadmium red light, yellows and greys. Everyone who saw it knew at once what it was.
I rarely painted after that because there was no one around to tell me about composition, contrast, color mixing, brush/knife techniques, and the various styles. In my late teen years I did buy some painting instructional books with step-by-step methods that would have led me to creating an impressionistic painting. The problem was I didn’t get it. I wanted to paint realistically like Michelangelo or Da Vinci. I had seen those works in books and at the Detroit Museum of Fine Art. Newer impressionists like Monet seemed to be fuzzy, ‘unprofessional’ stuff. It would be years before I grew enough in my understanding to see the error in my thinking. I was also critical of surrealism, and especially the minimalists, or cubists, like Picasso. I thought any ‘kid’ or monkey could paint like that. The joke was on me when I found out how much their art was worth.
I gave up and quit for many years. I knew I wasn’t a ‘real’ artist. My wife, Susan, suggested I take an art course, so I did more to appease than any idea it would open doors of interest long forgotten. After that, like a choreographed plan, I turned on the TV. Like millions of other Americans I watched a Bob Ross episode where he painted one of his happy little paintings. Memories flooded in my mind. I just had to try. By watching him I discovered that I could pretty well duplicate his paintings and even add a little more to make them mine. I actually sold a few after using his technique. I did that for a few years and found that his methods, while they worked, were no longer enough. I began to study art. I got books and watched You Tube demonstrations, and took a class or two. That led me to trying to copy master artists. Suddenly I had real respect for that which I simply had not understood. They were good and I wasn’t.
It has been tough to finally see that even with newly learned techniques, a lot of practice, and careful application of various mediums, I was still, at best an amateur. Now, as a hobbyist, I find immense satisfaction in hoping that I will someday create a decent painting. As I finish one now, I step back and look at it, fix whatever I find wrong, until finally I figure it will do. I revisit a few weeks later knowing I will see more mistakes, or I see that through no skill of my own I had gotten lucky. I had made one of Bob’s ‘happy accidents.’
I now donate my work to charity auctions so they can earn a little money through sales. I’ve sold a few, had them exhibited in various places, but still I am not satisfied that they have any real worth. I paint and study and get a little better, sometimes going back to a style I had tired of, only to do it better than before. Instead of Mrs. Armstrong, or mom, who gave me encouragement, it’s now my wife and family that are kind with occasional praise. I wonder if after all that’s the real prize? To be recognized and given a bit of respect is the real product. The paintings, once finished are worthless to me, but that moment in the sun has real value.
Maybe that’s what I wanted when I played baseball, or played in the band, or sang at church. At first I didn’t know that it was the praise from teachers and others that made me push on, but as in all things encouragement was really the key. If that had been lacking, how limited my life might have been.
The moral? We need to remember to look around and encourage others who try at whatever they’ve chosen. It’s not perfection that matters, but the trying. Help them get there and then encourage them to say with it. Someone did that for us. Return the favor.
