When I was a child I was given art lessons, but essentially I was uninterested in anything 1) that my sister was good at and therefore “taken,” and 2) that wasn’t related to words or music, my primary modes of expression from the very beginning.
But, inspired by my 4yo daughter’s obsession with art, our family has been doing lessons together for the past few months! It’s a Saturday morning ritual that I now look forward to, that brings the family together, and that I hope the kids will one day fondly remember. Of course, another goal is for all of us to learn how to sketch/paint with some level of proficiency - to be able to one day create together, even us old dogs with our new tricks. (My fantasy, if you’ll recall, is to watercolor vistas from family vacations and to line our hallways with these memories.)
I’ve taken to sitting on the couch in evenings, with a sketchpad and a pen after the hurricane of putting the kids to bed. In that moment, alone and exhausted, unable to really think or work or even read, tracing lines and bolding lines and shading is remarkably relaxing. It is solitary and quiet and minisculely physical - so unlike the dragging and cajoling and chasing and catching and dressing of babes. H will undoubtedly pop her head out of her room several times requesting that I check in on her to see if she is sleeping well or not... But the sketch, as I somewhat mindlessly do it, is able to be interrupted and put down and worked on in that thirty minutes or so between “goodnight” and sleep.
One thing I remember enjoying about art class at home was the thrilling transformation of the dining table into a space for play and learning. We had a very strict teacher, and I always felt like I was failing. But the warm feeling of gathering, of purposefulness, of making space in our home for a creative project, was something positive that I remember and that I think I am trying to recreate here. The table is transfigured, and thus is the home, the weekend, the family, childhood.