After dreaming of crayons for two nights in a row, I went grocery shopping; and as soon as I caught sight of the boxes of crayons on the shelf, I was overwhelmed with a desire to color. As a child, I was an intent and serious colorer. Sometimes I drew the pictures I colored, but often I just filled in whatever coloring book was handy. Neat coloring was very important to me: I have always been infuriated by that silly free-spirit-esque "creative people don't bother to color inside the lines" claim. Sorry: being creative doesn't mean being messy.
Anyway, my dreams were all about the big, brand-new, 64-crayon box of Crayolas, but I thought that buying one of those would be an indulgence, so I forked out 2 bucks for a box of 24. When I opened the lid, I was immediately overcome with the familiar warm excitement of owning a box of beautiful, sharp, pristine crayons. I breathed in that good, clean fragrance of wax, and then closed the box and let it sit on top of the piano for 2 days. I didn't want to waste those pristine crayon points on just anything.
After much thought, I decided not to buy a coloring book. I also decided that I didn't particularly want to draw pictures of anything. What I wanted was to re-experience the feeling of crayon-meets-paper, only this time I wanted better-quality paper. After watching me dither over how best to start using my virgin crayons, Tom unearthed a watercolor sketchpad and gave it to me. So yesterday, finally, I sat down at the kitchen table, opened the sketchpad, and began penciling in random geometric shapes. Then I outlined the shapes with black crayon. And then I started coloring them in.
The moment was blissful. For the first time in a very long time, I felt all sense of ambition drain away from me. I sat at the kitchen table and quietly colored. My mind emptied, time slowed; I filled in one shape after another, carefully, thoroughly. The crayons lay before me, clean and straight and sharp.
Coloring, where have you been, lo these many years? I am so glad to find you again.
4 comments:
I get new crayons nearly every year. I LOVE crayons, they are something that neither my water colors nor my colored pencils can ever be. I always think a new box of crayons is like the beginning of a school year with a brand new class
Love that you went with your feeling.
I like the fact that you found the peace that is inherent in focused art moments. I recall being entirely stressed out in college one semester, and I went with my gut instinct and bought a coloring book and crayons. I colored for an hour or so, then found I was far better able to address the stresses. Soon, my whole suite was coloring. There is something blissful and visceral in the coloring...
This poem seemed appropriate for your post.
Coloring
Here is the handyman with black legs
whistling in spite of gangrene. There
are some smiling cows, red as sores.
A jaundiced mare is chewing peacefully.
Two pea-green farmers chat about nausea.
Cute, but no real grasp of the agricultural
situation. And ending mysteriously
around twelve or thirteen with only
the white crayola in tact, used for the silly
sheep, a snowman or the rare Klan meeting.
And no wonder! Whoever heard of the Nobel
Coloring Prize. Who says, “This is my son.
He has a Ph.D. in Coloring.” Certainly
no one ever grows up and gets a job in
the Arco Plaza—“The Chairman can't see
you now he's coloring can't see you now
he's in crayon seminar can't see you
now he's about to do the barn.”
Perhaps some gland does it. Subdued by
greasier hormones it atrophies or sleeps
as we crouch at the window on rainy days
every new hair on our new bodies standing
on end as the pillows become the kids at
school we want to kiss or kill as we move out
of childhood outside the lines into
the real where the sun is not a perfect
cookie in the sky but a big hot thing
like us threatening to destroy the world.
—Ron Koertge
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