Art Smart Kids!

I’ve always been partial to the little kids. Both as a teacher and in my work now giving tours at The San Diego Museum of Art.

I stood beneath the museum’s plateresque style façade in the bright summer sunshine greeting my ten o’clock tour. Sixteen five, six, and seven-year visitors from a San Diego Art Smart Camp. Each wore a white oversized cotton t-shirt emblazoned with their introductory art project. Colorful squiggles, kitties, stick people, flowers and puppy dogs covered both front and back. And in no predictable spot, the little artist’s name appeared.

I looked at the teacher who runs the art camp, slightly haggard already at 10 o’clock in the morning. Those hot summer days when my daughter and I ran our Art Smart Camp in Pauma Valley flashed across my mind. We did the t-shirt project each year too.

Our camp site, an orange grove on our property at the base of Mount Palomar, offered endless artistic adventures. We created self-portraits from vegetables grown in our gardens, painted the mountains en plein aire, and orchestrated a group Jackson Pollock drip style project on our newly built winery’s floor before the concrete was stained. Our daily treat—sliced Valencia oranges from the trees. It wasn’t until the end of the first camp session when we found endless sticky surfaces that we bought washcloths for all students, wet them, and placed them in the freezer. The perfect end to the juicy orange break!

At the end of each day, I also looked haggard.

Before reminders about museum voices and no touching the art, I went child by child for introduction. The tallest kid’s hand immediately shot up and he announced, “I’m James. Not Jamison.”

Abigail pointed a dainty little finger, showing off the traces of bright pink nail polish, to her name letting me say it aloud. “Abigail. That’s a lovely name.”

I moved swiftly understanding the short attention span of youngsters. “It’s nice to see you, Lilia. Hello Jonathon…”

At this point, a very eager dark-haired small boy nestled in the center of the group, raised his hand. “Here’s my name!” he spouted pointing to the top area of his shirt. I read

“A-K-I-V.  I’m not familiar. . .”

He interrupted loudly proclaiming, “I’m AKIVA.”

A split second later, he thrust his left elbow skyward and said, “Here’s the last A—it’s under my armpit cuz’ there wasn’t enuff room.”

“So happy to have you here Akiva . . .”

Again, with jack rabbit speed, he lifted his chin upward, pushed his almost-too-large-for-his-little-face black rimmed glasses up and said boldly, “I’m Jewish.”

Just for a moment, I scanned the collection of adorableness searching for some reason for Akiva’s declaration—or for a reaction.

Nothing.I paused momentarily as images of the current wars and violent protests crossed my mind.

Drawing myself back, I invited. “Let’s take a look at the art right behind you in the Prado.”

We started our tour with Miro’s Solar Bird, the stylized bronze sculpture nearby. I encouraged them to walk all the way around the free-standing work and to hold their thoughts (extremely difficult for many little mouths) until we were in a gallery inside where we would see another Miro work—quite different.

The surprisingly well-behaved and somewhat-interested-in-art group of little persons followed me single file into the museum and then into the contemporary gallery.

“Take a look,” I said. Cell phones sprung out of each pocket which began a barrage of picture-taking. “We’re having a photography contest,” the teacher explained.

I puzzled at the electronics. Parental cast-offs, no doubt, unconnected to social media hopefully.

Woman, Bird, Constellation by Jean Miro, 1974

Woman, Bird, Constellation, a playful example of Miro’s Surrealist style, is imaginative, simple, and features flat colors and shapes, a perfect choice for art speak with eager tykes. We talked about how an artist like the great French modernist can work in many different manners, contrasting sculpture and painting. And then, I asked, “What do you see here?”

James’ hand shot up. “Ocean!”

“Yes,” I replied. “But what else could the blue be?”

A chorus of “sky-s” followed. We moved to the vertical part on their left side. “A tree, a woman dancing in a green dress, a monster…”

I was loving the participation and prompted, “What else do you see?”

In an effort to curb James’ dominance, I added, “Lilia. How about you? What do you see?

“Maybe a boat . . .” she considered.

“A kayak,” James interrupted in a not-so-museum-voice. “Yep. It’s a kayak. And that’s the island under it.”

I paused. “Anybody else have an idea?”

Silence.

“What if, instead of a boat or kayak, this red wedge-shaped object outlined in black were a slice of watermelon?

Instantly, a jolt of excitement ran across the group’s faces and cell phones began to click away.

I added, “And these could be the seeds some one spit away!” pointing to the three black dots above the red shape.

“And that green could be the thing that is on the outside of watermelon,” Abigail said proudly.

Before moving on to the next work, Rufino Tamayo’s Somnambulist, I leaned down to Emmy and asked, “What do you think about this painting?”

The bottom edge of her white t-shirt art project skimmed the tops of her tiny pink sneakers which lit up as she began to fidget at my question. She squirmed slightly. James’ hand shot up. I put mine up in protest. “I’m asking Emmy how she likes Mr. Miro’s painting.”

Softly, she said, “I think it’s pretty.”

The tour lasted another forty minutes. In front of the Bodhisattva Guanyin, wooden figure from Northern China, ca. 12th century, I instructed them look carefully at the figure, four times as large as little Emmy, in the Indian posture known as the “Royal Pose” and then sit down and do the same pose. I snapped my own photo here.

Moving through the Tomb Gallery, at the pair of sancai-glazed camels from the age of Confucianism, most of the little boys delighted in taking pics of the camels’ butts as they did at the Mario Marini life-sized tortured horse sculpture in the Rotunda. Snickering as they went.

As we ended the tour at contemporary performance artist and dancer, Nick Cage’s, wildly popular mixed media installation, Rescue, which captivated the entire little gang with its flea market treasures—birds, beads, and a ceramic dog—I could tell I needed to bring it to a quick close.

Way in the back, I noticed urgent jumping—a dark head bouncing up and down. Looking closer, I could see Akiva’s hand grasping a body part at the bottom part of his khaki shorts. Glancing at a few others, I could tell it was time for a bathroom break.

“I am so glad you all came today, and I hope you’ll come back soon and bring your parents. Let’s end our tour here.”

After sweet goodbyes, I watched as their leader guided her pint-sized collective toward the bathroom.

The kids, happy.

The teacher, slightly less haggard.