“It’s Just Art. . . .”

Anyone who knows me knows that I love John Dewey.  He has been the center of my research and scholarship since I was a doctoral student.  The first major scholarly project Rick and I did together was an edited book about Dewey that resembles a devotional book.  We even sent out Christmas cards one year with Dewey on the front (sporting a Santa hat) with the message “We hope you experience a wonderful holiday season!” I have framed a series of envelopes with the Dewey commemorative stamps in my office as well as the 1928  Time Magazine with Dewey on the cover.  I’ve even adapted lyrics to “Louie, Louie” to help students understand his theories.  This is not some superficial fascination.  The man and his ideas rock my ideological world.

 

So why would I be surprised by my daughter’s reactions this week?  On Monday we spent two hours sprawled out on a picnic blanket with pastels, easels, and art pads drawing the underside of a magnolia tree, trying to capture the fuzziness of the rabbit’s ear, and exploring patterns of leaves and colors while surrounded by the Decatur community garden.  Audrey’s thinking and conversation were incredibly animated and clever.  She made amazing observations about lines, colors, and patterns.  She played with a variety of ideas – determining that the wind was yellow, musing that mushrooms are ants’ trees, and making countless other amazing five-year-old interpretations of nature.  By the end of the day I felt as if we’d accomplished no less than Van Gogh and Gauguin had completed in their brief time in Arles.  We had a pile of pictures rolled neatly in our art bag and wonderful memories of a beautiful Decatur afternoon. 

 

With my new High Museum membership card in hand, I was already planning the extension activities for Tuesday afternoon.  Throughout the afternoon on Monday I talked about Van Gogh and Gauguin and how they both did art very differently.  I talked about how Van Gogh painted on the spot and tended to represent as much of how he felt as what he saw.  In contrast, Gauguin would sketch and practice before going back to their yellow house to complete his work.  I asked Audrey if she was painting like Van Gogh or Gauguin, and she said she was more like Van Gogh because she was doing her pictures right then and trying to show how the things made her feel.  “Aha,” I thought.  I can take her to the museum, show her paintings from Van Gogh, and see the light bulbs, hear the bells and whistles, and know that my daughter has experienced an aesthetic epiphany! 

 

Yeah, right.  As I picked her up from school Tuesday and excitedly talked about the ensuing trip to the museum, she gave me one of those premature adolescent looks and said, “It’s just a bunch of art.”  I tempted her with the adventure of the train – changing at Five Points and taking at least two escalators.  That appeased her to some degree.  Of course, the negotiations then began. “I’m hungry,” she protested.  Translated: If I have to go look at a bunch of boring art, there better be a cool snack in the bargain.

 

When we arrived at the museum, Audrey was immediately drawn to the large sculpture of the horse that precedes the upcoming da Vinci exhibit.  As she exclaimed,  “Wow, look at that horse!”  I replied, “Oh, it’s JUST art.  .  . “  While I know I would be marked down if I was assessed on Georgia’s Teacher Performance Assessment Instrument, I couldn’t resist the sarcasm.  After all, the Breault genetic code includes a very strong line of sarcasm as a way of being.  Therefore, I felt it would be not only appreciated but perhaps even necessary as we continued on our adventure. 

 

The sarcasm evolved into the running joke of the day. Audrey would point to various things around the museum – the water feature outside the entrance, the large fruit displayed outside the snack area – and challenge whether what she was seeing was, in fact, art.  After the obligatory snack, we went up to the top level.  She was somewhat interested in the Howard Finster Folk art as well as the other modern and folk art displayed.   Of course, the most frustrating aspect of the experience was the fact that she could not touch it.  I found myself saying over and over again, “Yes, but don’t touch, don’t touch,” in hopes of pre-empting the scowling security guards strategically placed throughout the floor. 

 

Ultimately, skipping down the ramps to the main floor seemed to bring far more animation and enjoyment than observing the art.  Large spaces with sculptures, paintings, and large arrangements of geometric figures, etc. are not exactly the ideal setting for skipping or loud giggles – all evidence to which was reinforced by the tense posture of the various guards throughout the hall.  One guard politely suggested that we go to the children’s section on the first floor.  

 

In the child-proof section of the museum we found various stations with blocks, easels, and large foam and vinyl shapes that could form interesting three-dimensional structures.  Audrey enjoyed building with the blocks and particularly enjoyed creating large structures – her houses – with the larger foam pieces.  Thus, the overall trip was salvaged by virtue of the things she could touch and then use to create. 

 

As we returned home on Marta, I pictured Dewey looking down and laughing.  I thought about his many lessons – how the child and curriculum are two limits that define a single process (a process we more often than not interrupt with our own agendas).  I thought about Dewey’s argument that as educators we often impose our images of learning from above and from outside children's experiences.  Instead, we should see learning as an extension of the child’s world:

 

If the subject-matter of the lessons be such as to have an appropriate place within the expanding consciousness of the child, if it grows out of his (sic) own past doings, thinkings, and sufferings, and grows into application in further achievements and receptivities, then no device or trick of method has to be resorted to in order to enlist ‘interest.’ (Child and Curriculum, 288)

 

So, perhaps Audrey and I won’t have those shared aesthetic epiphanies while walking quietly through the art exhibits at the High, at least not while she is in kindergarten.  Instead, I hope that I remember to listen more, impose less, and create those shared spaces where her experiences can become educative experiences for us both.